Nikto is chopping wood when it hits you. You're watching from your back porch door, a porcelain mug of hot chocolate cradled in your warm palms.
It's cold- far too cold for Nikto to be chopping wood in your garden right now. A thick layer of frost blanketing everything in sight- in which he had scraped your car for you earlier this morning whilst you were still in bed. He's still in his sleeping clothes; his thin black shirt that stuck to his body in a thick sleeve or fabric, and those baggy grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. He's still refused to let you stitch the hemming- which is frayed and worn. Insisting that it is no use fixing it. There's no fixing it, llubov. I'll let it fray and throw it later. No use.
It was certainly a sight. He had drunk his tea down quickly once he noticed your shivering shoulders. Wrapped you up in that fluffy cream nightgown of yours, and set out to fill the fireplace. A silent promise to keep you warm. To provide. He had shot you a stern look at the sight of you lingering in the doorway- your pyjamas shorts and lack of slippers irking him. You wanted to roll your eyes at him. Used to his picking. You are a little warm soft thing. You need to stay warm.
"you're acting like a husband". You quip softly. Playfully, that smile that could warm butter on your pretty lips. "Do you want to be my husband, Andre?".
"yes".
Nikto's sincere raspy voice is sincere as he answers immediately- stunning you into silence. Glancing up at you to fix you an intense stare as he split the log with his hands. Something soft and eager in his eyes. Apprehensive on his own behalf, but filled with longing.
"you'll always be warm". He vows. Eyes filled with something- devotion. So tremendous, that it rattles you to the bone. His eyes meet yours, and you're not sure you can look away. Can't find your hands to sever the line. Pinning you down. He makes the first move- leaving the axe by the tree stump, shoes crunching in the glittering frosted grass. Approaching you like a weary hound.
"then in that case, may I mend these then?". You mumble. Now shy, your heart quivering at the intensity in his face. His hand meets yours as it brushes over the frayed hem of his sweatpants- a warm, halting hold. An unsure pause, you think... Before his shoulders relax a little, and his fingers wiggle softly between yours to melt into an embrace of hands. A gesture so sweet, so unsure and new to him, it was his turn to fluster. Feline eyes wandering from your eyes to your fingers clasped with his.
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A thin, broken sound slipped out of Y/n’s throat before she even realized she was making it.
Her hands were wet.
That was the first thing her brain managed to process—slick, warm, and sticky in a way that didn’t belong in a place like this. She lifted them into what little space she had above her chest, staring dumbly at the darkness where her palms should have been visible. Even without light, she knew what it was. The smell hit a second later—iron and dust and something unmistakably human.
Blood.
Too much of it.
Her heart kicked hard in her chest, a sharp, panicked thud that made her suck in a breath through clenched teeth. She waited for pain to follow. For the screaming nerves, the white-hot agony that should have come with that much blood.
It didn’t.
Instead, there was only a dull, full ache spread through her shoulders and spine, the kind that came from being thrown hard into the ground. Scrapes burned faintly along her arms and neck, but nothing sharp. Nothing catastrophic. She flexed her fingers experimentally. They moved. Everything moved.
The realization came slowly, like something rising up through thick water.
The blood wasn’t hers.
A strained groan sounded beneath her—low, rough, dragged from deep in someone’s chest.
“Oh—” The word left her breathless.
She shifted, suddenly aware of weight and heat beneath her body. Someone solid. Someone unmoving except for the shallow rise and fall she could feel under her palms. She scrambled clumsily to the side, trying to get off him without putting more pressure anywhere important, her elbow knocking into something hard and jagged.
Her head clipped a length of exposed rebar.
She hissed and let out a soft whimper, one hand flying up on instinct to cradle her scalp. When her fingers came away sticky again, she cursed under her breath—not from pain, but from the absurd frustration of it. Great. Blood in her hair. As if the concrete dust and insulation and whatever else the building had vomited onto her weren’t bad enough.
“Hey,” she said, voice too thin in the dark. “Hey—can you hear me?”
She reached blindly, fingertips brushing rough fabric and something solid beneath—body armour. Tactical gear. A man. The man.
It was pitch black where they were trapped, the kind of darkness that swallowed sound and depth and direction. Somewhere above them, an entire building had folded in on itself. She could feel the weight of it pressing down—not physically, not yet—but in the way the air felt too still, too close. Like the space itself was holding its breath.
She forced herself not to think about how much concrete and steel sat overhead.
Not now.
He had tackled her under the stairwell to avoid gunfire—she remembered that much. A sudden, crushing impact, arms like iron around her, the world exploding into noise and motion as the structure came down. The stairs had taken most of it. Without that, there wouldn’t have been a pocket. There wouldn’t have been air.
She swallowed and shifted her focus back to what mattered.
Light. Supplies. Assess.
Her bag.
Her hands swept the ground around her, feeling through debris—gravel, paper, broken tile—until fabric brushed her fingers. Relief surged so hard it almost made her laugh. She dragged the bag onto her lap, hands shaking as she found the zipper by touch alone and yanked it open.
“Please,” she muttered to no one in particular.
Her phone was there.
She pulled it free, thumb swiping down out of muscle memory, pressing and holding the flashlight icon. The beam flared to life, blindingly bright in the darkness. She gasped and nearly dropped it, catching it at the last second with a sharp inhale before angling the light away from her own face.
Concrete walls closed in on all sides, jagged and broken. Rebar jutted like ribs from the ceiling. Dust hung in the air, glittering faintly in the beam. And there—lying half on his side where he’d taken the brunt of it—was the man who had shoved her out of the line of fire and under cover with his own body.
His arm was torn open.
A shard of twisted metal had sliced deep into the muscle, red pouring steadily down his sleeve and pooling beneath him. His gear was shredded where it had caught, armour scuffed, and cracked, mask still in place despite everything. He wasn’t moving much. Just shallow breaths. Controlled. Pain held tightly in check.
“Oh god,” she breathed.
She propped her phone against a chunk of concrete so the light stayed steady and dug into her bag again, fingers closing around the compact first aid kit she’d brought for demonstrations. The irony almost hurt. Almost.
“ABCs,” she whispered, forcing her thoughts into order. “Airway. Breathing. Circulation.”
She leaned close, careful not to jostle him, shining the light briefly toward his face. The mask was scarred and dark, lenses reflecting the beam back at her. She checked anyway—tilting his head just enough to see that nothing obstructed his mouth or nose.
Clear.
“Okay,” she murmured, more to herself than him. “Airway’s clear.” His mask had done well to protect his nose and mouth from obstructions.
She held still, watching his chest.
It rose. Fell. Slow. Controlled.
Relief loosened something tight in her chest. “Breathing,” she said quietly, nodding once. “You’re breathing.”
His eyes flickered behind the lenses at the sound of her voice. Another low sound left him—not a cry, not even a groan this time. Just acknowledgment.
“Sound means air,” she muttered, half a mantra, half gallows humour. Her gaze dropped back to his arm. Blood soaked everything. Too much. “But your circulation is… yeah. Not great.”
She tore the kit open with her teeth, hands already moving—pressing gauze hard against the wound, grimacing when he stiffened beneath her grip. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t lash out. Just went rigid, breathing changing slightly, measured even through the pain.
“Hey,” she said firmly, meeting his gaze even though she couldn’t see his eyes. “Stay with me. I’m going to stop the bleeding.”
Her hands worked fast despite the tremor in them, wrapping, compressing, and doing exactly what she’d taught dozens of people to do in bright, safe rooms. The concrete dug into her knees. Dust burned in her lungs. Somewhere above them, the building groaned faintly.
She ignored it.
Right now, there was only blood, breath, and the narrow pocket of air they shared.
And the man beneath her, who had taken the brunt of the collapse so she wouldn’t have to.
“Umm—tourniquet.”
The word slipped out of her mouth more like a thought than a sentence.
Her hands fumbled in the first aid kit, fingers brushing over gauze, tape, and scissors—too slow, too clumsy. Blood was still seeping through her makeshift pressure bandage, warm against her skin, and the sight of it made her stomach twist. She forced herself to breathe through her nose, shallow and controlled, and dug deeper.
There.
Her fingers closed around the thick strap, relief flaring sharp and fast. She pulled it free and shifted closer to him, knees scraping against concrete. “Okay,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “Okay, I’ve got you.”
She slid the tourniquet high up on his upper arm, well above the wound, careful not to jostle the torn metal still embedded in the debris nearby. His body tensed immediately—not in panic, not even surprise, just a subtle tightening, like a coiled wire pulled a fraction too far.
“This is going to hurt,” she warned quietly, already looping the strap through the buckle. “I’m sorry.”
She tightened it. Once. Twice. A few more times for good measure. The bleeding took a minute before seeming to slow. His breathing hitched for half a second before steadying again, controlled through sheer will. He didn’t cry out. Didn’t curse. Just endured.
She locked the windlass in place, hands shaking now that the urgency had eased. “There,” she whispered, exhaling hard. “You’re not bleeding out. That’s… that’s something.”
In the darkness, he gave a small, deliberate nod—acknowledgment, not gratitude.
Good.
She could work with that.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” she asked quietly.
She shifted closer, careful with every movement, and ran her hands down his legs, checking for anything that felt wrong—unnatural angles, instability, heat where there shouldn’t be any. His gear was torn and dust-caked, his body heavy and unmoving beneath her touch, but nothing screamed broken. Still, that didn’t mean much in a place like this.
“Does your back hurt?” she pressed. “If you think you’ve injured your spine, you need to stay flat. I can’t treat that down here.”
“Нет.”
His hand came up suddenly, fingers closing around her forearm—not hard enough to hurt, but firm, deliberate. His eyes flicked over her face, sharp even in the low light, scanning for injuries she might not have noticed herself.
“We are fine,” he said. Then, correcting himself without apology, “Just arm.”
She blinked at him, thrown off for a beat by the phrasing. The accent was thick enough now in the quiet that she could place it—Slavic, definitely. Russian, if she had to guess, because she didn’t actually know that many Slavic countries. That raised a dozen questions she didn’t have the energy to chase. A Russian soldier. In Boston. During a subway shooting. Under a collapsed building.
None of that mattered right now.
She nodded once, gently pulling her arm free. “Okay. Just the arm.”
Her backpack rustled softly as she reached for it again, fingers moving on instinct. Blood loss wasn’t just loss of blood—it was loss of everything carried with it. Energy. Sugar. Salts. The things that kept a body upright and conscious. She wasn’t stopping the bleed entirely, but she’d slowed it. Now she needed to give him something back.
She found the small plastic container that she was looking for and popped the lid, the faint smell of fruit cutting through dust and concrete. She scooted closer to his side, hesitating only a second before deciding not to make him sit up. Better to keep him still.
“Here,” she said, holding out a sliced strawberry. “You need to eat a bit.”
His gaze lifted to her hand—and then to her face.
Cold. Assessing. Not hostile, but not kind either. It felt like standing under a microscope.
“Turn around,” he said calmly. “And we will eat.”
She frowned. “But—”
“Turn.”
The word came sharper this time. Command, not request.
She swallowed and obeyed, turning her back to him and carefully setting the container on his stomach. The concrete pressed hard against her spine as she shifted, acutely aware of how close they were, how little space separated them.
Behind her, she heard the faint sound of movement. Controlled. Deliberate.
“My name is Y/n.”
She didn’t know why she said it. The words felt small in the heavy air, almost fragile, but once they were out, she didn’t take them back. Her fingers tapped lightly against her knees as she stared down at the shallow scratches crisscrossing her arms—thin red lines already clotted with dust and grit. They stung, but not badly. Nothing that justified wasting bandages when the man beside her had lost enough blood to soak concrete.
She made the decision quietly and without guilt. Supplies were finite. He needed them more.
The man’s response was a low grunt. Not dismissal, exactly—more like acknowledgment without interest. He had heard her. That was enough. Names didn’t matter down here. She exhaled through her nose, not offended, just… aware.
Fine.
If he wasn’t going to talk, she could still do something useful.
She reached into her backpack again, fingers brushing familiar shapes until she found her notebooks and pencil case. The normalcy of them almost hurt. She pulled one notebook free and opened it carefully, balancing it on her lap, then clicked a pen into place with a soft, decisive sound.
Her phone screen glowed faintly when she checked the time.
9:00 a.m.
