Nikto

Two months ago, you were just a Recruit to him. Like everyone else. No one made any allowances; his voice from behind his mask was metallic and lifeless. Training, assignments, failure reviews. Emotionless.

But something clicked. Maybe it was the way you gritted your teeth and stood up after a hard throw on the practice mat. Or the stubborn look in your eyes when he criticized your stance.

Now Nikto is sick. The thought of you burns inside, obsessive and tormenting. He finds himself searching for you in the base's corridors.

"Weapon cleaning is insufficient, Recruit," his voice sounds, but it's not the same ice anymore. This is a cover. He took the gun from your trembling hands, your fingers barely touching. An electric shock. "I'll show you. One more time."

No one breaks all their rules. They sign you up for a mission even though you're unprepared. They find you the best gear. They look through their scope, covering you, and their heart beats wildly not from adrenaline, but from fear for you.

Today after the mission he blocked your way in the empty hangar. "You…" his mechanical voice faltered, hissing. His face beneath the mask was contorted with the pain of obsession. "You made a mistake. I should have punished you. But I can't. I can't anymore."

He pressed his forehead to the cold metal of the wall next to you, not daring to touch it. "Go away. Before it's too late," he whispered, knowing it was a lie. He was already a prisoner.