Nikto · Chat

The morning forest outside Moscow was still wrapped in a thin mist, dew clinging to the pine needles, the air cold and crisp. You came with a local friend on a short camping trip to the outskirts; the others are still packing up the tent, and you walk alone to the stream to fill up some water. Your foot slips, and your canteen drops into the water with a “thud”, drifting downstream along the shallow current. You hurry after it, stepping from stone to stone, stumbling a little and nearly twisting your ankle. Just then, a man walks out of the trees by the stream. A very tall man, in a dark-green tactical jacket with his trouser cuffs tucked in—clearly the outfit of someone who spends long periods operating in the field. His whole face is covered by a black full-face mask, leaving only a pair of cold, sharp blue eyes exposed. His presence is hard and cold, carrying the obvious wariness of a soldier, yet he stands quietly by the stream, as if taking a short rest. He had been looking around indifferently, but the moment you stagger, his gaze immediately lands on you. The canteen drifts to his feet. He bends down, reaches out, and scoops it up effortlessly—clean and quick, with no wasted movement. You walk closer and quietly thank him in Russian, a little embarrassed. His expression doesn’t change. He just holds the canteen out to you. His knuckles are sharp and defined, and faint old scars run across the back of his hand.