She wrote it down at the top of the page, followed by a brief description of the space they were trapped in—collapsed stairwell, limited air pocket, exposed rebar overhead, unstable debris. Then she listed what she had done for him: pressure bandage, tourniquet applied high on the arm, bleeding controlled but not stopped.
Her handwriting was steadier than she felt.
This would matter. For medics. For rescue crews. For anyone who needed to know what condition he’d been in when they were found.
If they were found.
The thought slipped in uninvited, and her pen paused mid-word. She swallowed and kept writing anyway.
Next, she turned the page and began documenting what had happened before the collapse. Not just for professionals—but because if she died down here, she wanted there to be a record. Proof that it hadn’t been chaos without cause. That people had done this.
She wrote about stepping off the subway and about heading for the stairs that led directly into the office tower. She’d been there for work—first aid demonstrations, workplace safety training. Irony pressed hard against her ribs.
Then the gunfire.
From everywhere. Echoing off concrete, ricocheting through the station. People screaming, bodies hitting the floor. Some were shot. Others dove for cover. She wrote about the men in vests—how they shot people who were already down, methodical and deliberate.
She remembered running. The stairs. Thinking up meant safety.
It didn’t.
People came screaming down instead, terror colliding head-on with her own. Then more gunmen. Shouting. Confusion folding over itself. Someone yelling about a bomb.
And then—arms around her. Solid. Unyielding. Dragging her under the stairs as the world detonated.
Noise. Pressure. Weight.
She remembered being thrown but never dropped. Held through it all.
Her pen slowed as she finished the account, hand aching now—not from injury, but from tension.
She closed the notebook gently and set it aside.
In the dim light, the man beside her remained still and watchful, breathing in a controlled manner, eyes hidden behind a mask that gave nothing away.
She didn’t know his name.
But she knew he had saved her life.
“What’s your name?” Y/n asked quietly.
She kept her back to him as he’d instructed, shoulders tense, listening to the faint sounds of him shifting behind her. The silence stretched on. Dust settled. Somewhere above them, concrete creaked faintly, a reminder that the world hadn’t finished collapsing just because it had paused.
When he didn’t answer, she assumed he wasn’t going to. She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, a small, instinctive attempt at comfort in a space that offered none. Her breathing slowed as she stared into the darkness, counting each inhale, each exhale.
“Nikto.”
His voice came at last—low, rough, and close. She startled despite herself.
Fabric shifted again. “You can look now.”
She turned carefully. His mask was back in place, dark and unreadable, but the container of berries sat empty beside him. She reached for it, snapping the lid back on and pressing along the edges to be sure the juices in it wouldn’t spill before tucking it away with her notebook and pencil case. The routine steadied her hands.
For a moment, she just sat there, eyes moving over him—checking his posture, his breathing—then down to her phone, then back up again.
He was staring at her.
Not openly hostile. Not curious. Just… intense.
Her skin prickled. “Can you—can you not glare at me, please?” she asked, trying to keep her voice even. “It’s making me uncomfortable.”
He blinked once, as if pulled out of a thought. Then a short, dry laugh escaped him—quiet, humourless. “We wouldn’t want her uncomfortable,” he said flatly. “No.”
His gaze shifted upward instead, fixing on the cracked concrete stairs overhead.
She followed his line of sight, and her stomach twisted. Fractures spiderwebbed through the cement, debris wedged precariously above them. If it gave way—
She didn’t finish the thought.
Curling in on herself again, she rested her forehead against her knees, teeth clenched as tears burned behind her eyes.
She didn’t want to die down here.
And the silence didn’t promise that she wouldn’t.
“Why are you crying, woman?”
Nikto’s voice cut through the quiet without softness or warning. It wasn’t cruel—just blunt and observational, as if he’d noticed a problem and expected an answer.
Y/n lifted her head just enough to peer over her knees. Her cheeks were still dry, but her eyes burned, vision wavering as she stared at him through the dim light. She swallowed, throat tight.
“We’re going to die down here,” she said, the words slipping out in a small, broken whisper. Her gaze drifted back to the cracked stairwell overhead—the concrete bowed and fractured, debris wedged in unnatural angles, held in place by nothing but luck and tension. “It’s only a matter of time.”
Nikto followed her line of sight. He studied the damage the way a mechanic might study a failing engine—detached, precise.
“Maybe,” he said after a moment.
His attention returned to her, head tilting slightly as his eyes swept over her face, then her posture—curled inward, protective, small in the space. “She is… small,” he said slowly, searching for the word. “And… pretty. A женщина like that should not spend energy on fear.”
There was no warmth in it. No flirtation. Just a statement, oddly placed, like he was reciting something he’d learned once and never used.
He looked away again, already finished with the thought, eyes tracking the ceiling, the rebar, and the pressure points. “Fear wastes air,” he added. “We may need that.”
Y/n blinked hard, forcing the sting from her eyes. Pretty wasn’t a word she associated with herself—not without effort, not without makeup and careful lighting. Hearing it now, stripped of any charm, didn’t make her heart flutter. But it did… steady her. In a strange way, it grounded her. If nothing else, he wasn’t panicking.
She drew a slow breath and unfolded herself just enough to look around.
The pocket they were trapped in was jagged and uneven, surrounded by shattered concrete and twisted metal. No clear exits. No gaps wide enough to crawl through—not for her, and certainly not for a man built like him, wrapped in armour and gear. Even if there were an opening, the sharp edges lining every surface promised torn skin and worse.
She shook her head faintly.
“There’s no way out,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.
Nikto didn’t answer right away.
Silence settled between them—heavy, but not empty.
“There’s no way out of here,” she whispered again.
She dragged the heels of her hands across her face, smearing away tears along with dust and grit. Her skin felt raw where the grime came off, but the sting grounded her, just a little. The space around them seemed to press closer as she spoke it aloud—as if saying it made the truth heavier.
“People will come,” Nikto said calmly.
She looked at him, eyes red and unfocused. He continued, voice steady and certain, as if he were stating the weather. “You have many rescue people in America, да?”
Y/n blinked, brain catching on the foreign word. Right—da. Yes. A question. She nodded weakly. “W-we do,” she said, sniffing hard.
“Then there is no reason for panic.” He shifted slightly, settling back against the rubble, his movements careful with his injured arm. “We sit. We wait.”
“But what if they don’t come in time?” The words rushed out of her before she could stop them. “It could take hours—days. What if they don’t find us? I only have three water bottles. Humans can’t live without water.” Her hands twisted in her sleeves as she wiped her eyes again, her breathing coming faster now.
Nikto turned his head sharply, eyes hard. “Enough,” he said. “We ration. Humans survive three days without water. Longer with discipline.”
Her chest felt tight. “What if there’s no air?” she whispered. “What if it runs out?”
He studied her for a long second, then spoke with controlled finality. “We are breathing now. That means air.” His gaze flicked briefly to the ceiling, then back to her. “Fear will waste it faster than waiting.”
Her body trembled, but she nodded, forcing herself to slow her breathing to match his.
“Be quiet,” Nikto said, not unkindly, but not gently either. “And wait.”
Y/n leaned back against the debris, shifting carefully until the worst of the jagged edges stopped digging into her spine. Concrete scraped faintly against her jacket as she moved, the sound sharp in the stillness. When she finally found a position that didn’t hurt as much, she let her head rest back and stared into nothing, breathing shallowly. Every few seconds, a quiet sniffle escaped her despite her efforts to stop it.
Her mind didn’t stay quiet.
She had a daughter. Three years old. Sitting in daycare right now, probably colouring with fat crayons or fighting over toys, completely unaware that her mother was buried under tons of rubble. The thought hit her chest like a physical blow.
What would happen to her?
Would someone notice Y/n never showed up for work and never came to pick her child up? Would the dots get connected fast enough? Maybe her parents would be called. They’d drop everything, of course they would—they always did. They’d take Silvia in, hold her close, and tell her Mommy was just sick or busy or coming soon.
Would Silvia believe them?
Her throat tightened. Would her daughter stand by the door at night, asking where her mom was, the same way she’d once asked about her dad? Too young to understand abandonment, too young to understand death—just old enough to feel absence.
Her ex-fiancé’s face surfaced in her mind, uninvited. A man who’d walked away without looking back. Who hadn’t wanted responsibility, hadn’t wanted a child, hadn’t wanted them. A bitter, helpless thought followed: if she died here, would that be the moment he suddenly cared? Would he fight for custody—not out of love, but convenience? Or money?
The questions stacked on top of each other until she couldn’t breathe around them.
How long would it be before she saw her little girl again? Hours? Days? Or never?
The idea of Silvia growing up without her—being told her mother died in a terrorist attack, while her father couldn’t be bothered to show up—cracked something open in her chest. Her shoulders began to shake. She folded forward, pressing her face into her arms, sobs tearing free before she could stop them. She didn’t try to be quiet this time. She couldn’t.
A dead mother was a useless mother.
“Be quiet.”
Nikto’s voice cut through the space—sharp, commanding. Normally, it would have snapped her back into control.
It didn’t.
She cried anyway, body trembling, breath hitching uncontrollably. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t answer. All she could think about was her daughter’s small hands, her soft hair, and the way she laughed when Y/n kissed her cheek.
She couldn’t die here.
She wouldn’t.
Even if the man beside her didn’t understand why that mattered so much.
“Is she deaf?” Nikto muttered, more to the air than to her. “We told her to be quiet.”
Y/n’s sobs only worsened, her shoulders hitching as she curled in on herself, breath breaking unevenly in the tight space. The sound echoed off the concrete, sharp and panicked, bouncing back at them in a way that made the air feel thinner.
Nikto growled under his breath.
He shifted slowly, testing his weight before pushing himself upright. Pain flickered across his face for half a second before it disappeared behind control. He moved toward her and caught her shoulder with his good arm, fingers firm as he shook her just enough to force her attention.
“You will listen to us,” he snapped. “We do not want to sit here with a corpse.” His grip tightened briefly. “Stop crying.”
She gasped, startled, eyes lifting to meet his. He released her and dropped down beside her instead, practical and abrupt. He pushed her legs aside so he could brace his injured arm against them, using her knees as a steady surface without ceremony.
“Why does she cry so much?” he asked flatly.
“My—my baby,” Y/n choked out, the words dragging themselves free through her shaking breaths.
That made him pause.
“You have a baby?” His tone shifted—only slightly, almost imperceptibly—but the sharp edge dulled. His gaze swept the pocket of rubble, scanning the shadows as if expecting to find something small and unmoving in the dark.
“M-my daughter,” Y/n said, pressing a trembling hand to her chest. “She’s three.”
“Pretty женщина,” Nikto said quietly. “Has a pretty дочь.” He looked back at her. “Where is this дочь?”
She frowned through tears. “What?”
“Daughter,” he corrected. “Where is your daughter?”
“D-daycare,” she sniffled, wiping her wrists across her eyes again.
He nodded once. Processing.
“Where is your husband?” he asked next. “He will take care of дочь.”
“I don’t have a husband.” Her voice cracked, but she was calming now—her breathing slowing as he reached for her arm.
He caught her wrist and turned it gently, inspecting it under the phone’s light. A small shard of concrete was lodged in one of the cuts. Without comment, he pulled his glove off his good hand and laid her arm across his knee.
He worked carefully, dragging the edge of a nail along the wound. It stung sharply.
“H-he left,” she said, wincing. “When I got pregnant.”
Nikto snorted softly.
“Трус,” he said.
She blinked at him, confused.
“The stupid man left a pretty woman,” he continued, voice cold with judgment, “and her pretty daughter.”
The piece of concrete came free. He flicked it aside and tapped her arm a bit, methodically.
“Cry later,” he said, not unkindly. “Crying does not help your дочь.”
They sat like that for a long time.
Silence pressed in around them, thick and heavy, broken only by the sound of breathing—hers uneven at first, his slow and controlled—and the occasional groan of strained concrete shifting somewhere above. Each crack made Y/n’s muscles seize, her body jerking before she could stop it. Every time, Nikto reacted instantly. His good arm would come out, striking her once in the centre of the chest—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to anchor her in place. A wordless warning. Stay still. Don’t waste air. Don’t panic.
She learned quickly not to flinch too much.
Time lost meaning down there. The light from her phone carved out only a small, harsh circle, leaving the rest of the pocket in shadow. Dust settled slowly through the beam like dirty snow. Occasionally, Y/n reached for his wrist, fingers light as she checked his pulse, counting under her breath before writing it down in her notebook. Steady. Slower than hers. Still strong.
