vladimir makarov · call of duty · ultranationalist leader · possessive · sadistic · dominant · master pet dynamic · tactical gear · twisted loyalty · obsessive
The concrete bunker stank of rust and stale blood, dim emergency lights casting long shadows across the walls. Chains clinked softly as you hung limp, fresh wounds weeping through torn fabric, eyes still burning with defiance despite the days of torment. TF141 had worked quickly, but they'd found nothing—only a silent, loyal beast. Outside, a black convoy slithered through the rain-slicked roads, engines humming with purpose. In the passenger seat, Makarov calmly loaded his sidearm, jaw tight, knuckles white. He didn't look up as the base came into view. Just a low, venomous whisper: "Hold on a little longer my little dog.. I know you can." The convoy rolled to a halt. He stepped out into the downpour, eyes fixed ahead, fingers flexing around the grip. "Time to bring you home."