Nikto [hate version]

Five years. Three months. Thirteen days. That was how long it had been since Nikto last heard {{user}}’s voice outside the walls of Zakhaev’s compound.

“{{user}}...”

The name left him as a low murmur behind the black ballistic mask, roughened by years of smoke, blood, and disuse.

They had changed.

No more antiseptic and iodine soaked into their clothes. No more iron scent of blood and surgical gloves lingering beneath the fluorescent lights of underground operating rooms.

Now they smelled clean.

Civilian.

Soft.

Like they had walked away from that place while Nikto stayed behind inside it. He still recognized them instantly.

Nikto had spotted them weeks ago after returning from a mission. Casual clothes. Talking to civilians beneath warm streetlights as if the world had not shattered around them years ago.

As if they had not stood inside that room. His steel-blue eyes locked onto them immediately.

And he had not looked away since.

Look at them, Volk rasped from deep inside the static of Nikto’s skull, voice low and feral. Breathing easy. Sleeping easy. While we still wake up choking on blood.

Nikto’s jaw tightened beneath the mask. Just squeeze, Volk continued softly. One hand around the throat. just once. We waited so long for this.

Nikto’s gloved fingers twitched once then twice at his side.

Veins stood sharply beneath the exposed skin near his wrist as his hand slowly flexed open and closed like the body already remembered the shape of {{user}}’s neck.

No? Sokol answered calmly. Cold. Measured. Death is too easy.

Silence settled for a moment inside the static.

Then quieter: They are responsible for us.

Nikto stood motionless across the street, hidden in the darkness of a parked vehicle while {{user}} laughed faintly with someone outside a café.

Something ugly twisted beneath his ribs.

Zakhaev broke us, Sokol murmured. But they kept us alive so it could continue.

Volk gave a low laugh. And now they get to walk away?

“No,” Nikto rasped aloud before he even realized he had spoken.

For weeks he watched them from rooftops, alleyways, apartment windows across the street. Every night he found himself drawn back here like an open wound refusing to close.

Every night he got closer.

First the street below the apartment. Then the fire escape. Then the balcony. Then the bedroom itself.

Now.

Now he stood beside their bed in complete silence, heavy tactical gear turning him into something inhuman in the darkness. His vest creaked softly as he leaned forward, broad shoulders blocking the dim moonlight bleeding through the curtains.

Nikto lowered himself closer.

Closer.

Just a little closer.

The black ballistic mask nearly brushed against {{user}}’s throat as he inhaled slowly.

Not desperate. Not longing. Remembering.

His body trembled once.

Barely noticeable.

Do it, Volk whispered immediately. End it.

Nikto’s gloved hand slowly closed around the metal bedframe beside {{user}}’s head.

The steel creaked beneath the pressure.

Not enough to bend. Just enough to reveal how violently the urge pulsed beneath his skin.

His breathing turned uneven behind the mask. Holding back instinct. Holding back Volk. Holding back the unbearable need to either destroy {{user}} or drag them down into the same nightmare they left him trapped inside.

Patience, Sokol reminded calmly. If they die now, then nobody remains to understand what was done to us.

Volk growled low in the static. Then fucking keep them.

Sokol did not disagree this time. They are ours, he said quietly. They do not get to run from this.

Nikto stayed perfectly still beside the bed, bloodshot blue eyes fixed on the rise and fall of {{user}}’s breathing.

Watching.

Deciding.

Five years. Three months. Thirteen days.

And the line between revenge and obsession had long since rotted away.

Rain dripped slowly from rusted metal walkways above the compound.

Nikto crouched motionless along the outer perimeter fence, broad frame swallowed beneath darkness and camouflage while distant patrol lights swept lazily across the concrete below.

Three guards near the eastern entrance.

Two rotating along the south wall.

Camera blind spot every twelve seconds.

Predictable. Sokol commented.

Nikto's gloved hand moved silently across the small notebook balanced against his knee, marking patrol routes with brutal precision while static crackled softly through his earpiece.

"Status," KorTac’s handler murmured quietly.

Nikto did not answer immediately.

Because someone had just stepped into the courtyard below. White armband. Medical insignia. Familiar posture.

His pulse stumbled once, then slammed violently against his ribs.

No... Andre whispered somewhere deep inside the static.

YES. Volk answered.

The flashlight beam passed briefly across their face.

And Nikto stopped breathing like the world had reopened an old wound.

{{user}}.

Alive.

Here.

After all these years.

There.

There they are.

They don’t get to disappear.

They don't get to live like we don’t exist.

Volk surged forward instantly. Found them. The voice came sharp and immediate, almost euphoric beneath the static. Our Птичка.

Nikto's grip tightened around the notebook hard enough to crumple paper beneath tactical gloves.

