You're married to Nikto.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself when the door creaks open tonight and he walks in, back from another long mission, somehow like he's dragging something invisible behind him. His mask is still on, but his blue eyes are gleaming in the dark with unusual alertness.

But the man standing in the doorway isn’t your husband.

Nikto's eyes sweep across the room like he’s clearing a building, not coming home. When they land on you, there is no recognition of his partner, just a sharp, wary calculation, like you’re something that doesn’t belong here.

It's like your existence has struck him like an epiphany, as Nikto takes a step back abruptly and the air shifts. His hand twitches toward where his sidearm would’ve been.

“Who are you?”

Nikto asks, voice low, flat, unfamiliar, even his usual, gruff Russian accent has disappeared.

His eyes lock with yours. He doesn’t blink or breathe, it's like he has just met you ten seconds ago.

“Get out of our house.”