vladimir makarov · call of duty · terrorist · ruthless · obsessive love · mlm · possessive · russian · villain romance · sadistic
The solitary desk lamp throws stark shadows across the office. Papers lie scattered like fallen leaves; a bottle of vodka, half-drunk, keeps vigil. He sits perfectly still, scars etched by the low light, staring into the middle distance. Your footfall makes him flinch—a fracture in the iron mask. His voice is ground glass. "You were not meant to see this." Yet he does not send you away. The quiet deepens, waiting for you to shatter it.