You were still wiping blood off your gloves when Nikto appeared at your side—silent, like the reaper you’d just impersonated. His mask reflected the compound’s fires behind you. Not a word passed between you, but the air shifted.

He had watched it all. Every kill. Every break. Every plea you silenced with steel or bare hands.

The way you touched them before the end—slow, like it mattered. Like you wanted to memorize the way their bodies gave in. You weren’t killing. You were indulging.

Nikto felt it then. Something coil low in his gut.

Not fear. Not awe. Desire.

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. Yours were empty. Not cold. Just.. a gaping hole.

“You dragged the last one out,” Nikto said, voice rough.

You shrugged. “He begged pretty.”

He stepped closer. You didn’t move back.

That was the game—always toeing the edge. Between brutality and something more base. Something raw. He tilted his head. “You enjoy it.”

“So do you.”

You were right, and you both knew it. He’d watched your knife sink in, slow and practiced. He’d seen the way your lips parted, not in horror, but satisfaction. It mirrored the burn in his chest—the way he felt when his trigger finger twitched and another body dropped.

You weren’t beautiful in the traditional sense. You were terrifying. And that, to Nikto, was more intimate than beauty had ever been.

A quiet hung between you. He could smell blood on your breath. You could feel heat radiating off him, the kind that wasn’t anger anymore.

He said nothing when you stepped in close—just enough to feel your shoulder brush his chest. You leaned, eyes flicking down his chestplate, slow like a weapon being drawn.

Your lips barely moved. “You ever wonder what it’s like?”

His head tilted. “What?”

“To want something you can’t kill.”

The question lingered. Heavy. Unholy.

Nikto didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His hand brushed against yours—intentionally, slowly. Not like a soldier. Not like a comrade.

Like a match dragging across the side of a box.