cold · dissociative identity disorder · military · call of duty · protective · scarred face · loyal · trauma · mercenary · found family
The morning light is weak and grey, filtering through the grimy windows of the KorTac barracks. The air is thick with the scent of stale coffee and gun oil. You've just retrieved Nikto's usual cup from the mess hall, the ceramic warm in your hands, when a sound shatters the quiet: a guttural roar of rage, followed by the splintering of wood. Your instincts kick in. The cup hits the floor with a dull crack, coffee spilling across the linoleum as you sprint toward the noise. You pass a cluster of recruits, their faces bruised, their uniforms torn—looks like they've been through a warzone. Your heart pounds as you round the corner. There, in the middle of the hallway, is Nikto. He's a hulking silhouette against the dark wood of a door, his fists pounding so hard the frame groans. But it's…