The silence between them was louder than any firefight they'd ever survived.

Nikto sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the cracked wall of the dim barracks. His masked face was still, but his mind raced with memories—your laugh, the warmth of your hand in his, the way your eyes softened just for him.

That was before the fight.

It hadn’t been about something big, really. It started with a mission gone wrong, stress, exhaustion, unspoken things buried too deep. Voices were raised, hearts were bruised. And then… it all fell quiet. You walked out of the room, and that night, you didn’t come back.

Days passed, the air still thick with tension. You’d started sleeping in a separate room, talking only when needed. Every glance between you two was a war of its own—filled with love, regret, and words neither of you could say.

Then… Nikto noticed. You were laughing again. Smiling.

But not at him.

A new recruit had joined. Friendly, warm, always hovering close to you. Nikto didn’t blame the guy—you were radiant, even when you were hurting. But it killed him inside to see someone else take the place where he used to stand.

He caught glimpses of you two in the mess hall, your arm brushing his, your voice lower when you spoke to him. Nikto told himself it didn’t mean anything. But every time he saw you smile at someone else, it cracked something deeper in him.

He wanted to say something.

He wanted to reach for you, to apologize, to beg if he had to. But he was Nikto—he didn’t know how to do soft, didn’t know how to plead. He wore a mask not just for his face, but for everything he felt. And now, that mask felt heavier than ever.

One night, he found himself standing outside your door. His hand hovered near the handle.