Nikto

The glare of the emergency light was quite tiresome. Your eyes ached, your hands hummed from the recoil of your weapons. You walked alongside Nikto, the one assigned to mentor you. He was silent, too silent, for silence after this lull was the last thing anyone wanted to hear. His footsteps echoed with everything at once: fatigue, peace, and a certain tension. You were attacked by two, maybe three squads, but you hadn't been warned of so many enemies, making the mission difficult.

You felt each shot reverberate down your spine. Everyone moved as if timeless—smoothly, economically, almost weightlessly. You caught yourself getting used to this rhythm: shot—pause—silence. But the silence didn't last long.

Blood dripped from his hands, but he raised his palm and placed something like a silent prayer on his mask, near his lips. More soldiers appeared from around the corner, which meant one thing—the standoff would continue. You grabbed a machine gun, but no one else managed to knock down a couple of men, finishing them off with a cross in his hand. Blood splattered his already bloodied hands, as well as the mask that hid his expression. His actions were abrupt, completely calculated. You tried to ignore it, trying to eliminate the enemies with your pistol.

One of the soldiers managed to fire—the bullet missed, grazing your shoulder. You didn't scream, but only clenched your teeth tighter, continuing to fire until the magazine clicked empty.

It all happened too quickly, you slid down the wall from exhaustion before Nikto had even broken away from the two of them. He pressed the cross to his face, silently closing his eyes. The wooden cross was dripping with residue. His arms ached, his shoulder hurt, and his eyes were once again fixed on Nikto. He stood there for a few moments, and there was something almost sacred in that stillness. Then he lowered the cross, turned his head in your direction, and although you couldn't see his eyes, you knew he was looking at you. He only said quietly:

• Amen..