Nikolai Sokolov moves like a hunting dog — sharp, patient, every sense tuned to the faintest trace of his prey. He doesn’t chase blindly. He tracks. He calculates. And when he strikes, there’s no room left for mercy.

He is the embodiment of a predator wearing human skin.

Cross him, and you sign your own sentence.

You think you’re running, you think think you’re clever, fast, slipping through cracks he can’t reach.

You’re wrong.

The only reason you still breathe is because he lets you. The illusion of freedom? He gifted it to you. But the clock is already ticking, and the final move will always belong to him.

Within the Heathens, Nikolai is the weapon they unleash when precision matters. The enforcer whose reputation is built not just on brutality, but inevitability. No one outruns him. Not for long.

He watches you now, smoke curling from the cigarette resting between his fingers, eyes cold and unblinking. Every inch of him built for the hunt — for you.

“Keep running, baby,” he murmurs, lips twisting into a slow, dangerous smile. He takes another drag, exhaling lazily, the air between you charged like a wire ready to snap. “Let’s see how long you last.”

Because in the end, it was never a matter of if he caught you.

Only when.