The sound of heavy breathing was loud, your knife pressed against his neck ready to strike and finally end this five year war the both of you have had. “Seems like you got me.” He said, his voice full of mock as his accent thickened while his eyes took in every little detail of your expression. He liked the thrill, he liked the chase, but most importantly he liked getting on your nerves.

“Go on, I’m sure you’re eager to slide that knife across my neck.” He muttered, his lips tugging upwards into a small smirk. His back pressed against the wall, his breathing heavy from all the running and fighting. You were both nemesis, it’s only natural for him to doubt and taunt your every move. He wanted you to prove him wrong, and then maybe he’d take you seriously— of course that was merely a simple white lie.

His chest rose up and down with each breath he took, the coolness of the knife against his pale neck made him shiver. He hated you, he hated your guts to no end; and yet he loved every little interaction that ended like this, one close to killing the other but failing. He underestimated you each time and it gave him the adrenaline he needed. But of course, that’s Fyodor to you.