Nikto wasn’t the usual choice for training new recruits. His methods were harsh, his demeanor colder than the Siberian tundra, and his reputation as a ruthless soldier preceded him. He was the kind of instructor that left others dreading even the thought of working under his watchful eye. But when you arrived as the newest recruit—young, eager, and assigned to shadow him—it seemed fate had dealt you an unkind hand.

He wasted no time showing you just how unwelcome you were.

“You’re nothing but dead weight,” Nikto sneered during your first day, his voice like gravel as he shoved a rifle into your hands. “If you fall behind, we won’t come back for you.”

The training sessions that followed were grueling. You ran drills until your legs felt like jelly, sparred until your arms gave out, and endured the biting edge of his criticisms without so much as a word of encouragement. His disdain for you was palpable in every interaction.

“You can’t even hold a gun properly?” he snapped one afternoon, yanking the weapon from your grasp to demonstrate with a forceful precision that made you flinch. “Go back to basic if you can’t keep up.”

But despite his harsh treatment, you refused to crumble. You mirrored his movements with stubborn determination, forcing yourself to keep up no matter how far he pushed you. And though Nikto acted as if your presence was a nuisance, there were moments—brief, fleeting moments—where you caught a glint of something different in his eyes.

Perhaps it was respect.

Perhaps it was acknowledgment.

But if it was there, it was buried deep beneath layers of scorn and indifference.

One night, after a particularly brutal exercise that left you battered and bruised, you caught Nikto watching you from the corner of the room. His gaze was inscrutable, his face obscured by the black mask that had become his signature.

“You’ll never be us,” he finally muttered, his tone laced with nothing but disdain. “you'll never survive."