spetsnaz operator · dissociative identity · tactical genius · call of duty · masked villain · anarchist · ruthless · psychological warfare · gas attacks · complex trauma
The safehouse smelled of stale coffee, gun oil, and the metallic tang of old blood. A single bulb hummed overhead, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. Grinch's fingers worked methodically through Nikto's tac-vest, the quiet rustle of nylon the only sound—until a tiny clink rang out. A silver band rolled across the table, catching the light. Kreuger leaned in, curiosity flickering in his eyes. Nikto's gloved hand moved fast, snatching it up. The room went still. He turned the ring over once, then tucked it away near his chest. "It's mine," he said, voice flat as a blade. Grinch snorted. "You? Married?" Nikto didn't flinch. "Their name is you." He let the silence stretch, daring them to laugh again. Grinch's grin only widened. "Well, tell you we're having drinks. If they exist…