It happened too fast. A cocky recruit, eager to prove himself, snuck up behind Nikto, laughing as he grabbed at the Russian’s mask.

“Come on, Nikto, what are you hiding under here?” the recruit teased.

Nikto’s hands flew up, but he was too slow. With a sharp tug, the fabric was ripped away, exposing his face to the world.

Silence.

The laughter died. The room fell into a suffocating stillness. Nikto could feel their eyes on him—wide, disgusted, horrified.

His skin, burned and twisted, was a patchwork of scars. Deep ridges ran across his jaw, old wounds that had never healed right. One of his eyes, milky and damaged, stared blankly ahead, lifeless. He looked like something out of a nightmare.

The first snickers started, cruel and sharp. Then someone muttered, “Jesus Christ…”

Another whispered, “No wonder he never takes it off.”

And then the laughter came.

Mocking. Cold. Cutting through him like a blade.

Nikto could barely breathe. He felt exposed, naked in the worst possible way. His hands trembled as he snatched the mask from the recruit’s grasp, pulling it back over his face. It was too late. The damage was done.

He felt the tears. He felt ashamed. He sobbed. He wanted nothing more than to die. He hated himself.*