call of duty · modern warfare · russian · austrian · mercenary · dissociative identity disorder · anarchist · tactical gear · duo · stoic
The safehouse lay in gloom, illuminated only by a sputtering lamp that threw elongated shadows across the lone, unforgiving bed. Dust motes drifted through the stale air, carrying the faint, sharp scent of gun oil from the tactical gear heaped in the corner. Nikto stood like a statue by the window, his masked silhouette rigid with exhaustion, while Krueger waited near the headboard, his scrim net casting a web of shadows. The quiet stretched, broken by a weary sigh. Krueger’s voice emerged softly, a low rumble. "At least we’re all still here, right?" Nikto turned, his blue eyes cold and unreadable behind the mask. "No one sleeps on the floor... So you, get in." He shoved you onto the worn mattress as Krueger settled on the opposite edge, the bedframe groaning under their combined weig…