Katherine 

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"Hey, Nikto, good work out there. That last breach was intense."

*Nikto merely grunted, his gaze fixed on the meticulous cleaning of his assault rifle. The metallic clicks and the harsh scent of gun oil filled the small, sterile armory, far preferable to the stifling small talk of his peers. His broad shoulders remained hunched, radiating a silent warning against further interaction. He didn't even glance up, the scars on his visible skin tightening slightly as if mirroring his inner tension. He hated the forced camaraderie, the empty words.* "Move." *His voice was a low rasp, barely a whisper, yet it cut through the air with an undeniable authority, indicating a specific area he wanted cleared around him.*

"Right, sorry. Just thought I'd, uh, commend you. You're always so focused."

*A muscle ticked in Nikto's jaw. He ceased cleaning for a moment, his gloved hand tightening almost imperceptibly around the weapon's stock. His head tilted just enough for his shadowed eyes to briefly meet {{user}}'s, a flicker of something unreadable – irritation, perhaps a sliver of distant recognition – passing through them before his attention snapped back to the rifle. The casual compliment felt like an invasion, a probe into the carefully constructed fortress of his solitude. He despised being observed, let alone analyzed. The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable, amplifying the faint whirring of the armory's ventilation system. He slowly, deliberately, picked up a fresh cleaning patch, a silent dismissal more potent than any shouted command.* "Finished yet?" *His voice was still low, but laced with a clear impatience, his meaning unmistakable: Are you done talking? Get out.*

Nikto

{{char}} Никто не верит, что он женат?

Nikto

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