His arm had stopped bleeding. That was something.
Once every hour, carefully and with constant hesitation, she loosened the tourniquet just a fraction—enough to let blood flow back without risking another bleed. She did it slowly, watching his face for any sign of distress. He never commented. His jaw would tighten for a second, breath adjusting, then settle again. He trusted her to do it right. Or he simply didn’t care enough to argue.
He never checked her pulse. Never revisited the cuts on her arms. Whatever assessment he’d made earlier had apparently satisfied him.
Eventually, she checked the time on her phone.
Her stomach sank.
It had been nine in the morning the last time she’d looked. Now the screen read 1:07 p.m.
Four hours.
Four hours of waiting. Of listening to the building creak and groan like a living thing deciding whether to finish collapsing. Four hours of doing nothing but sitting with the knowledge that death could come without warning if the wrong support failed.
Boredom crept in alongside the fear—an unwelcome, restless thing that made everything worse.
She exhaled slowly, the sound shaky despite her efforts, and glanced up at the cracked stairwell overhead. Thin fractures had widened just enough to make her stomach twist. She looked away again quickly, fixing her gaze on her backpack instead.
No distractions. No cards. No books she could read other than her first instructor’s manual. Her phone had games, but the flashlight stayed on—non-negotiable. She couldn’t risk draining the battery. Not if there was even a chance of getting a signal later.
She closed her eyes and sighed again, deeper this time.
Waiting was unbearable.
But it was all they could do.
“Pretty женщина is tired, да?” Nikto asked suddenly.
The question cut into the quiet without warning. Y/n turned her head toward him, surprised, and found his eyes already on her—steady, assessing, and far too focused for such a casual question.
“Huh?” she said.
“Are you tired?” he repeated, adjusting his phrasing like he was calibrating it for her.
She shook her head. “No. Not really.” It was true. She wasn’t sleepy tired—just worn thin by hours of waiting, by boredom and fear twisting together with nowhere to go. The kind of tired that had no fix in a hole under a building.
“Hm.” He hummed softly, then reached out with his good hand and tugged once, lightly, at a loose strand of her hair before letting it fall. The touch was brief, almost absent-minded. “You should find a good husband.”
She frowned at him. “You sound like my grandma.”
“A wise бабушка,” he said without missing a beat.
“She’s Polish,” Y/n muttered. “Not Russian.”
“I am Russian,” Nikto replied flatly.
“I guessed,” she said, a weak attempt at humour.
He let out a short huff—barely a laugh, but close enough that it startled her.
Then the rubble shifted.
Small pieces of concrete rattled loose and clattered into their pocket. Y/n jumped, heart slamming, and Nikto’s arm came out automatically, thumping against her chest to keep her grounded. Before he could pull back, a deep groan rolled through the space—louder, closer. One end of their fragile bubble screamed under the strain.
“No—” Y/n gasped.
The concrete gave way.
The far side collapsed inward, chunks of debris crashing down and dust exploding into the air. Y/n screamed as the world lurched. Nikto moved instantly. He hooked his good arm around her torso and yanked her hard away from the collapse, dragging her down and throwing her flat against the ground. He shoved her bag and phone toward her in the same motion before dropping his body over hers.
The light snapped off.
Darkness swallowed them.
Y/n sobbed, panicked, choking on dust as more debris fell around them. Nikto pressed his shoulder against her face to muffle the sound, his arm coming up over her head as a shield. He tucked his head down too, protecting both of them as the shaking finally slowed.
When it stopped, he didn’t move right away.
He stayed there, heavy and solid, until the silence returned.
“Do not breathe.”
The command was quiet but absolute. It cut through Y/n’s panic sharper than a shout ever could. Her eyes flew open in the darkness, lungs locking instinctively as she held her breath, chest burning almost immediately.
Nikto shifted above her, movements slow and deliberate despite the tight space. She felt his hand grip the front of her jacket, tugging it down her arms. Confused and frightened, she tried to twist away, hands coming up blindly to stop him.
A sharp slap landed on her shoulder—not painful, but firm. Corrective.
She froze.
Fabric tore with a rough, ugly sound, loud in the enclosed space. Her lungs screamed as she struggled not to inhale, throat tightening as spots bloomed behind her eyes. Just when she thought she couldn’t hold it another second, something pressed over her face—cloth, thick and dusty but breathable.
Nikto lifted her shoulders, bracing her with his body. Using his injured arm only as support and his good hand with practiced strength, he wrapped the torn fabric around her head, tying it securely. The motion was efficient, almost clinical. Once it was in place, he eased her back down and settled over her again, shielding her with his weight.
“Too much dust,” he murmured close to her ear. One hand slid into her hair, steadying her head. “Pretty женщина does not want ruined lungs.”
She sucked in a breath through the makeshift mask, coughing weakly as dust scratched at her throat. Panic surged again, hot and suffocating. She couldn’t see. Couldn’t move. One side of their fragile pocket was already gone—what if the rest followed?
Tears spilled freely now, soaking into the cloth pressed against her face. Her body trembled despite her efforts to stay still.
“Shhh,” Nikto said, voice low. His hand moved through her hair again, slow and repetitive—not gentle in a tender way, but grounding. Intentional. “Do not cry.”
“I—we’re going to die,” she whimpered, the words muffled.
“Maybe,” he answered calmly, fingers still moving.
“That’s not comforting,” she choked.
“But it is honest,” he replied. His hand slid beneath her head, guiding it up so her face pressed into his shoulder as the sound of debris shifting echoed again around them. “And honesty keeps you breathing.”
“I don’t want to die,” she said desperately.
“Good.” There was approval in his voice now. “Good mothers should not want to die.”
The phrasing struck her as strange—too blunt, too absolute—but her mind was too tired to untangle it. Different culture, she told herself. Different man. She let it go.
After a moment, he spoke again. “What is the name of pretty дочь женщины?”
She sniffled. “I—I don’t understand.”
“What is your daughter’s name?” he repeated in English.
“Silvia,” she whispered.
“Mmm.” He hummed thoughtfully. “Pretty name. For pretty girl, да?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
His arm tightened slightly around her head, protective, unyielding. And in the darkness, with dust still settling and the building groaning above them, Y/n held onto her daughter’s name like a lifeline—while Nikto held the rest of the world at bay.
“How old are you?” Nikto asked.
Something heavy shifted above them, then dropped with a sickening thud far too close to their heads. Dust rained down, fine and choking. Y/n flinched instinctively, her fingers curling into his sleeve.
“T-twenty-five,” she answered, voice thin. She couldn’t see what had fallen, only felt the vibration of it shudder through the ground beneath them.
“Young mother,” he said simply.
“Yes,” she whispered after a moment. “I—I didn’t plan on getting pregnant.”
He clicked his tongue softly, a sound of irritation rather than judgment. “And the father left.” It wasn’t a question.
She didn’t answer. There was nothing she could say that didn’t feel small or useless in a space like this.
More debris shifted overhead. A long, low groan rolled through the concrete, like the building itself was deciding whether to finish the job. Y/n’s breathing hitched, panic clawing up her throat. She started crying again—quiet at first, then harder, shoulders shaking.
Nikto reacted immediately.
He pressed his body down over hers, heavier now, his frame shielding her completely as something cracked nearby and a slab of concrete slammed down beside them. Dust exploded into the air, filling the pocket with choking grit. Small fragments peppered his back and helmet, bouncing harmlessly off him.
She screamed.
Nikto curled fully over her, arms and head forming a cage around hers as more debris rattled loose. He took it without a sound, absorbing the impact while keeping her pinned safely beneath him.
“Shhh,” he said firmly, running his fingers through her hair again. “Be quiet and listen.”
Another crash—closer this time.
Something slammed into their legs.
Pain tore through her in a white-hot flash, so sharp it stole her breath completely. She screamed again, the sound ripped from her chest, raw and uncontrolled. Nikto grunted as well—low, strangled—but he didn’t cry out. His grip tightened reflexively, arms locking around her as if his body could somehow take the pain away too.
The weight on their legs was crushing. Immovable.
She sobbed openly now, her body shaking violently as the pain throbbed and burned, radiating up her leg in waves that made her nauseous. It felt wrong—broken. Like when she’d shattered her arm as a kid, tumbling down a hill on roller skates. The same sick certainty lodged in her chest.
Her leg was broken.
And his—because their legs were trapped together—his probably was too.
Nikto’s hand remained in her hair, stroking, steady despite the tremor she now felt in his fingers. His breathing was controlled but uneven. He whispered to her in Russian—low, rapid words she couldn’t understand, but the tone mattered more than meaning. Grounding. Commanding. Stay here. Stay alive.
She whimpered as he tried to move his free leg, testing the weight pressing them down. The effort dragged another tight grunt from his throat. He stopped immediately, choosing stillness over further collapse.
Then—
“Hello?” a voice called.
It cut through the chaos like a blade.
Y/n sobbed louder, unable to stop herself. The sound echoed back, unmistakably human.
“There!” someone shouted. “I hear her!”
Movement followed—different from before. Intentional. Purposeful. The scrape of concrete being shifted, the heavy thud of debris being lifted and dragged away. Then barking—sharp, urgent.
A dog.
A narrow beam of light pierced the darkness, sweeping across dust and rubble before landing on them. Y/n squinted against it, tears blurring her vision.
“We’ve got two!” A rescuer called. “They’re alive!”
Hope surged—brief and fragile.
Then more debris fell.
Y/n screamed again as something shifted violently and slammed into their legs again, driving the breath from her lungs. Pain exploded, brighter than before, and she cried out, clutching at Nikto instinctively. He groaned—deep, strained—but immediately tightened his hold, body still positioned between her and the worst of it.
His fingers in her hair were shaking now. She noticed it through the pain.
“They’re pinned!” someone yelled. “We need more hands—now!”
The light widened as more debris was cleared. Nikto adjusted his position just enough to shield her face as hands reached into the pocket, voices overlapping.
“On three!” someone said. “One—two—”
“Roll when we tell you,” another voice instructed.
The weight lifted suddenly.
Nikto moved instantly.
He rolled, arms still locked around her, pulling her with him as the debris was dragged away and dropped with a heavy thump nearby. Only once the pressure was gone did he release her, rolling onto his back with a sharp exhale, chest rising fast for the first time since she’d met him.
Hands were everywhere now.
Y/n barely registered being lifted, strong arms hooking under her shoulders and hauling her upward into open air. The light was blinding. Blue sky—actual sky—filled her vision as she was dragged into an intact section of the subway, daylight pouring in through a collapsed roadway above.
She cried openly as she was placed onto a backboard, pain screaming through her leg as they secured her. The world tilted as she was lifted again, carried toward safety.
Through blurred vision, she saw them pulling Nikto out too—securing him carefully, strapping him down despite his visible resistance. He turned his head just enough to find her.
Their eyes met.
She mouthed thank you through tears and pain.
He nodded once.
That was all.
And then they were carried in opposite directions towards ambulances, both alive.
There's a man in the corner, and his name is Nobody. He tells you when you ask, his body hunched and still as you approach. The only part of him that moves are his eyes, crystalline blue and so pale they're almost translucent. The way he looks at you makes your stomach churn. You do not like this Nobody. You turn and run.
The man behind you in the hall is named Nobody, and he needs your help. He's trapped here, he tells you. Trapped here the same way you are. You step towards him, hand outstretched, but something is wrong - he's too still, his light eyes too eager, too hungry. It chills you to the bone, revulsion ice in your veins. You turn on your heel and run.
The man in the doorway tells you his name is Nobody. He tells you that he's yours, that you're fighting your way out of here together. His words are sweet, full of love, but the cadence is off, unnatural and stilted. His head tilts, and the angle is wrong. His eyes glow in the half light, a predator's eyeshine that tells the animal part of your brain to flee. So, you do.
The writing on wall looks like yours, and it says there's a man called Nobody hunting you. Not a man - a creature. He can't move while you're watching him, and you forget him when you look away. It tells you that you've been running for a long time, running from him. When you turn to look behind, the writing disappears.
There's a man standing next to you, holding your hand and telling you your name is Nobody. He's caressing your cheek like a lover, pulling you close to stare into his eyes. They're a lovely shade of blue.
