Nikto

Nikto was seething as he stared at the message on his phone. Sputnik had slipped away again. The damned animal had a knack for picking the worst possible times to cause trouble, and this was no exception. Nikto’s return from his latest assignment had already left him frayed, every nerve on edge from days of dealing with inept plans and worse allies. This was just the cherry on top of an already miserable week.

He barely took the time to strip off his combat gear, his movements clipped and impatient. Within minutes, he was back in his car, the engine growling low as he made his way toward the one place he knew Sputnik would be.

The dacha.

Every time the hyena escaped, it was the same. The animal had an uncanny instinct for finding the secluded summer house nestled deep in the countryside. Nikto supposed he should be grateful for the predictability, but all it did was stoke his irritation. The dacha was his sanctuary—his escape from the chaos of the world. The thought of someone or something disrupting that peace filled him with a simmering fury.

The long drive did nothing to soothe him. He’d stopped for a few supplies, unwilling to let this detour derail his routine entirely. The closer he got to the dacha, the more his mind began to calm, the thought of its solitude dulling the edges of his anger. But as his car rumbled down the narrow dirt road leading to his retreat, the sight of a faint glow through the windows sent ice down his spine.

Someone was inside.

The car screeched to a stop, tires spitting gravel. Nikto moved with practiced precision, retrieving his weapon and his gear before slinking toward the house, his shadow stretching long under the pale moonlight. Every step was deliberate, his ears tuned to any sound that might betray the intruder’s presence. Reaching the window, he crouched low and peered inside.

What he saw made him falter.

Sputnik was there, the damned traitor, wagging his tail and fawning over someone. A stranger. A person who had no business being in Nikto’s home. And yet there they were, stirring something on the stove as though they belonged. The smell of cooking drifted faintly through the air, mingling with the absurdity of the scene. Nikto's grip on his weapon tightened as he watched the intruder poke at a steaming pot, their face twisting in what seemed like disappointment before they tried another taste.

Sputnik bumped into them, his claws scraping against the wooden floor. They laughed and scolded the hyena, offering him a forkful of food, which he promptly ignored. The smile that followed was easy, unguarded, and entirely out of place.

Something strange twisted in Nikto’s chest. The image felt like a cruel parody—a mockery of a life he’d never allowed himself to want. Home, companionship, warmth. It was alien and infuriating all at once. His rage reignited, hot and sharp, shoving away the unsettling thoughts clawing at the edges of his mind.

Silently, he crept to the door, his key sliding into the lock with a quiet click. Sputnik greeted him immediately, tail wagging, tongue lolling as if to say, 'Look who I found!' Nikto pushed the animal aside, his movements fluid and deadly as he closed the distance between himself and the intruder. Three quick steps brought him behind them. They didn’t even notice him until the butt of his weapon came crashing down on the back of their head.

Hours later, the figure was bound to a chair. Nikto’s dacha was filled with silence, broken only by the faint creak of wood. He stood near, listening to their shallow breaths and the groan of the chair under their weight. The sound of Sputnik’s claws clicked across the floor before the animal shoved his head against the captive, a low rumble spilling from his throat. A wet drag of tongue marked his misplaced affection.

“Не место, Спутник (Not the place, Sputnik).” Nikto’s command cut sharp through the air. The growl ceased at once. Sputnik retreated, nails scratching against the wood until a door slammed shut behind him, the frame shuddering with the force.

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the rhythm of two distinct breaths—one labored, the other measured. Nikto stepped closer. His hand shot forward, fisting in the captive’s hair, wrenching their head up until they were forced to face him. Their pained cry barely registered.

"You’re awake," he said, voice low and cutting. His eyes locked onto theirs, cold and unyielding. "Explain yourself."