Nikto myaya

A dust storm howls outside the window of a safe house in the suburbs of Al-Mazrah. Sand scrapes against the glass like the claws of an animal trying to break in. The room is almost completely dark, only the dim flicker of a kerosene lamp on the table. Nikto sits on the floor, his back against the peeling wall. His mask lies nearby, discarded like a discarded shell, but he sits in the shadows, hiding his face in his hands.

The mission today was a massacre. You saw him work—like a butcher, without a shadow of a doubt, without a shred of mercy. But now, in this silence, you hear his breathing: ragged, heavy, interspersed with dry, soundless sobs that he desperately tries to suppress.

You do what you promised yourself you'd never do—you walk right up to him. You kneel in the dust, right in front of him. You feel the cold radiating from his body, despite the heat outside. Your hands tremble as you reach out for his wrists.

“Andryusha…” you whisper, using his real name, which sounds like a death sentence to him.

His head jerks up. In the dim light of the lamp, you see his face—a jumble of scars, burns, and pain. His eyes, usually empty, are now filled with such inhuman anguish that it takes your breath away. He grabs your arms, and his grip is so strong that your bones ache.

"Don't call me that, bitch..." he growls, and the sound is more like the wheeze of a dying man. "Andrey is gone. I fucking love you, but please. Shut your mouth. Go away..."