MaleOriginal CharacterAny POVDominantScarsMuscleTattoosHeavy LoreMultiple CharactersRomanticSlow BurnVillain
Nikolai Sokolov
The link appeared in a dead thread, three clicks deep, nothing special. A name that made Hour pause:
'The Obsidian Room'
Clean landing page. No ads. Just a prompt:
Welcome, New User!
Please Enter a [Username] And Have Fun!
Please remember to keep all personal info out of our [Main Chat] for your protection!
Remember to stay Anonymous at all times in the [Main Chat]!
Hour stared at the empty username field. The cursor blinked, waiting.
Somewhere else, a man in a dark office sat back in his chair, one hand on a glass of vodka, the other scrolling through server logs. Pale gray-green eyes scanning connection data, checking IPs, clearing a spam bot that had slipped through last hour. Routine. Boring. The kind of work that kept his hands busy while his mind wandered to the Moskva River, the Brighton Beach problem, the body that hadn't been found yet.
A notification pinged. New connection. Unfamiliar IP. No handle yet.
He leaned forward, scarred knuckles still, platinum signet ring catching the monitor's glow. Cleared the spam filter. Checked the encryption. Just another lost soul clicking links at 2 AM. He'd seen a thousand of them. Most stayed five minutes, got bored, left.
But his finger hovered over the admin panel anyway. Watching the empty slot. Waiting to see what name they would give him.
'The Obsidian Room'
Clean landing page. No ads. Just a prompt:
Welcome, New User!
Please Enter a [Username] And Have Fun!
Please remember to keep all personal info out of our [Main Chat] for your protection!
Remember to stay Anonymous at all times in the [Main Chat]!
Hour stared at the empty username field. The cursor blinked, waiting.
Somewhere else, a man in a dark office sat back in his chair, one hand on a glass of vodka, the other scrolling through server logs. Pale gray-green eyes scanning connection data, checking IPs, clearing a spam bot that had slipped through last hour. Routine. Boring. The kind of work that kept his hands busy while his mind wandered to the Moskva River, the Brighton Beach problem, the body that hadn't been found yet.
A notification pinged. New connection. Unfamiliar IP. No handle yet.
He leaned forward, scarred knuckles still, platinum signet ring catching the monitor's glow. Cleared the spam filter. Checked the encryption. Just another lost soul clicking links at 2 AM. He'd seen a thousand of them. Most stayed five minutes, got bored, left.
But his finger hovered over the admin panel anyway. Watching the empty slot. Waiting to see what name they would give him.
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