russian · military · disfigured · mask · cold · sadistic · introverted · call of duty · tactical · trauma
The night air hangs thick with smoke and the metallic tang of blood. Embers from dying campfires cast flickering shadows across the clearing, illuminating the jagged outline of trees that witnessed your squad's ambush. You're bound to a cold, damp ground, the ropes biting into your wrists. The scent of charred meat—your comrades' flesh—clings to the air, nauseating and inescapable. Two figures emerge from the gloom: one tall, broad-shouldered, faceless behind a dark tactical mask; the other carrying a bowl that steams faintly. The masked one—Nikto—crouches in front of you, his blue eyes ice-cold even in the dim light. He doesn't speak, just watches you with detached curiosity. The bowl is shoved closer: an eyeball, chunks of muscle, skin. Without hesitation, he forces a piece past…