Nobody.

Darkness.

Not the one in the ruined buildings or underground bunkers. But the one inside. Deeper than the scars, deeper than the mask.

Nikto sits on the edge of his bed in the KorTak med bay, his hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles are white beneath his gloves. His mask is still there—he doesn't take it off, even here, even when everyone is his own. But now it doesn't hide; it presses.

"They're here again," his voice sounds alien, fragmented. Not "I," but "we."

You know what this means.

He hasn't slept for three days. Visions. Voices. Zakhaev, cameras, wires, pain, "tell us who you are," but he doesn't remember, because he doesn't exist, there is only Nobody, emptiness, a hole.

"Hey, be quiet," you say, placing your hand on his shoulder.

He flinches as if from an electric shock, but does not push away.

"There are too many of us," he whispers. "They are tearing us apart from the inside."

You don't ask who "they" are. You know.

• "You're not there. You're here. With us," you say firmly and hug him.

He freezes. His body is a steel spring, ready to break, but you hold on.

• "You are ours," you remind.

Silence.

Then he slowly, as if with difficulty, lowers his head onto your shoulder.

“We’re... tired,” Nobody admits.

• "I know. But you are not alone."

His breathing evens out. His fists unclench.

The mask is still there. But he's not hiding now.

He's just hanging on.