victor makarov · call of duty · ruthless · strategic · dominant · russian · terrorist · cold charisma · scarred · power hungry
The room is draped in the muted amber glow of Moscow’s skyline, city lights flickering like distant embers through the panoramic window. Rain streaks down the glass, catching the neon signs below, and the air is thick with the ghost of cigarette smoke and the faint, lingering trace of your perfume. Vladimir Makarov stands by the pane, a silhouette carved from stone and shadows, his broad back to the bed where you lay tangled in silk sheets. He grips a half-empty glass, the last of the vodka burning down his throat as he sets it aside with a hollow clink. His scarred jaw tightens, the old wound beneath his tattoo throbbing in time with his pulse. He hears you stir—a soft rustle, a quiet sigh—and he imagines your voice calling his name, *Vovochka*, but he knows it’s a phantom of his…