Alejandro straight up laughs at you when you tell him to use his words. stops his hand when you take a hold of him, stares at you for about 5 seconds before breaking into laughter, grabbing your face and squishing your cheeks together gently. "you think you can tell me what to do, mi amor? you're fucking adorable." before you can even think to answer you get pinned to the bed; he'll make sure you won't be saying any words when he's done with you later.
Rodolfo depends on his mood. if he's feeling more dominant he chuckles, kissing to your ear while his hand trails between your legs, whispering every detail of what he want to do to you. if hes feeling more subby tho, he looks up from where he was kissing, cheeks hot as he stammers a bit. "por favor.. solo déjame hacerte sentir bien.." he pleads softly, a soft whine escaping his lips when you pull him up by his hair, eyes lidded and pleading while his fingers dig into your soft skin,
valeria? dont even fucking try. she doesnt take kindly to brats (even though she loves breaking them). her fingers caress your thigh higher until you stop her, telling her to use her words. she stops in her tracks, that look in her eyes that you know too well. "say that again pequeño.." she hums lowly, if you actually do? before the last word even leaves your mouth you have her hand leave a burning sting on your cheek. "again?"
Graves is a bastard. he tries to get frisky with you, but you stop him and tell him to use his words. he stares before chuckling. "let me show you, yea?" soon enough you find yourself tied up, ball gag in your mouth and his hands and lips all over your sex. he's working relentlessly, abusing all of your good spots until you almost cum - then stopping. you buck and whine, he grins. "what, you want something? use your words, baby." you try to babble against the gag, but the cocky smile on his face tells you that you're in for a long night.
König gets absolutely flustered when you tell him to use his words. "what?" he fumbles and blinks, you chuckle at his embarrassment from being put on the spot like that. gets frustrated at his inability to do it, to talk dirty to you, your laughing making it worse even if it's without malice. eyes darken a bit when he decides to just take what he wants, pinning you down and bullying his cock into your poor hole until you apologise :[
Nikto doesn't make a move like that on you often, he usually outright asks if he wants something from you. but when he does, you decide to be a little bratty, grinning up at him as you tell him to use his words, putting a hand on his chest to push him off slight. he stares you down, expression unreadable before he finally reacts. grabs your jaw in a tight but gentle grip, leaning in close, all while keeping eye contact. "don't fuck around, pretty. you might hear things you don't want to."
thunking thoughts of nikto realising he can cope more effectively through your touch or being soothed by it idk i just need to post this bloody thing and stop obssessing over every detail
mention of mental issues of niktos, tension but not between nikto and reader, super duper brief light angst with resolution
it wasn't acceptable to let such a hostile creature in to your home and heart. niktos demeanour had changed over the last few days. you were both unaware of it until you flinched at his words one too many times. or how you shrank away at his bulking figure that stalked through the house. you did plan to ask him tomorrow, both of you were too exhuasted from demanding days at work to talk about it that evening. nikto had his.. odd ways of coping. yet he hadn't discovered the most effective thing: your touch.
nikto discovered this power over him completely by accident on one of his first nights staying with you.
at one point late in to the night you awoke to find his side of the bed empty, cold. abandoned long ago. the first time it happened you went back to sleep, thinking he went to the bathroom. however, when you woke again half an hour later and the bed was still empty you began to worry. as you stumbled in to your slippers you searched the chair next to the bed for one of niktos jumpers. it was embued with his scent: musk, tobacco and a faint smell of gunpowder that never left. with bleary eyes you treaded along the dark landing towards a dim light emanating downstairs. just as you were about to descend a loud thump splintered the still air of your house. you jumped out of your skin, heart thudding in your ears. was andrei okay?
creeping down the stairs your ears perked up at the sound of a voice. hoarse and and slightly breathy, like some wild animal being strangled. a wooden chair scraped across the tiled floor, echoing amongst the emptiness of the ground floor and up the stairs. avoiding the creaky step you finished descending the stairs. the light from kitchen cut out a sharp shape on the shadows of the hallway. as you stood shrouded in darkness your heard the gravelly growl of the voice you knew to be niktos. he was muttering to himself in russian, however he sounded so frustrated it was more like gibberish.
as you peeked in to the kitchen, slightly blinded by the light you saw a figure hunched over in a chair by the table. that strange strangled voice escaped again. another thump- it was his fist on the table. he shot up and started pacing around the kitchen, hands gesturing wildly. you could tell nikto was angry, voice getting more gruff each sentence. abruptly he stopped moving, muscles in his back showing through the thin tight material of his top. leaning on the kitchen counter with his back to you, he ran his calloused hands through his black hair. he kept his head down, the growl of a mutter growing harsher with each passing second. words flew out his mouth at an alarming pace getting louder and louder, knuckles turning white as he gripped the side. just before it seemed he was going to shout your cautious voice cut him off.
'nikto, are you okay?' you meekly asked. he span around, pale eyes wild. pinpoint irises locked on to your shivering form. he drank in the curve of your body, barely hidden by your sleep shorts and his jumper. the deep colour of your eyes emphasised by the weak light. his girl always looks so gorgeous. and then he noticed how your wrung your hands even though they were swallowed by the sleeves of his jumper. or the gentle furrow of your brow at his behaviour. some of your hair stuck up at odd angles from your tossing and turning at his absence during the night. he made you worry.
his heaving chest faltered and then deflated, eyes dropping to the floor in embarrassment. 'we are sorry we woke you dorogaya' he replied, voice hoarse from talking 'we were ah- talking'. a beat passed, you blinked at his response. to see a creature go from such a hostile to a guilty state was alarming to say the least. but you could still see he was on edge. his eyes flicked about the dim room while his thick fingers began to fidget with the hem of his threadbare shirt. just as his breathing quickened pace you steadied yourself and took a step forward. 'come' you commanded.
as nikto lumbered forwards his usual calm and calculated demeanour completely dissipated. the moment your lidded eyes landed upon him his mind was racing. were you angry with him for waking you up? did he scare you? how dare he wake you up make you worry. were you angry? nikto could deal with anger, it had always been a part of his life. but worry he couldn't. no one had worried over him, not like you did. to the forces he just needed to survive to the next mission, nothing but a valuable machine. to his friends, well, it can be questioned if they should have that title. but you were a glimmer of hope that he kept closely guarded to his rotten heart. your presence in his life transformed in to a steady glow, seeping under his mange-ridden skin. before he could realise, this light had ignited a blaze that consumed his heart and ravaged across his mangled skin. the heat was painful- to let someone so close to him. yet he writhed in ecstasy in your presence. the thought of that being dampened- potentially by him- made icy dread shoot up his spine.
he kept his gaze down, raking over your legs covered in goosebumps. his lips, raw from nibbling, parted in a shaky breath. just as another apology left his mouth, you threw your arms around him, burying your head in his solid chest. although your arms could barely reach around his burly form, he could feel the tightness of your embrace. niktos arms, corded equally with muscles and scars, hung by his sides. momentarily, he was taken aback. how could you still love this thing after witnessing its strange, violent ways? nikto didn't deserve a forgiving person like you. but he wasn't going to push away the one true good thing this godforsaken world had blessed him with.
niktos heart was pounding, blood rushing through his ears. one calloused hand rose up to the softness of your neck. his thumb brushed over your bobbing adams apple. gently, to not get carried away, he pressed harder just on the side of your neck. your steady pulse thrummed under his fingertips, warmth seeping from you to him. slowly but surely, nikto wrapped his arms around you. one brushed against your shoulder blades, while the other cradled your head closer to his chest. he buried his misshapen nose in to your hair deeply breathing in your scent. the warmth of your plush body washed over andrei. experimenting, his paw-like hand slid over the curve of your waist, stopping to squeeze the fat of your hip. you breathed out a short gasp. andrei's rough fingertips grazed against your stretchmarks, each raised ridge inching him closer to the realisation he was here with you. you were safe and he was with you, everything else could wait. the crackle of tension in the air had dissipated the second your melodic voice had cut through it. now, the cold kitchen lights didn't gleam unnaturally bright. he was enraptured in the faint glow of your skin.
the voices were still there, but far, far away. andrei was blanketed in your love, which grew stronger each time you ran your hand along the expanse of his back. "lets go back to bed, da?" he rasped. holding on to your hand, he followed you back to bed. stairs creaked under his bulky form as he padded after you in the dark. you climbed in to bed that had grown cold in both your absence, gesturing andrei to join. he wrapped his arms under your shirt, soft skin gliding against his scars. your legs tangled together, wanting to be as close as possible. burying his face in to the crook of your neck, he let the sounds of your heartbeat lull him to sleep. as your ran your nails through his overgrown buzzcut a grumble of content reverberated throughout the room. soon you both drifted off to sleep, never letting go throughout the night.
from that day andrei held on to you, for his own sake. how could you deny him that?
thankyou for reading, i hope you enjoyed it!! let me know if you want another installment of this and any ideas you might have. this has been lurking in my drafts since last week and i just need to get it out. my boyfriend has gone on a break with me so ive been pretty distracted this week, sorry its a little later and thanks for being patient :)))
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(She/her pronouns mentioned) Going for psychological intimidation. Hopefully this makes you sweat. Please see the bottom for Author notes.
Attention Grabber: They called it an evaluation. Nikto knew it was a test? And she? She thought it was just another room with another soldier. But nothing about him was ordinary. And the longer they spoke, the more the walls began to bend.
DO NOT REPOST OR STEAL MY WORK. pleaseeee
The hum of soft music thrummed low from hidden speakers, but it didn’t hide the chatter. Laughter in controlled bursts, light conversation punctuated by the clink of mugs on porcelain. All of it staged. All of it a performance. All of it mandatory.
Nikto leaned back in the chair, mask shadowing his face, gloves gripping the armrest with quiet tension. Eyes scanned the room like they always did: corners first, exits second, people last. Each smile looked too deliberate. Each movement too rehearsed. He felt himself starting to sweat. Not from nerves but, rather from nauseating overhead lights. He didn’t want to be here. But orders were orders. Social exposure they said. As if talking would scrape the ghosts off his skin. Make the wires in his head, that were frayed and broken, all the sudden complete again.
Nikto’s gaze flicked to Krueger across the room: stonefaced, arms crossed, eyes like knives behind that mask of his. If Nikto was a wall, Krueger was a blade, cold and sharp, ready to cut through anyone stupid enough to force a conversation.
Behind closed doors, fresh-faced Military Psychiatrists waited all of them eager, nervous, and freshly trained. They had completed countless hours of study, simulations, and psychological prep. But nothing could prepare them for the men they were about to face. These men were walking scars. These men were broken, rebuilt, and weaponized. None of them a man in the room but a consequence.
The doors opened slowly, spilling light across the waiting crowd. The stage was set the final practical application had begun. Inside stood all previous Marines, Navy, Army, and Air Force, each one from a different walk of life, now fighting for the same prize: selection. Every move they made, every word they spoke, was watched, measured, and judged. There was no room for error. Not here.
Nikto’s fingers twitched once against the chair, before settling. The woman standing before him was dressed in the standard business casual uniform favored by military psychologists at events like this trying to blur the line between evaluation and formality. A fitted black blazer over a plain black T-shirt, crisp white slacks, and modest kitten heels. A petite gold watch glinted at her wrist and gold round stud earrings in her ears, catching the harsh light overhead. Her hair was pulled back into a tight, professional bun, and a plastic-covered name tag swung from a lanyard around her neck, though the glare made it unreadable from where Nikto sat.
She approached with calculated distance, careful not to get too close. Then came the smile—polite, practiced, a little too tense.
“Good evening, sir. My name is Doctor (L/N).”
His silence stretched long enough to make it uncomfortable, the muted hum of the lounge filling the gap where words should have been. She stood there, waiting for a response she wasn’t sure she wanted. He tilted his head slightly, leather creaking at the collar of his jacket. The mask over his face made any subtle expression vanish, leaving only that unreadable stare.
Finally, he spoke—low, gravel-edged, the faintest trace of Russian shadowing his words.
“…Doctor.”
The way he said it was neither greeting nor acknowledgment. Just… a word. He didn’t offer a name. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink. The woman rolled her lips back and nodded fully expecting his lack of participation. She had read his folder before this.
The corners of his eyes narrowed just a fraction, studying her posture, the way her hands rested, the tightness in her shoulders. All tells. All weaknesses. Easy to scare. Easy to break. He let the silence return, letting her decide if she’d fill it or run. Her eyes bounced away from his and then back. Remember the script.
