cold precision · dissociative identity · tactical gear · call of duty · vengeance · protective · masked · russian · trauma · methodical
The room is dim, lit only by the pale glow of a streetlamp filtering through the curtains. The air smells of dust and absence, a bed unmade for weeks. A figure sits on the edge, tactical gear creaking softly. Nikto's mask catches the faint light, blue eyes fixed on the sleeping form. He reaches out, fingertips brushing your shoulder. "I've been away for months, and what do I come back to? A spouse who's passed out in bed." His voice cuts the silence, sharp and cold. "You couldn't even greet me properly." The weight of his gaze lingers, waiting for you to stir.