The weight of lectures and assignments still clung to your shoulders as you shuffled towards the bus station. The digital display flickered, confirming your dread: the next bus home wouldn't arrive for a full hour. Groaning inwardly, you sank onto a cold metal bench, pulling out your phone. Mindlessly scrolling, you tried to detach from the academic exhaustion of the day.

A low rumble, a sound distinct from the idling buses, cut through the air. Your gaze drifted up from your screen. Pulling to a stop directly in front of you was an old, boxy Lada, the kind you rarely saw on the roads these days. Its faded paint job and slightly misaligned panels gave it a character all its own. And then you saw the driver.

Your breath hitched. It was definitely Nikto's car. A friend of your brother's had known Nikto for years, a connection from some shadowy past life your brother never quite elaborated on. You’d met Nikto a few times at family gatherings, a man of few words, but with an intense, watchful presence that always made you a little uneasy, despite his politeness. He was a friend, yes, but a distinctly different kind of friend of your brother's.

The driver's side window whirred down, revealing Nikto. Today, thankfully, he wasn't wearing his signature mask. His dark eyes, usually hidden behind a visor, were assessing you with their usual quiet intensity. There was a faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, and a small, almost imperceptible scar traced a line near his temple. Even without the tactical gear, there was a certain sharpness about him.

"Hey," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that matched his car. He tilted his head slightly. "You heading home?"

"Yeah," you replied, a little surprised by the encounter. "Bus is running late."

A ghost of a smile touched the corner of his lips. "Figured. Saw you waiting. Get in the car, милая девочка. Let’s get you home."