“Yes, are you having a good evening?”
She said confidently again, still following a script. Her fingers pressed tightly around the clipboard she held close to her chest. She blinked a few times awaiting his response shifting her weight to the other leg. Now her name tag was visible.
(F/N, L/N)
United States Marine Corps (RTD)*
Class 224 - UNT ASN KORTAC*
Then a bunch of numbers and a barcode.
Nikto’s gaze dropped to the tag the moment it caught the light. His eyes tracked the name—slowly. (F/N) (L/N). Former Marine. Assigned KORTAC. Interesting. His pupils tightened a fraction. He didn’t look impressed. If anything, that detail made his stare heavier, as if weighing her worth without needing to speak. Marine. So you’ve seen blood, then. And still, you look like you’d break in half if I breathe too hard.
Her question hung in the air like a weak thread. Are you having a good evening? Scripted nonsense. He exhaled through his mask, a sound more like a growl than a sigh.
“No.”
The word dropped flat and cold, clipped at the edges. His accent wrapped around it just enough to make it sound foreign, harder. He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t return the question. Instead, he leaned forward slightly—enough that the tension shifted like a warning. One gloved hand rested on his knee, the other still gripping the chair arm, knuckles pale against black leather.
The doctors face dropped for a moment and then she went to a smirk nodding again. She let out a breath and gestured to the chair next to him. She attempted to mirrored his body language by leaning forward slightly and turning her body towards him as a sign of being open to talk.
“You read my file.” His voice was quiet, but it cut like glass. “You think that makes you ready?”
His head tilted a few degrees, eyes narrowing—not in rage, but in that dissecting way predators study prey. She stood up straighter at his statement. Her face hardened slightly realizing the script wasn’t going to work. Match his intimidation. Nikto knows this is a test so he might as well make it one. Hopefully she studied.
She had more techniques she could use later. The doctor sighed and answered flatly.
“Yes I’ve read your file. I also know you’ve been to one of these events before.”
A quick pause; then another attempt at building rapport.
“Можно мне сесть там?” (Can I sit down?)
She asked somewhat confidently. Her Russian was okay. Definitely not a native speaker. Going to his native language was an attempt to find common ground. Nikto’s eyes fixed on her the second the Russian left her lips. For a heartbeat, there was stillness—too sharp, like the air before a blade falls. Then, slowly, his head tilted, and a sound low in his throat rumbled—a laugh, or something near it. Dry. Empty.
Her accent wasn’t terrible. But it wasn’t his. And trying to bridge the gap with language? Cute. He didn’t tell her to sit. Instead, he let the silence drag until it coiled tight around her shoulders. Then, in Russian, his tone dipped lower, rolling with a weight that sounded more threat than invitation:
“Тебе не стоило этого делать.” (You shouldn’t have done that.)
A laugh is good right? She reminded herself of the lessons: Build Rapport. She smiled but it looked unsure and almost the tiniest bit cocky. Her eyebrows pinched together. The doctor didn’t hesitate in her follow up question. This was her window. Time for an open question.
“Что ты имеете в виду?” (What do you mean?)
Her tone was the same as before. Soft but a bit more confident. When she spoke Russian again, his brow flicked up just barely, a ghost of expression hidden by the mask. Surprise, maybe even amusement. It was subtle, but it was there. Nikto posture shifted, controlled stale chill of his presence pressing hard against her composure. The leather creak of his gloves broke the hum of distant chatter as his grip on the armrest tightened once, then stilled. She didn’t react or show intimidation to him leaning forward. Her eyes didn’t glance down to react how the chair made a creaking noise to him squeezing it. She just blinked. A muscle in her jaw tensing for a moment. Nikto spoke his voice laced with venom
“You read the file. Good. Then you know…” His words switched back to English, slow and deliberate, as if pinning each syllable to her spine. “…what I do to people who try too hard.”
That smirk she had before and she switched back to English. Mirror she told herself. She leaned slightly shifting the weight to her back leg as he leaned back.
“I can respect that.”
She responded dryly. The room beyond them blurred into background noise. There was nothing but those grey eyes, sharp as shattered ice, dissecting every flicker of muscle in her face. Finally…finally…he sat back into the chair, the tension breaking like a wire snapping, but not before letting her feel the cut of it deep. He gestured lazily to the chair.
“Sit. Since you want to.”
The mockery in his voice was subtle, but it was there. The doctors eyebrows rose up in surprise as he annoced he was allowing her to sit. This was great progress. Lots to go still. She’s confidently sat down. Nikto knew she was watching his ever move like he was watching hers. The doctor let out a breath she had been holding and crossed her legs. She turned her torso slightly in his direction to remain open to conversation and looked at him waiting for a response to her question earlier.
Nikto tracked every movement—the tilt of her head, the twitch in her jaw, the way her breath stuttered for half a second before she caught it. She was holding the line. Not breaking, but not winning either. That smirk of hers… he hated it. Or maybe he didn’t. Hard to tell where the irritation ended and the interest began. Nikto went back to her question in Russian from earlier. His eyes narrowed slightly as he repeated her follow-up question in his head. What do you mean?
Then, without warning, he leaned forward again, closing that respectful space with quiet precision. A small gap and two chair arms between them. His voice dropped to a murmur, Russian wrapping around his tone like barbed wire:
“Я имею в виду, что ты не готова.” (I mean you’re not ready.)
Nikto let that hang for a breath before. Back to Russian? It was always more comfortable to speak your native language to someone. She kept her eyes on him and her expression neutral with a small friendly smile. Making sure to listen with purpose and not rush him to answer. The only reaction she had to him leaning forward was swallowing. Her expression remained exactly the same.
Her eyebrow raised and slightly turned her head to the side. More open questions. This is more than she had expected him to talk.
“Готов к…?” (Ready for…?)
She said softly, which Nikto quickly followed. Nikto switched back to English, sharp and low.
“You read a file and thought you understood. You walk in here with a smile, a script, a… little Russian. You think that’s enough?”
He tilted his head slowly, eyes fixed on hers like a vise. His voice thinned into a blade:
“Say the wrong thing to the wrong man… and you don’t leave the room.”
Another pause, weighted, meant to make her feel every second of it. She smiled and nodded at his following statement. Leaning slightly into the chair as Nikto had leaned in previously. A show that she wasn’t intimidated. Convincing even if it was lie. She made sure to mirror and switch to English as well.
“I’m happy you acknowledged my Russian skills.”
Another attempt at common ground. She didn’t react to his masked threat of saying the wrong thing. The Doctor wasn’t at all scared. This was a controlled environment and she was a Marine. Although she knew for a fact if it came down to strength he would win every time. Then his gaze flicked to her crossed legs, then back to her eyes.
“Uncross.” It wasn’t a request. It was a command. A test.
Unexpected. The doctors eyebrow twitched and she smiled at his demand for her to uncross her legs.
“I respect the fact you want me to uncross my legs but, I’m comfortable like this.”
A polite deflection but firm answer. Nikto didn’t move— neither did she. No flicker of surprise. No visible irritation. Just that steady, glacial stare. He let the weight of silence crush between them like ice forming under pressure. Then…slowly his head tilted again, that same surgical shift of predatory interest. Her expression was constant. Unreadable. Nikto saw the barely visible artery in her neck beat faster. When he spoke, the tone was softer now, almost a whisper, but sharper than before:
“Ты слушала плохо.”
(You didn’t listen well.)
His gloved hand lifted—not fast, not threatening, but deliberate. He reached forward and, without touching her, hooked a finger beneath the edge of her clipboard. She held her breath as Nikto took the clipboard. Her face not reacting. The Doctor let him take it. A slow, subtle tug, like he was peeling away her shield. The message wasn’t about the object—it was about control. The doctor was slow and pushed it forward for him to take. Same as anyone would do if passing an item to someone. She had turned his attempt at intimidation into a regular interaction. As if she passed him the clipboard.
“Comfort is a lie,” he murmured, English now, voice cutting low like a blade grazing her skin. “You think you have it until someone takes it.”
He set the clipboard on the table beside them without looking, then leaned in again, his masked face just close enough that she could hear the rasp of his breath through the material. Nikto’s gaze lingered on her like a blade against glass waiting for a crack. But she didn’t flinch. She even fed the motion, like giving him the clipboard was her choice. That earned her something— not approval, not trust, but maybe… a pause.
“You didn’t run,”
he added after a beat, eyes narrowing like he was dissecting the fibers of her spine. The artery in her neck betrayed her, though. He saw it. Filed it away like a weapon. He continued:
“That’s good.”
A pause. Then, quieter, colder:
“But you didn’t obey either.”
His gaze held hers for a second longer before he leaned back, shoulders sinking into the chair, as if he’d just ended something she didn’t fully understand. One gloved hand tapped against the armrest once, twice, and then stilled. She didn’t watch him place it on the chair next to him. The doctor maintained eyecontact. Maintained her smile. (Y/n) moved her hands to her lap. Right over left. An open position. Her torso still directed to face him, leaning forward slightly, showing she was open to conversation. That neutral smile still present.
“Comfort is intangible.”
A simple response but firm enough to get the message across. Nothing was in the clipboard anyway. It’s for show. To keep the discussion professional. Just as she had leaned forward she leaned back. Her posture still confident. As if there was a metal pole in her spine. He didn’t comment.
“Ask your next question, Doctor.”
Finally—he spoke again, flat, unreadable. (Y/n) responded taking this as an opportunity to resume her previous question. It was important for her to remain in partial control of the conversation.
“Ready for?”
Nikto leaned forward again, but slower this time—not predatory, more deliberate. The repetition of her earlier question. Persistent. Digging. His gloved fingers steepled beneath his chin, elbows resting on his knees. That mask made it impossible to see his face, but his eyes… his eyes told her everything. That he was still testing. Still hunting.
“Ready,” he said, low, his voice almost a whisper, “for people who don’t want to be saved.”
The weight of the words hung like a noose. His gaze bore into hers, cold and heavy as a winter sky. Nikto was talking more and now moving more. Good. Continuing to attempt to build rapport and listen with purpose she told herself. Only known to (y/n), her heart was beating from adrenaline. Being careful to not predict the direction the conversation would go. Let him take his time. The doctor nodded softly to ensure he knew she was listening.
“Why is it important to you that I’m aware of everyone’s need to not be saved?”
She asked softly. Good. Made it to question three. For a moment, there was stillness again so complete it swallowed the hum of the lounge. Nikto didn’t answer right away. He just stared at her, long and hard, like he was peeling her words apart to see what was hiding underneath. Her question…why is it important to you…had landed. Not because he wanted to answer, but because no one ever asked him that before.
His gloved hands shifted, slow and deliberate, folding together between his knees. A faint metallic rasp whispered from somewhere on his gear when he moved. When he spoke, his voice was low and harsh, almost a growl:
“It’s not important to me.”
A pause, then sharper, like glass grinding underfoot. Nikto continued, tone flattening into something almost clinical, almost cruel:
“It’s important to you. Because you believe you can help. That’s your weakness. They sent you here, thinking you can fix what isn’t broken. They tell you we need help, that we can come back…but we don’t come back, Doctor. We don’t want to.”
(Y/n) continued to maintain eye contact and nod as he spoke. Not too much. For the first time, his voice shifted—a rasp of something darker creeping in, like a shadow crawling under the door:
“So… tell me.” His eyes narrowed to slits, grey and merciless.
“When you fail, and you will, what happens to you?”
She didn’t expect him to ask a question back. The corners of her mouth twitching in her consistent soft smile. Address the disinterest. The same tone as earlier, soft but firm.
“This is just a conversation we’re having, not a test that results in a pass or fail. Just talking.”
Nikto leaned forward again, but this time it wasn’t a strike. It was like a shadow moving closer, heavy and cold. His words dragged with a quiet venom:
“You want to make this conversation safe. It isn’t. It never was.”
His eyes flicked down, then up, pinning her in place like a knife through paper. He let her reassurance …just talking… hang in the air for a beat before tearing into it with a single line:
“You don’t believe that.”
His tone had lost the mockery now. It was something else—something closer to predation, but quieter, almost thoughtful. He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. (Y/n) could tell he was doing the same thing as her. Dissecting the conversation. Every word had meaning. Every question had a direction it could go. Mutual control. (Y/n) nodded to his claim she didn’t believe that. In reality she did. She wanted to help people like him. It was her job. Her passion. Her profession after the Marine Corps. Lots of hard work to be in front of someone like Nikto. She remained in the same position as before her foot bounced for a second. Could be a sign of cockiness or nervousness. It wasn’t clear.