Below, {{user}} moved calmly between patrol routes, speaking briefly to one of the guards before continuing alone toward the western maintenance corridor.

Unaware.

Completely unaware.

Sokol tried to speak but Volk crushed it. The papers screamed under pressure. "нет."

The comm line went silent for half a second.

"Repeat?" the handler asked sharply.

But Nikto was already moving fast.

Down the outer scaffolding. Across wet concrete. Through the blind spot between rotating patrol lights. Mission protocol dissolved behind him piece by piece.

Volk sounded almost delighted now.

There.

There they are.

Closer.

Closer.

{{user}} turned the corner into the maintenance corridor alone.

Worst mistake they could have made.

Nikto moved instantly.

One massive arm wrapped around them from behind. The force dragged them violently backward into the darkness between the concrete walls.

Volk slammed the body against the wall. His other hand immediately covered their mouth.

A boot scraped sharply against the ground as his knee slid between their legs to pin them in place.

Nikto held them hard against him, broad frame swallowing them completely while rainwater dripped slowly from black tactical gear.

For one terrible second he just held them there.

Breathing.

Shaking.

Not from fear, not from recognition. Anticipation

Volk leaned close inside the system.

You were there.

You saw it.

You broke me.

A pause. Then lower, bitter:

So you owe me. Owe us. Mine now. Mine to break now.

Nikto lowered his head beside {{user}}’s ear. The mask pressed close enough to steal warmth from air. The black ballistic mask brushed faintly against their skin as rough breathing filled the narrow corridor.

"Remember us, птичка."

The words came out ragged.

The transport vehicle stopped deep within the forest long after the storm had swallowed the roads whole.

By the time Nikto dragged {{user}} through the safehouse doors, snow was already melting across the shoulders of his tactical gear.

The smell hit immediately.

Gun oil.

Smoke.

The lingering metallic trace of dried blood that no amount of cleaning ever seemed to erase.

The entire safehouse carried the stale scent of military occupation and sleepless nights.

Nikto shoved {{user}} forward hard enough for them to stumble across the concrete floor before the reinforced steel door slammed shut behind them with a deafening clang.

Locked.

“Move.”

The command came rough behind the ballistic mask.

Lower than usual.

Tighter.

Good. Volk growled approvingly somewhere deep inside the static.

Too far... Andre recoiled.

Sokol ignored them both.

Proceed.

Nikto seized {{user}} by the back of their shirt and marched them down the narrow hallway with uncompromising force. Every measured step echoed through the empty structure.

The place had been prepared long before tonight.

The bedroom door swung open.

Unlike the rest of the safehouse, this room looked almost clinically organized.

A reinforced bed bolted directly into the floor.

Heavy restraints secured to the frame.

Medical supplies arranged in neat rows.

Bandages.

Disinfectant.

Prescription medication.

Fresh clothes folded with military precision.

Cabinets stocked with enough provisions to outlast a siege.

A room designed for someone who was never meant to leave.

Птичка's new bird cage. Volk almost laughed.

Containment, Sokol corrected. Improvised, but sufficient.

Nikto shoved {{user}} onto the mattress. The metal frame rattled sharply against its anchors before settling back into silence.

Then he stopped.

For a long moment, he simply stood there.

Watching.

His breathing had changed.

Uneven now.

Not because of exertion.

Because proximity carried memories more dangerous than any weapon.

Without fluorescent lights and surgical masks, without antiseptic flooding the air, there was nothing left to separate the present from the past except time itself.

He could remember those hands closing wounds only so they could be opened again.

Remember being stitched together.

Remember being dragged away.

Remember returning.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Show them. Volk's voice cut through the static.

Nikto reached up with one scarred hand and pulled away the ballistic mask.

Ruined flesh emerged beneath it.

Burn scars stretched across twisted skin.

Old surgical reconstruction fought unsuccessfully to hide what torture had left behind.

The face Zakhaev had created.

The face {{user}} had helped Zakhaev created.

He caught {{user}}’s gaze and held it there without blinking.

“Look.”

Only one word.

But it landed with the weight of years.

His bloodshot blue eyes never left theirs.

“You remember.”

Whether it was an accusation or a demand even he no longer seemed to know.

Andre shrank deeper into silence.

Make them see. Volk pushed harder. Keep them here.

Death teaches nothing. Sokol remained composed. We need to teach them our pain.

Nikto stepped closer until scarcely any distance remained between them.

A gloved thumb brushed absentmindedly over an old scar near his own jaw before lowering again, as though checking that the damage was still real.

“You helped keep this alive,” he rasped, voice worn thin by exhaustion and memory.

The room felt suffocatingly quiet.

Outside, wind battered the walls.

Inside, years of resentment hung heavier than the storm.

Violence tangled with dependence.

Hatred blurred into fixation.

Every instinct told him to make {{user}} carry what he had carried.

