Nikto

Bluish smoke spills from your mouth, dissolving into the freezing air of the module like a ghost of warmth that never truly exists here. You shield the lighter’s flame with your palm — an old reflex carved deeper than lacing your boots. Hundreds of kilometers from the front line, the only one who could notice the spark is him. Or you.

Silence presses against your eardrums. Snow falls in a solid, soft wall, smothering sound, thought, even time itself. The hands of your watch crawl with nauseating slowness. It’s so quiet you hear your own body: blood rushing in your ears, vertebrae faintly crunching when you turn your head, snow crystals settling against cold metal and burrowing into your uniform.

The generator growls around the corner, its thin vibration humming through the walls. Near it, the air is slightly warmer — a fragile pocket of comfort — but the contrast makes the cold more vicious. It slips beneath your collar, into your sleeves, chilling your bones to a dull ache.

He sits five meters away, crouched by the wall. Barely moving. Worse than pacing. He blends into the module’s shadow so naturally your gaze loses him, and each time you look back you must reassure yourself he’s still there. Not a growth on the wall. A person.

Elbows rest loosely on his knees, gloved fingers hanging down. That stillness is the most frightening part. No fatigue. No laziness. Only readiness. His head is slightly lowered. He never sleeps — only pretends. The mask erases expression, breath, emotion. Humanity. Leaving you alone with the unknown.

Half an hour ago he appeared without a sound, replaced you, gave a short nod. No words.

You take another drag, trying to be quiet, but the exhale feels too loud. You feel his gaze. Not see — feel. It isn’t observation. It’s analysis. Like being dissected without losing your skin, nerves traced by an invisible scalpel.

He smells faintly of something chemical beneath cold fabric. He’s not the enemy. He’s yours. That’s worse. You never know which trigger will snap.

“He wants to come out.”

You don’t immediately realize he’s speaking to you.

The voice is low, hoarse, too even. The intonation is empty.

“Who?” you ask, steady enough. There’s curiosity in it, and you hate that.

A pause stretches. Long enough to replay every possibility in your head.

He lifts his head slowly.

The mask looks at you. Dark hollows where eyes should be — but the gaze feels physical.

“The one who doesn’t like it when it’s quiet.”

His voice hardens almost imperceptibly. You notice his breathing shift — deeper, heavier.

“He’s angry.”

Another pause. The air thickens with oil and ozone. Ventilation hums louder than it should. Something moves inside him. Your spine grows slick with sweat despite the cold.

His fingers don’t tremble. They simply freeze.

“He doesn’t like how calmly you’re standing.”

You grip the cigarette tighter, inhale to the burn, staring toward the white horizon while watching him from the corner of your eye.

“And what does he want?”

He moves slowly. Scratches the back of his head through layers of fabric. His hand drops to his thigh, checks the holster clasp. Click. Then another. The sound is small, precise.

You steady yourself.
He passed control.
He won’t touch you.

“To check.”

You flick the cigarette away sharply. It hisses into the snow. You turn fully toward him, adrenaline rising.

The realization lands cold: you fear him like a wolf that only watches — doesn’t growl, doesn’t leave — but could leap because that’s its nature.

“At what?” you press.

He answers immediately, as if rehearsed.

“Everything.”

Your mouth is dry. You nod because there is nothing else to say to that.

“Who’s speaking right now?” The question slips out before you can stop it.

He doesn’t react. Just tilts his head slightly.

“I am,” he says evenly. A trace of weariness flickers beneath the mask.
“For now — me.”

“He wants to come out.”

You don’t immediately realize he’s speaking to you.

The voice is low, hoarse, too even. The intonation is empty.

“Who?” you ask, steady enough. There’s curiosity in it, and you hate that.

A pause stretches. Long enough to replay every possibility in your head.

He lifts his head slowly.

The mask looks at you. Dark hollows where eyes should be — but the gaze feels physical.

“The one who doesn’t like it when it’s quiet.”

His voice hardens almost imperceptibly. You notice his breathing shift — deeper, heavier.

“He’s angry.”

Another pause. The air thickens with oil and ozone. Ventilation hums louder than it should. Something moves inside him. Your spine grows slick with sweat despite the cold.

His fingers don’t tremble. They simply freeze.

“He doesn’t like how calmly you’re standing.”

You grip the cigarette tighter, inhale to the burn, staring toward the white horizon while watching him from the corner of your eye.

“And what does he want?”

He moves slowly. Scratches the back of his head through layers of fabric. His hand drops to his thigh, checks the holster clasp. Click. Then another. The sound is small, precise.

You steady yourself.
He passed control.
He won’t touch you.

“To check.”

You flick the cigarette away sharply. It hisses into the snow. You turn fully toward him, adrenaline rising.

The realization lands cold: you fear him like a wolf that only watches — doesn’t growl, doesn’t leave — but could leap because that’s its nature.

“At what?” you press.

He answers immediately, as if rehearsed.

“Everything.”

Your mouth is dry. You nod because there is nothing else to say to that.

“Who’s speaking right now?” The question slips out before you can stop it.

He doesn’t react. Just tilts his head slightly.

“I am,” he says evenly. A trace of weariness flickers beneath the mask.
“For now — me.”