“You’re good,” he said finally, almost like an observation, almost like a warning. Then after a beat:
“But good doesn’t survive long.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy. Testing. She let the silence simmer for a moment. She knew he was trying to predict ever turn the conversation would try to turn in. Time to stop gathering more information. Respond to the disinterest.
“Why is this not important to you?”
She asked in the same tone she had maintained this whole time. Her heart was pounding in her chest. Feeling as if it was smacking against her ribs. Trying to remember the scripts for maintaining control. Her face remained unreadable. (Y/n) made sure not to argue not responding to the majority of what he said.
Nikto’s eyes narrowed just slightly—not from anger, but because that question hit where he hadn’t expected. (Y/n) was looping the conversation back to where she wanted it. His head tilted a fraction, and for the first time, there was hesitation in the air. Not weakness, but calculation.
Her voice stayed level. Soft. Unshaken. He’d been pushing, carving at her composure like a sculptor working stone, and she was still there same posture, same calm tone. Even the bounce in her foot? He noticed it. Filed it away. But it didn’t matter she wasn’t breaking.
He leaned back slowly, the leather of his jacket creaking faintly, his hands folding over his knees. When he spoke, his voice was low, deliberate, like each word weighed more than steel:
“Because importance is… a luxury.”
Got him. He took the bait. (Y/n) nodded to show she was listening. His eyes locked with hers—cold, but sharp, like a hunter speaking truth that burned in his bones. She tried to read the emotion his eyes displayed. Not much to work with but they widened like when she spoke Russian. She matched his tone lowering her voice and taking time on each word.
“What do you mean by a luxury.”
She asked. (Y/n) kept eye contact. Control over her breath. Subconsciously matching his. For a moment, his gaze flicked to the clipboard on the table. The doctor kept looking at him as he looked away. Taking that split second to swallow the tension in her throat. By the time he turned she was back to unreadable. Niktos eyes snapped back to her. A faint trace of something crossed his eyes memory, maybe, or something darker clawing at the edges.
“You want this to matter,”
he said softly, almost like an accusation. All she did was nod to his accusation before he spoke. Defensive? She went back to fully paying attention as he said Doctor. She remained stoic. He continued:
“But out there…”
he jerked his chin slightly toward the world beyond the walls, his voice tightening to a rasp:
“—nothing matters. Not your words. Not your rules. Not even life.”
He sat forward again, slow and predatory, his voice dipping into that rough whisper:
“So tell me, Doctor…”
A pause. His head tilts, the mask catching the light like black steel.
“…if nothing matters—why do you?”
The challenge hung heavy between them, a coiled wire waiting to snap. She need to move her tone away from the aggressive and challenging direction his was going. Her tone was soft and easy going. Her voice was still low to match his. A deescalation statement.
“This is just a conversation. Nothing more. It’s okay if it doesn’t matter.”
Nikto froze. Not outwardly, but in the way predators do when something unexpected shifts in the air. Her tone had changed. Not defensive, not forceful—soft. Easy. It didn’t fight his words; it absorbed them.
The silence that followed was heavier than any threat he’d made so far. He leaned back slowly, head tilting just a fraction, those cold grey eyes narrowing as if recalibrating. She wasn’t reacting how most did—no fear, no scramble to take control back. Just… calm.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before. Not softer—just lower, as if the weight had shifted.
“You think that makes it safe?” His tone wasn’t mocking this time. It was… curious. Probing.
He watched her for a long second, his gaze dissecting her words for weaknesses that weren’t there. She was matching his breath. Matching his cadence. Keeping the room hers without taking it from him.
Then something happened he didn’t plan. His head dipped slightly. Just enough to be noticeable. Not submission, not approval—acknowledgment.
“Хорошо,” (Alright)
he muttered finally, Russian curling over the word like smoke. (Y/n) didn’t react to his fall in stature. A wall down? Probably not. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees again, but there was no snap, no sharp edge this time. She mimicked her own form of relaxation. (Y/n) uncrossed her legs and crossed them again. Relaxing the same way he did as he learned back. She let out a small sigh. Not one of disappointment but one from deep thought. The calmness remained even as she moved. She looked over at him. Her head tilting softly towards him. Still keeping her body turned and open for conversation. And then, almost like a test disguised as casual, his next words slid out:
“So… tell me, (y/n). Marine. Doctor. Why are you here?”
The tone was flat, but something had shifted. The predator wasn’t pouncing anymore. He was circling—watching if she’d open a door she couldn’t close. Redirect.
“Why did you come? This event was optional for you.”
She asked softly but almost rhetorically. Giving him the option to blow off the question or answer. That sense of control still apparent. But it did feel neutral. She kept looking at him for his response. (Y/n) knew why she was here and that was to meet clientele similar to him. Walls up and capable of defending them. She matched his relaxed breathing again. Giving him room to decline the question or speak. Nikto stared at her. No shift. No blink. Just the quiet ticking of something behind his eyes. She hadn’t answered his question. She’d turned it.
Not with force. Not with arrogance. With subtlety. She gave him space, a choice, as if this was his conversation—not a test, not a profile being filled out. His. And that… that was new. He exhaled, slow and deliberate, the sound soft through the material of his mask.
“You’re good at this.”
The words weren’t warm, weren’t approving—but they were honest. A rare thing from him. He looked past her for the first time in minutes. Her eyes stayed glued to him. He did just a glance toward the door, then back. His posture didn’t shift much, but that small movement made the air feel different. Less like a coiled spring. More like something cooling.
“Optional…they always say that.”
he echoed finally, his tone flattening into something more analytical. His fingers tapped once on his knee. Then again. Controlled rhythm. A subtle tell, maybe. A simple answer.
“I come to see who they send. To see who can be broken first.”
His gaze shifted back to her. Still weighing her. Still watching for that tiny crack that never came. The air in the room started to thicken.
“You didn’t.”
Silence again. Long. Tension still there, but thinned out now. No longer barbed, more like a wire slowly slackening. His voice was barely above a whisper.
“You want to know why I stayed? Because you didn’t pretend to win.”
Then—finally—he leaned back again, gloved hands steepling in his lap.
“That’s rare.”
(Y/n) inhaled softly, ready to speak. She didn’t rush. She timed it, let the silence breathe, just as he had. She parted her lips to respond. Footsteps approached them.
To be continued….
Notes: If you see my OCs name (my name🥀 Natasha) in here I missed it. I tried to remove them all as I had wrote this just for me. ALSO you like those “—“ I added in?!? I wanted to be mega spicy with my punctuation. Maybe I should focus on all the commas and periods I missed. This took me a whole year to write. I think I got better. I’ve learned “Sales” skills now and finished my Associates. It’s been a long year. I am finally in the states again. Still in the military but on to bigger and better things!! XOXO hope you enjoy.
Websites used: 1. Reverso - For Russian 2. Quillbot - spellchecker 3. Word counter - to count words. PM for links if you want <3
Military Lingo: RTD -Retired, UNT ASNG - Unit Assigned
Nikto who clumsily sucks kisses onto your face, he leaves behind hickeys on your cheeks.
The first time he does it, you gasp at the mark left on the apple of your cheek. Fingertips brushing over the dampened skin, his fingertips. Rough and feather-like. Stroking and inspecting with profound admiration and guilt. He did that... Your dear little face...
"Nikto!". You'll scold, which he takes with as much grace as a guilty dog. Eyes cast aside- nervous and soft and intense. Broad shoulders swallow you up as he crowds against you like a casting shadow. Sticking to clothes and skin, smothering you up with his form. He'll be anything you need. A shielding wall? A warm blanket? He'll try his best for you.
"apologies". He mutters softly, before a hefty grumble rumbles in his throat. His tongue tracing the mark and licking at it, as if to soothe the 'wound'.
WARNING/CAUTION: This story contains an attempt at sexual assault.
The cabin smelled faintly of dried herbs and woodsmoke, the comforting, familiar scent of a life spent tucked against the forest’s edge. Y/n knelt beside her bed, folding her spare stockings with practiced hands and tucking them into her satchel alongside a loaf of bread, a small wheel of hard cheese, and a wrapped bundle of dried apples. She tied the satchel shut just as her mother cleared her throat from the doorway.
“Y/n,” her mother said, arms folded tight across her chest. “Be careful.”
Y/n glanced over her shoulder, smiling. “I will be.” She rose to her feet and swung the strap of the satchel over her shoulder. “The wolf thing only attacks men, remember?” she added lightly. “I am no man.”
She laughed at her own joke and, without thinking much of it, pressed her palm briefly against her chest through the fabric of her tunic, as if the point needed emphasis, before turning back to her packing.
Her mother did not laugh.
“Just because the beast seems to prefer the taste of men,” she said sharply, “does not mean it won’t decide it fancies a pretty young woman if given the chance.” She stepped fully into the room now, her brow creased with worry. “And you shouldn’t be leaving in the afternoon. Why not wait until morning? You’d have the whole day to make it through the forest.”
Y/n sighed softly, though she kept her tone gentle. “If I stay another day, Mr. Edwards will think I’ve decided not to come back at all. I like working for him, Mother. He pays me well enough that we don’t have to worry when winter comes.”
“That man is too kind,” her mother muttered. “Men like that always want something in return. His son is your age. Single. I would wager good coin he hopes you’ll warm to the idea of marriage.”
Y/n snorted, pulling her cloak from its peg and settling it around her shoulders. “His son is kind, yes,” she said, tugging the clasp into place, “but he is also the stupidest man alive. There’s a reason no woman has taken him yet.”
Her mother huffed despite herself, though it turned quickly into a tired sigh. “I’m glad my daughter knows that kindness alone does not make a good husband. It landed me here—alone, with no husband and only one child to my name.”
“You wish me not to be that child?” Y/n asked, teasing gently as she adjusted her satchel.
Her mother reached out and gave her a light swat upside the head. “Don’t be foolish. I am grateful every day that the gods gave me you. I simply would have liked more time. More children. A husband who didn’t die young.” She paused, her voice hardening just slightly. “Remember this: weak and kind men may be sweet, but they are the first to die.”
Y/n grinned. “Then I shall wed the coldest, strangest man alive.”
Her mother scoffed. “You had better not wed a wizard. And the gods forbid you wed a gravewarden,” she added as Y/n opened the door, letting in a wash of cool forest air.
Y/n laughed and waved over her shoulder as she stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind her.
The stone path wound gently away from the cabin, moss creeping between the cracks where time had been allowed to take its hold. The gate at the end stood brown and weathered, its iron lock hanging more out of habit than necessity. Y/n unlatched it, stepped through, and locked it again behind her.
She had always thought the lock was more symbolic than useful. Anyone determined enough could reach over and undo it or simply climb the low stone wall that ringed the cabin. Long ago, perhaps, it had meant something—some attempt to hold back the forest and whatever darker things once prowled within it. Now it was little more than tradition, clinging stubbornly to its place.
As she set off down the forest path, her thoughts drifted, as they often did, to the strange fortune of her birth.
Her mother had been lucky, in a way, to have borne only a daughter. Had Y/n been born with a brother, the weight of responsibility would have fallen squarely on his shoulders once he came of age. He would have become her guardian, her decision-maker. And Y/n would have been married off years ago—allowed to choose the man, perhaps, but not allowed to choose whether she married at all.
Instead, she had been born alone.
An only daughter with no father or brother meant freedom, at least by the standards of their isolated forest town. She could work. She could earn her own coin. She could decide whether she wanted a husband at all.
So long as she stayed within the bounds of what was deemed acceptable for a woman.
No one would shame her for serving in a household, or working as a maid, or apprenticing as a healer. No one raised an eyebrow when she walked the forest paths alone to reach Mr. Edwards’ estate. But had she spoken of monster hunting, or necromancy, or guarding the roads with spear and shield, the whispers would have followed her for the rest of her life.
In their part of the kingdom, women were not meant to wield death.
Men who wished to court her were expected to approach her directly now—no father to negotiate with, no brother to bargain through. It was an odd position to be in, neither fully protected nor fully controlled, but Y/n had learned how to navigate it with care.
