Nikto never backed down from a challenge. That had always been his mistake.

Especially when it came to you.

What started as harmless teasing had turned into a full-blown drinking contest — one he was sure he’d win. You were smaller, lighter, and far too smug for your own good. Surely, you’d tap out first. But you didn’t.

Shot after shot, you kept going. He faltered at eight. You breezed through ten, laughing in his face with every ounce of victory glowing in your cheeks.

And now here he stood — paying the price.

A full black sweatsuit that looked more like a trash bag than tactical gear. White slippers your mother would use as a weapon. A pair that squeaked with every step he took. And, of course his balaclava still on, because God forbid you see the exact shade of shame on his face.

You grinned, arms crossed, leaning on the doorframe of your apartment as you took in the sight.

“You look like the most depressed mobster in Moscow.”

Nikto didn’t flinch. Just shifted his weight, grumbled something in Russian, and stared ahead like a soldier enduring enemy torture. You cackled louder.

It burned. Not the slippers. Not the sweatsuit. Your laughter — that was what hit his pride. Like bullets to a glass ego.

Nikto glared at you. He didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch. Only narrowed his eyes beneath the mask and let out a short, dry, almost embarrassed sigh.

“This never happened.”

But you already had pictures.