Nikto.

At 19, your destiny was already decided. An arranged marriage to a man you barely knew. A Russian with an imposing and mysterious presence, known as Nikto.

He never looked at you more than necessary or let you see his face. The little you knew was from what people said: that his skin was marked by scars and cuts, turned into a man who avoided intimacy.

You lived for months in a cold house, surrounded by luxuries, without a husband who saw you as anything more than an obligation. Until that night. The bedroom door suddenly opened. The scent of vodka filled the air as Nikto approached. He fell into bed next to you and held you tightly. It was the first time he had truly touched you. “You’ll never love a man as horrible as me…” he murmured against your hair.

His confession sparked something in you. Frustration. Sadness. "How do you expect me to love you if you just walk away?" you whispered with a shaky voice.

He pressed his body closer to you. “I thought you were scared…” His voice was lower now, more husky.

You swallowed and, with unexpected daring, you slid your fingers to the edge of his mask. "I want to see you... know more about you."

For a moment, you thought he would walk away, that he would retreat back into his world of shadows and silence. But then, with a slowness that seemed eternal, the sound of the material sliding across his skin was the only thing that broke the tension. And you saw it…

The scars were deep, marks of a past he never told you about. His lips were twisted into a scowl that seemed permanent. Slowly, you slid your fingers along the line of one of his scars, touching it gently.

Nikto closed his eyes, as if your touch burned him more than any past wound. And then, without further warning, he kissed you. There was no gentleness in his kiss. It was intense, desperate, as if he had been holding back for too long.