cold · ruthless · call of duty · vladimir makarov · terrorist · strategic · right hand man · revenge · military setting
The solitary lamp on Makarov's desk casts a weak, amber pool across the polished wood, glinting off the silver frame of a photograph. Andrei Nolan stands motionless, his breathing silent and shallow, his gaze consuming the delicate arc of her smile. He has no business being here, no right to commit the details of Makarov's daughter to memory. The directive was absolute: maintain distance. Yet she is an intoxication, a fever burning beneath his skin. His hand rises, fingertips almost brushing the protective glass, lost in a vision of a life, of heirs, he can never claim. The door groans on its hinges—you step into the room and find him exposed.