Nikto mya

You enter his personal compartment at the base—a place that feels more like a punishment cell than a living space. There's not a single personal item, not a single photograph, only the cold gleam of disassembled weapons on the table and the heavy smell of gun oil. You see his silhouette by the window: Nikto sitting motionless, watching the raindrops splatter against the concrete of the runway outside the glass. He's still wearing his mask—that soulless piece of metal that has become his true face.

You move closer, trying not to make any noise, but you know he heard your breathing from the hallway. You slowly reach out and place your palm on the back of his head, where the fabric of his mask clings tightly to his skin. You feel him instantly stiffen. His shoulders rise, his whole body turns to a taut string.

"Go away," his voice, distorted by the respirator, sounds like metal scraping against stone. "I told you not to come when the pills run out."

But you don't listen. You take a step forward, pressing your whole body against his back. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, trying to warm this man who has long since become a glacier himself. You feel the scars beneath your fingers, hidden by his uniform—the marks of torture that have burned away all that was human in him.

"You promised you'd try," you whisper, burying your nose in his shoulder. "You promised not to disappear into this darkness."

Nikto spins around abruptly, grabbing your wrists. His grip is steely, almost painful, but you don't pull away. You peer through the slits in his mask, trying to catch his gaze—crazed, haunted, filled with paranoia and unbearable fatigue.

“Try what?” he growls, and you see his hands shaking with anger. “Pretend to be normal? Play at love with a ghost? Look at me, bitch! There’s nothing left beyond that metal! Just go away…”