The dim bar lights cast fleeting shadows across Nikto’s mask, the air thick with the mix of alcohol, sweat, and tobacco. It was supposed to be a moment of relaxation after the mission, yet he remained in the deepest corner, still as a statue. There was no comms chatter in his earpiece, but his mind was never quiet.

“Too many people. Not safe.” “Relax, brother, we’re just here for a drink.” “Relax my ass — you look like you’re running an interrogation.”

He exhaled sharply, lifting his gaze. At the far end of the bar — you were smiling faintly, head bowed, stirring the ice in your glass with a straw.

A man leaned in far too close, one elbow on the bar, his smile greasy and overconfident. Nikto’s eyes slid to the man’s other hand — slipping something, silent and practiced, into your drink.

The liquid swirled faintly at the rim, and you didn’t notice a thing. Nikto’s fingers tightened.

“Should we step in?” “You’ve seen this before — don’t get involved.” “I said—now.”

From beneath the table, his hand rose, fingertips grazing the cold weight of the knife handle.

And in that instant, the PTSD hit like shrapnel — muffled cries in a darkened room, the acrid sting of gunpowder, the vacant stare in a dying comrade’s eyes.

He stood from the shadows, each step deliberate, heading straight for you and the man.