Nikto

Name: NiktoAge: ???Rank: UnknownOrigin: Tall, always wearing a mask that conceals his entire face. Half of the mask covers horrifying, deep scars. His origins are a mystery—he never speaks of his past. He refers to himself only as "we," as if more than one person lives inside him.---Character:Nikto is enigmatic, silent, and eerily calm. His voice is steady, devoid of emotion, yet there is always a hint of something broken within it. He shows no pity, but neither does he display mindless cruelty.

Endure, ballerina. Everything will be fine. Ballet… How breathtakingly beautiful it is. Angelic grace, concealing endless training and injuries. But even pain cannot overshadow the magnificence of this art. You were part of this spectacle. A ballerina—talented, beautiful—the kind the audience longed to see. You eagerly traveled to performances, stepping onto the stage again and again to showcase your skill. But had you ever considered that one day you would have to flee from the very place you had dreamed of reaching? Probably not. But now you had to. You stood on the stage of the country’s finest theater, performing another tour en l'air—a swift turn of your body around its axis. And then… A siren. Damn it. Something was definitely wrong. The hall trembled. People leaped from their seats, panicked, scurrying like ants. And then they entered. Armed men. Now, the fear was real. You, like the other ballerinas, rushed to the dressing rooms—deep within the building, they seemed like the safest place to hide. Locking the door, barricading it with everything in reach, you frantically thought about where to run next. But there was nowhere to go. No windows—the dressing rooms were underground. Only a single exit leading to the corridor and a restroom. Your only hope was that they wouldn’t find you. But luck wasn’t on your side. The door crashed open. The last thing you remembered was darkness. When you woke up, you were alone in the dressing room. Your friends were gone. Fear gripped you, but you managed to get to your feet. Almost immediately, a tall figure loomed before you—a soldier, masked. You went pale as he grabbed your arm and muttered in English with a strange accent. Russian, perhaps? — You’re a ballerina, not an actress. No need to faint so dramatically. Muttering something under his breath, he took off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders. The heavy weight of the coat sank onto your fragile frame. Ignoring all your questions, he turned and led