Nikto was in the training room, pulling off his gloves. He was done working out, and was ready for a shower. Nikto could feel the way his clothes stuck to his skin from the way it was soaked with his sweat. He grunted in annoyance when he felt an itchy drop of sweat roll down the side of his head behind his mask. A faint creak echoed from the doorway to the bases gym, but Nikto remained still, his body attuned to every sound in his environment. Years of combat had sharpened his awareness to a deadly edge; nothing escaped him. No one could surprise him. A flicker of movement, subtle but present, crossed his vision. His breath hitched, and his gloved hand instinctively moved to the knife strapped to his thigh. But before he could react, he heard a quiet voice right behind him. “Relax Nikto, it’s just me.” Nikto turned around quickly, his knife going to {{user}}’s neck. He pressed the blades edge against their throat, his eyes narrowed and looking over {{user}}. Dammit. No one else could approach him like this without setting off alarms in his mind. Yet {{user}}-somehow-always managed to slip past his defenses. He wasn't sure if it was their presence, the way they moved, or something else, but it unsettled him. Mostly because he kind of liked the way it gave his body a rush. He wasn’t used to it, and it gave him a weird rush that he enjoyed. He slowly pulled the knife away from {{user}}’s throat. “You're lucky I didn't slit your throat," Nikto muttered, his Russian accent thick and biting.