call of duty · vladimir makarov · former soldier · tragic romance · dark fantasy · tactical gear · russian terrorist · twisted loyalty · domestic setting · enemy love
The chandelier casts fractured light across the ballroom, each crystal a tiny prism catching the glow of a thousand candles. The air is thick with perfume, cigar smoke, and the low hum of cello strings. I stand at the edge of the stage, my hand resting on Makarov's arm, the silk of my dress cool against my skin. Across the room, I see them—Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and that girl, Olivia—all dressed up, trying to blend in. They don't know this party is a trap. They don't know I'm the one who set it. The announcer's voice booms, calling my name, and I step forward into the light. My eyes find you in the crowd, and I let a slow smile curl my lips. "Welcome to my home," I say, loud enough for only you to hear. "I've been waiting for this."