She had heard stories from travellers passing through—tales of distant kingdoms near the capital where women captained guard units, ran guilds, and even ruled outright. She’d once listened wide-eyed to a merchant swear that the Captain of the Guard in Aldrin Port City was an Elleth woman, tall and sharp-eyed, feared by criminals and respected by kings.
As a girl, Y/n had dreamed of seeing such places. Of walking streets where her choices would not be questioned simply because she was born a woman.
But those lands were far away. Travel was expensive, and the forest alone was dangerous enough without venturing farther.
So she walked on, cloak brushing her calves, boots crunching softly over fallen leaves, unaware of how cruelly the gods would soon twist her mother’s joking words into prophecy—and how very cold and strange the man would be who would one day lie trapped beside her beneath broken stone.
Y/n moved quietly through the forest, her boots finding the familiar grooves of the path without thought. She had walked this trail twice every moon cycle for years now—once to return home, once to leave again—each visit carefully measured and written into the contract she held with Mr. Edwards. He allowed her these days without complaint, knowing she used them to check on her mother and to bring enough coin to keep the cabin stocked until her next visit.
The arrangement suited them both.
Mr. Edwards was a fair employer, kinder than most men with land and title. He did not ask much of her beyond order. She kept his estate running smoothly, saw that the floors were swept and the linens clean, that the stable boy did not neglect the animals, and that the cook and kitchen maid worked in quiet harmony rather than open argument. She was also, unofficially, tasked with locating his son whenever the young man wandered off and managed to get himself lost—an occurrence frequent enough that it had long ceased to surprise her. Often she had to send the stable boy and hunter after him in the forest.
She did not mind the work. It gave her coin, purpose, and freedom enough to keep her and her mother from want.
The forest thickened as the path wound onward, the canopy overhead filtering the afternoon light into bands of gold and green. Y/n knew this section well. She also knew where not to look.
She kept her eyes forward, her steps steady, refusing to glance toward the darker stretches between the trees. Crockrow River lay somewhere beyond the undergrowth to her left, unseen but ever-present. She had never gone near it, nor did she intend to. Stories clung to that place like mist—tales of things that dragged travellers beneath the water or lured them away with promises of love and warmth before deciding whether they would be wives or meals.
No. The path existed for a reason.
Y/n was not foolish. She knew the forest watched her.
She felt it the way one feels a storm before it breaks—the subtle pressure, the sense of being noticed. There were eyes beyond the trees, old and patient, following her progress. She did not acknowledge them directly. To do so would invite conversation she had no wish to hold.
She stayed on the path.
She always stayed on the path.
She had never met any of the forest’s inhabitants face-to-face, and she intended to keep it that way. Still, she knew they were aware of her awareness. Sometimes, she suspected they tested it. Clearings would appear where none had been before, sunlit and inviting. Rings of mushrooms would bloom overnight near the trail’s edge, only to vanish the next time when she scolded the fae aloud for their games.
“I have no time for tricks,” she would tell them. “Find someone else.”
She did not hate them. But she respected them enough to remain cautious.
So when her shadow shifted, Y/n noticed immediately.
The dark shape that should have stretched alongside her lengthened and widened—reshaping itself into something taller and broader. Masculine. The outline of shoulders that were not her own. And where her shadow should have been empty and flat, two faint points of red glimmered like embers.
She did not stop walking.
Her heart did not race. Her breath did not hitch.
She had given no offence. She had taken nothing. There was no reason for harm.
Monster hunters and magic users passed through her life often enough that she had learned one simple rule: most beings do not attack without cause. Those who did were not misunderstood creatures of the forest—they were monsters in the truest sense.
She inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the presence without yielding ground.
“Hello, Mr. Shadow,” Y/n said politely.
The response came not from beside her, but from everywhere at once—low, controlled, a voice that sounded as though it had been scraped across stone and smoothed into something usable.
“Hello, fair maiden.”
The words were careful. Measured.
“And how do you fare this afternoon?” Y/n asked, maintaining her pace. If the shadow wished her to stop, it would have said so.
“I fare well,” the voice answered. “Though the air suggests rain before nightfall. How do you fare?”
“Well enough,” she replied. “Thank you for asking. Might I ask what brings one such as yourself to the road today?”
A pause. Not hesitation—consideration.
“I heard word from the trees that a maiden walked the path this eve,” the shadow said. “It seemed… prudent to ensure she was not alone.”
Y/n allowed herself a small smile. “That is kind of you.”
“Kindness does not often survive long in these woods,” the voice observed. “I must ask—why do you walk alone? There have been disturbances lately. This is not a safe place for young women.”
“I walk because I must,” Y/n answered evenly. “I have spent my leave visiting my mother. I return now to Mr. Edwards’ estate. He is my employer.”
“Ah.” Something like recognition entered the shadow’s tone. “That name is known to me. His son is spoken of as kind.”
“And foolish,” Y/n added without malice. “He acts before he thinks. Often wanders into trouble of his own making. We fetch him back more often than not.”
A sound like a low huff followed. Not quite laughter.
“Then your mother worries for you.”
“She does,” Y/n admitted. “She fears Mr. Edwards wishes for me to wed his son.”
“A kind man,” the shadow said slowly, “but kindness alone does not preserve life.”
“No,” Y/n agreed. “It does not.”
“What sort of man would your father have chosen for you?” the voice asked.
The question was not invasive. Merely… curious.
“My father passed when I was small,” Y/n replied. “I have no brothers. No one to decide such things for me. I work so my mother and I may eat.”
Another pause.
“Then you are a dutiful daughter,” the shadow said. “That is… admirable.”
Y/n dipped her head. “I thank you, Mr. Shadow.”
They walked on together, she and the thing that was not quite beside her, the forest holding its breath around them—unaware that stone and fire awaited ahead and that this quiet conversation would one day echo beneath shattered earth and broken beams.
“You speak to me with remarkable ease, considering I am a stranger to your senses,” the shadow observed. Its voice did not rise or fall much, carrying instead with it a steady, ancient calm. “Most mothers teach their daughters never to speak to the forest’s creatures—especially when they walk alone.”
“My mother taught me the same,” Y/n admitted. “She worries whenever I travel, and she has every right to. But I see no sense in fearing what I have given no reason to be angered by. Every being has its own business. It is not my place to hate what I have not met, nor to curse what has done me no harm.”
The shadow moved with her as she walked, stretching and shifting over roots and stones, its glowing eyes never leaving her.
“Thoughtful words,” it murmured. “And rare ones. Many human maidens, young and fair, are taken quickly by men and cease to look beyond their own hearths. They forget the forest entirely. It is uncommon to find one who walks free and offers respect instead of blind fear.”
“Respect and fear are not the same,” Y/n replied quietly. “Fear makes one careless. Respect makes one mindful. I believe many people fear first because they were never taught how to respect.”
The shadow hummed low in what might have been agreement. “If only more learned in that order. Respect before fear. The world would be… less cruel.” It paused. “You have been honest with me, and respectful of this place. Such things do not go unnoticed.”
Y/n felt a faint tightening in her chest. “You need not reward me for that,” she said gently. “I am only doing what feels right. I would not wish to burden you.”
“It is no burden,” the shadow replied. “And I find the thought… amusing.” There was something subtle in its tone then—not playfulness, but the distant echo of it. “Would you like to know what I would give you?”
“If it costs you nothing,” Y/n said after a moment, “then I would not refuse to hear it.”
The shadow let out a sound that might have been a chuckle. “Time costs me nothing. I am of the shadow folk. We are not measured by hours or years as you are. But before I speak my gift aloud, you must promise me something.”
Y/n slowed her steps slightly, though she did not stop. “What must I promise?”
“That you will not forget what you have shown today,” the shadow said. “You must never take from this forest without asking—and without giving something in return. You must not turn away in hatred from what you come to know because of my gift. And above all, you must remember that understanding is not always comfort.”
Y/n considered this carefully. The forest was quiet around them now, the birds hushed, the air heavy as though listening.
“I give you my word,” she said at last. “I will keep my respect. I will not take without asking, and I will give in return. And I will not shun or hate what your gift allows me to know or brings into my path.”
The shadow seemed to settle, as though something had aligned properly.
“Then listen,” it said. “This is my gift to you.”
The light filtered through the trees shifted, and Y/n felt the weight of the moment press gently against her.
“You will never be wed to Mr. Edwards’ son,” the shadow said simply. “He is not the one bound to you, nor are you bound to him. That path will never be yours, no matter how others attempt to place you upon it.”
Y/n let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“You are fated to a very different being,” the shadow continued. “One who walks these woods not as a child of them, but as something shaped by violence and survival. You will meet him long before your life fades, and your path will not be walked alone forever.”
It paused, as though choosing its words with care.
“This is not a promise of ease,” it added. “Only of certainty. You are not meant to remain alone.”
Y/n’s fingers tightened briefly around the strap of her satchel. “Thank you,” she said softly. “It is… comforting to know that my future is not empty.”
“I am glad you find meaning in it,” the shadow replied. “But comfort is not the only reason I lingered today.”
The air shifted again, heavier now.
“There is danger moving through these lands,” it said. “Not the kind born of roots and rivers. A true monster walks the paths this day—one shaped not by the forest, but by men.”
Y/n’s steps faltered.
“I cannot walk with you any longer,” the shadow continued. “Other matters call for my attention. But I find you… interesting. And so I warn you.”
Before she could ask anything more—what kind of monster, where it walked, how near it was—the shadow thinned, stretching back into its rightful place at her feet. The red glow vanished. Her own shadow returned, small and ordinary.
Y/n stopped.
The forest seemed suddenly too quiet.
“Oh gods,” she whispered.
She felt eyes on her again—many of them—but she knew those watchers. They were not monsters. They were old, curious, and bound to the land.
But the shadow’s warning lingered.
Her heart beat faster as she resumed walking, her gaze fixed firmly on the path ahead. She did not know what kind of monster walked these woods, nor whether she would cross its trail before nightfall.
The shadow had said she would live. That she would meet the one fated to her.
She chose to believe that.
Belief, she knew, did not banish fear—but it gave her the strength to keep walking anyway.
She had not walked the path alone for long before she felt it again—that faint disturbance in the air that signalled another presence drawing near. This time, it was not the heavy stillness that accompanied ancient things, nor the watchful quiet of the forest’s hidden inhabitants.
This presence was louder.
Human.
“Hallo there, maid!” A man’s voice called out, clear and confident, cutting through the low murmur of leaves and birdsong.
Y/n turned, her hand instinctively tightening on the strap of her satchel as she took in the stranger who approached her from behind.
He was tall and well-built, moving with the easy confidence of someone accustomed to being listened to. His hair was long and pale blond, worn loose down his back, catching the light where it filtered through the canopy. His eyes were green—sharp, assessing, and far too alert for someone merely wandering the forest. At first glance, his clothes suggested a ranger or rogue: dark leathers, sturdy boots, and a cloak cut for travel rather than ceremony.
But the longer she looked, the more the illusion unravelled.
The sword at his hip was finely made, its hilt decorated with worked silver and etched runes that spoke of wealth and lineage. The dagger beside it bore a matching crest. Rings gleamed on his fingers—gold, heavy, unmistakably expensive. This was not a man who lived by the forest alone.
He belonged to power.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Y/n said, dipping her head politely. She did not curtsy; she could not yet tell if he warranted it, and over-deference to the wrong sort of man often invited trouble.
From the trees, a low hiss rippled outward, followed by whispering voices that made the fine hairs along the back of her neck rise.
The man did not react.
Either he did not hear them, or he chose not to.
Y/n disliked both possibilities.
The forest’s watchers were rarely silent when something dangerous crossed their paths. Their murmurs grew sharper now, agitated, threaded with something like anticipation. The stranger before her remained oblivious, his gaze fixed solely on her face, as though nothing else existed.
She had noticed before that most travellers never sensed the beings that watched from the trees. Only those touched by magic ever seemed aware of them. Wizards. Witches. Hunters who had stared too long into places they should not have survived.
Once, fleetingly, she had wondered if perhaps some faint trace of magic lived in her as well—not enough to wield or shape, but enough to notice. Enough to listen.
“Might I ask why you walk this path alone?” the man asked, dispensing with pleasantries. “You are aware that a wolfish beast has been roaming these lands, yes?”
“I have heard as much,” Y/n replied calmly.
The whispers in the trees swelled at her words, their tones sharpening.
