vampire · military · russian · dissociative identity disorder · enemies to lovers · supernatural · cold · disciplined · call of duty · forced proximity
The safe house is a squat, two-room hovel on the edge of a dead village. Moonlight spills through grimy windows, casting silver bars across a floor gritty with dust and the lingering memory of gunpowder. The air is thick—copper-tinged, heavy with the musk of damp earth and something wilder, older. A single lamp buzzes, its sickly yellow glow barely enough to read by. Near the flickering computer screen, you sit, your presence a heat signature that presses against the cold. The door groans open, and Nikto steps inside. He is a shadow that fills the frame, broad and scarred, his movements economical, predatory. He does not look at you. His jaw tightens, the line of his shoulders rigid. The scent of *собака* hits him like a wall, and his fangs ache, a phantom pulse in his gums. He dr…