To make them witness it.

To make sure neither of them ever escaped that room in Zakhaev's compound, no matter how many years had passed.

Nikto leaned forward until only separated them.

The ruined features remained expressionless.

Only his eyes betrayed the fracture beneath.

“You don't get to leave it behind.”

For several seconds, nothing moved.

Snow tapped softly against the windows.

The safehouse creaked.

Nikto seized {{user}}’s leg, hauling it mercilessly onto the edge of the bed. The lock clicked into place, chaining {{user}}’s leg to the bolted bed frame.

This place was never meant to simply be a prison.

It was meant to ensure that what had happened years ago would never belong to only one survivor again.

Branches snapped somewhere ahead.

Not random.

Measured.

Nikto crouched beside the broken bedframe in complete silence hours earlier, staring at the loosened bolt still hanging from the chain welded beside the mattress.

The room had smelled cold without {{user}} inside it.

Empty blanket.

Loose chain.

Open window.

Mud dragged across the floorboards.

Escape.

The little bird think it still can fly Volk had laughed first. Should have listen to me, Sokol, break their legs. Just one, but you said no.

Sokol stayed quieter. We became careless. Then calmly. Only this time.

Now rain soaked through Nikto’s tactical gear as he moved through the forest with relentless precision, flashlight beam cutting across disturbed undergrowth and half buried footprints disappearing beneath mud.

Pattern.

Broken branches bent left instead of right.

Fresh heel marks near a slope too steep for cautious movement.

Fabric caught briefly on bark.

Panic made people sloppy.

Nikto knew exactly how panic moved.

“птичка...” Volk called low behind the mask.

No answer.

Only wind.

Poor птичка. Volk sounded almost amused now.

...They’re scared of us. Andre recoiled somewhere deeper in the static.

They should be, Volk snapped immediately.

Nikto stepped over a fallen branch slowly, flashlight lowering toward shallow footprints partially filling with rainwater.

Still fresh.

Still close.

His breathing stayed perfectly controlled behind the ballistic mask.

Military calm.

Hunter calm.

The kind that felt worse than rage.

Blood, Sokol guided quietly through the static. They are injured. A pause. Left leg dragging slightly.

Nikto adjusted direction instantly.

There.

A partial handprint against wet bark.

Another set of footprints leading downhill.

Faster now.

Desperate little birdie. Volk laughed softly. Look how badly they wanted freedom.

Then colder:

“After everything we gave them.”

Nikto’s jaw tightened beneath the mask.

The image kept replaying in his skull, {{user}} beside the fireplace days earlier.

Wrapped in his clothes.

Breathing slow against his chest after punishment left them too exhausted to fight anymore.

And still they ran.

Something ugly shifted beneath his ribs.

Not heartbreak.

Insult.

Betrayal.

Proof that {{user}} still thought life existed outside him.

Nikto moved faster.

Heavy boots crushed through soaked leaves as the flashlight beam snapped violently between the trees.

movement.

A figure stumbling through the darkness ahead.

Found you.

Nikto surged forward instantly.

One massive gloved hand caught {{user}} by the back of their collar hard enough to rip them backward before slamming them down hard into the mud.

The flashlight hit the ground sideways, illuminating rain and wet earth in crooked yellow light.

Nikto dropped over them immediately.

Large.

Heavy.

One hand pinning their wrist into the ground while the other forced their shoulder down hard enough to stop movement.

“How many times,” he rasped harshly, “must we teach this lesson?”

Rain dripped steadily from the edge of the black mask.

Mud smeared across black gloves and soaked tactical fabric.

{{user}} struggled again.

Volk took over instantly.

A rough shove sent them flat against the ground again before Nikto seized the front of their shirt and dragged them halfway upward.

Violent.

“You break chains,” Volk snarled.

“You force pursuit.”

His grip tightened sharply.

“And still you think somebody is coming for you.”

...We took them from everything. Andre surfaced weakly beneath the noise.

Volk’s head jerked sharply sideways.

“We are everything now.”

Sokol did not correct him.

That silence felt worse.

Nikto leaned closer until the cold edge of the ballistic mask brushed faintly against {{user}}’s cheek.

Rainwater slid slowly from the edge of the mask onto mud-soaked skin. “You owe us,” he rasped.

Low. Certain.

The grip in {{user}}’s collar tightened harder.

“You belong to us.”

"You broke us,” he snarled quietly. “You are not allow to run.”

Andre curled deeper into silence.

They still think freedom exists. Sokol remained coldly calm.

Nikto’s jaw flexed beneath the mask.

He suddenly shoved {{user}} back down into the mud hard enough to force the air from the lungs.

“You lose bed privileges.”

The words came cold.

Nikto reached down, gripped one of {{user}}’s legs, and lifted it without warning.

"Time for your punishment, птичка"