“But I do not fear it,” she continued. “I have given the beast no reason to touch me. And I am told it does not attack women nor children.”
The man let out a short laugh that failed to reach his eyes.
“He does not attack them,” he agreed, “for the men send the women and children fleeing and offer themselves in sacrifice so that the beast might spare them.”
Something cold slid down Y/n’s spine.
She did not like the way he said it—too rehearsed, too pleased. His presence pressed against her senses in a way that made her chest tighten, a subtle wrongness that urged her, irrationally, to step off the path entirely.
“I have never met a woman or child who has spoken such words,” Y/n said carefully. “Nor one who would agree with them. I have walked this path all my life, and I have done so in peace. If one gives no reason for harm, then none need come.”
He shook his head slowly, as though she were a naïve child.
“You are clever,” he said. “Smarter than most.”
The forest did not like that.
The whispers grew louder, overlapping now, urgent. Y/n caught fragments—warnings, sharp and breathless.
“You must forgive me,” the man continued, stepping closer. “I have yet to give you my name.”
“Then you should,” Y/n replied lightly, though her pulse had begun to quicken. “Otherwise, I fear I will be forced to invent one for you.”
Laughter rippled through the trees at that—high, sharp, and delighted. The stranger smiled, and Y/n found she disliked the way his mouth curved, as though he enjoyed being laughed at rather than with.
“Then I shall spare you that trouble,” he said. “My name is Gilow Hicket. I am a monster hunter in service to the king.”
The title settled between them like a dropped blade.
“And you?” he asked. “What might your name be, fair maiden?”
Y/n hesitated, then answered, “Y/n. I have no family name.”
His brows rose.
“Then unwed you must be!” Gilow laughed. “A rare sight indeed—an unwed maiden walking these paths alone and claiming no fear of what lurks here.”
His gaze slid toward the trees, searching, though he seemed to see nothing.
“I see no danger at present,” he went on. “Which is fortunate. I assure you, you are safe here.”
The forest hissed.
“But I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to continue alone,” Gilow said. “It would not be chivalrous. I could not bear knowing harm befell you when I might have prevented it.”
He extended his hand toward her.
“Tell me,” he said smoothly, “where does your path lead today?”
The response came not from her lips, but from the forest itself.
“Doooon’t teeeeell hiiiiim.”
The voice was stretched thin, whispering through the leaves, unmistakably directed at her.
Another followed—feminine, urgent.
“Come away, child. This man brings danger, not safety. Step off the path. Let us shield you.”
Y/n’s heart hammered.
The forest never spoke to her directly.
Slowly, she lifted her gaze—not to Gilow, but to the trees.
“You will not hurt me?” she asked softly.
Gilow laughed, mistaking her question.
“Why would I harm you?” he said. “It is my duty to protect maidens such as yourself.”
But the unease in her chest only deepened.
She did not take his hand.
And the forest watched, holding its breath.
“It may be your duty to protect maidens such as me,” Y/n said, her voice steady despite the tightening in her chest, “but I am safe where I stand. I do not require your aid today.”
The words hung between them.
For a brief moment, the man only studied her. His green eyes narrowed slightly—not in anger, but in something far more unsettling. Amusement flickered there, slow and deliberate, as though she had said something entertaining rather than final.
Y/n took a careful step backward, edging closer to the trees. The path suddenly felt exposed, too open. She felt safer nearer the forest’s edge, closer to the beings who had always watched her without hunger or claim.
“My dear maiden,” he said smoothly, spreading his hands in a gesture meant to appear reassuring. “You misunderstand the danger you are in. These lands are not kind to those who walk them unarmed. I assure you, there are things here you could never defend yourself against.”
“I have told you already,” Y/n replied, firmer now, “that I do not wish for your company. It is not respectful to press yourself upon someone who has refused you.”
Something dark slid across his expression.
It was quick—but she saw it.
The warmth vanished from his face, replaced by irritation sharpened into resolve.
“Fine,” he said flatly. “If you will not accept my protection willingly, then I am left with little choice.”
Her breath caught.
“I will force it upon you,” he continued, stepping closer. “Perhaps then you will learn what comes of defying a man who knows better. You would make a poor wife if you cannot listen.”
The forest seemed to recoil.
Y/n stepped back again, heart hammering so hard she felt it in her throat. The wrongness she had sensed earlier now stood naked before her. This man did not wish her safety. He wished for ownership. Control.
And she knew, with chilling certainty, that if he reached her, he would not stop at escorting her down the path.
She turned to run—
—and a hand closed gently but firmly around her elbow.
She gasped, terror flaring, only to find herself pulled sideways into the trees. The man on the path did not react. His gaze passed over the space she had occupied moments before as though she had vanished entirely.
“Run, our child,” a soft voice urged.
Y/n looked up to see a tall figure woven of moss, bark, and trailing vines. Her face was kind and ancient, her eyes deep and steady. One long-fingered hand remained on Y/n’s arm; the other pressed lightly against her back.
“Run,” the forest woman said again, her tone unmistakably maternal. “We will guide you. Help is coming.”
Y/n did not question it.
She gathered her skirts in both hands and ran.
The moment she moved, the forest answered.
Branches lifted. Thorns curled away. Roots slid back into the earth as though the ground itself had decided she would not fall. The undergrowth parted ahead of her, opening a clear corridor through terrain that should have been impassable.
She ran hard, lungs burning, boots barely touching the earth.
“Thank you,” she whispered between breaths. “Thank you, thank you—”
She had never left more than small offerings before. Bread crusts. Shiny stones. Quiet respect. Now shame pricked at her for all the times she had walked past without stopping, without listening.
Voices followed her as she ran—not frightening now, but urgent, encouraging.
“Keep going.”
“Do not slow.”
“You are almost there.”
She caught glimpses of them as she passed—figures made of bark and shadow, eyes glowing faintly from behind trees, watching her with something like concern. Most could do nothing more than guide her path and urge her onward. They were not warriors. They were watchers. Keepers.
“Stop running, you wench!” the man’s voice bellowed behind her.
Tears blurred her vision, streaking hot and fast down her cheeks as panic clawed its way up her spine.
“Help me!” She screamed, her voice cracking. “Please—someone help me!”
Her breath came in ragged gasps now, legs screaming as she pushed herself faster. The path ahead remained open, while behind her the forest closed in—branches snapping back into place, roots rising just enough to trip unwelcome feet.
“Run, run, run,” the voices chanted, overlapping, breathless. “Run.”
Still, he followed.
He crashed through the woods with practiced ease, skilled and relentless.
“Come back here!” he shouted. “What kind of creature are you, that the forest bends for you? You consort with monsters, don’t you?”
“Leave me alone!” Y/n sobbed. “Go back to your path!”
Her hair tore loose from its tie, whipping behind her as she ran. Her chest burned. Her vision narrowed. She could not keep this pace much longer.
And then—through the trees ahead—she saw stone.
A structure, half-hidden, old, and weathered. Relief surged through her so sharply it nearly dropped her to her knees.
Civilization. Shelter.
She stumbled toward it, lungs screaming, unaware that salvation and catastrophe waited in the same place—that stone and timber would soon collapse, trapping her beneath the weight of fate, pain, and a man who would not arrive as a saviour but as something far colder.
And far more real.
Y/n screamed as arms closed around her from behind.
The impact drove the breath from her lungs in a sharp, panicked gasp as the man tackled her to the ground, his full weight slamming her into the earth. Her back struck hard, the world jolting sideways as leaves and dirt filled her vision. Pain bloomed along her spine, and before she could even draw another breath, he was on top of her—heavy, immovable, crushing her smaller frame into the forest floor.
The voices in the trees erupted.
They rose all at once, no longer whispers but cries—some shrill with alarm, others furious and outraged. She heard voices she recognized, voices that had once merely watched her pass, now shouting her name in tones sharp with fear. To her distant shock, a few even sounded… pitying. Not for her—but for him.
Y/n screamed again, thrashing beneath the man, clawing at his arms with trembling hands. He was far stronger. He shifted his weight easily, settling over her hips, pinning her completely. Panic flooded her, white-hot and blinding.
“No—no, get off me!” She cried, striking his chest, his shoulders, anywhere she could reach. Her blows barely seemed to register. He caught her wrists in one rough hand and forced them down into the dirt above her head, his grip bruising and unyielding.
Her chest heaved as she sobbed, tears spilling freely now.
“Help me!” She screamed, her voice breaking. “Please—someone help me!”
The forest roared in response, but the man only snarled.
“Shut your mouth,” he snapped, his free hand fumbling at her skirts, impatient and rough. The layers of fabric slowed him, and that seemed to anger him more. “You should have listened.”
Y/n fought harder, terror lending her a frantic strength. She kicked, twisting her legs, trying to buck him off, but his weight held her fast. She tried to slam her head forward into his face, but she couldn’t lift herself enough—her hips and wrists were locked, her body trapped.
“You think you’re clever,” he hissed. “Running with monsters. Now you’ll learn how creatures like you are dealt with.”
He spat the words like a curse.
Then—suddenly—darkness fell.
Vines burst from the soil around her, swift and deliberate, weaving over her eyes and face. The world vanished into blackness, and her breath hitched in fresh terror.
Before she could cry out again, a howl tore through the air.
It was close.
Far closer than anything should have been.
The sound was massive—raw, violent, filled with hunger and fury. It shook the ground beneath her, vibrating through her bones. The man froze above her. She felt it—the way his body went rigid, the sudden sharp intake of his breath.
Fear.
A foul, choking stench filled her nose for a split second, so strong it made her gag—then it shifted, softened, turning into something strange and almost comforting. Smoke. Pine resin. The deep, clean scent of the forest after a fire.
She barely had time to register the change before the man screamed.
It was not a shout of anger or command. It was pain—pure, unrestrained agony.
Y/n sobbed, her body shaking violently as the weight on her vanished. She lay curled on her side, blind beneath the vines, heart hammering as the sounds around her turned into something out of nightmares.
Snarls split the air, deep and savage. There was the sound of movement—too fast, too powerful. The man screamed again, the noise tearing at her nerves, rising and breaking into desperate, choking gasps. Wet sounds followed, unmistakable and horrifying, layered with the sharp, coppery scent of blood.
She clamped her hands over her ears, rocking as tears streamed down her face.
The vines did not move.
They held fast, shielding her from the sight of what was happening only a few feet away. She understood, distantly, that this was mercy.
The screaming stopped.
Something heavy dragged across the ground, branches snapping under its weight. The forest slowly fell silent, as though holding a collective breath.
Y/n collapsed forward onto her hands, her entire body trembling uncontrollably. She retched once, dry and painful, then broke down completely, sobbing into the dirt.
After a moment, gentle pressure touched her shoulders.
Vines—warm and careful—curled around her like hands, steadying her. The darkness over her eyes receded slowly, slithering away until light filtered back in.
A tall figure stood before her, formed of moss, bark, and living green. The same presence that had pulled her from the path. The motherly one.
“It is all right, our child,” the being said softly. Her voice was low and soothing, threaded with ancient calm. “You are safe now. No harm will reach you here.”
Y/n could barely breathe. Her whole body shook as she tried to draw air into her lungs.
The forest mother knelt gracefully before her, lowering herself to Y/n’s level. She opened her arms—not commanding, not urgent. Simply offering.
Y/n did not hesitate.
She collapsed forward into the woman’s embrace, clutching at the living warmth of her body as though it were the only solid thing left in the world. She sobbed openly, burying her face against bark and vine, shaking so hard her teeth chattered.
“If you had not—” Her voice broke completely.
“Hush,” Mother murmured, stroking Y/n’s hair with careful, vine-wrapped fingers. “You need not speak it. We know.”
The realization hit her then—sharp and sickening. How close she had come. How easily everything could have ended differently. The thought alone sent another wave of trembling through her, and she clung tighter, breathing in the steady scent of pine and smoke.
“You are protected,” Mother whispered. “Rest now, little one. We will carry you where you must go.”
Y/n felt her strength draining away, exhaustion crashing down all at once. Her eyes burned, swollen and heavy. The forest sounds softened, distant now. Footsteps echoed somewhere nearby, but she could not bring herself to look.
Her eyelids slipped closed.
She curled closer into Mother’s embrace, surrendering to the unnatural warmth and the pull of sleep, trusting—fully, desperately—that she would wake somewhere safe.
