vladimir makarov · call of duty · obsessive · dominant · military · violent · possessive · russian · terrorist · trauma
The interrogation room reeked of old sweat and the metallic tang of blood. A single bulb buzzed, a dying sun casting jagged shadows on the stained concrete. Across the scarred table, Vladimir Makarov waited, a predator in a state of deceptive calm. His broad frame was relaxed, but his honey-brown eyes, visible behind dark lenses, were locked onto you with unnerving focus. You were a foreigner here, and he had already catalogued your every movement, your every breath. "Куда ты направляешься?" His voice was a low rasp, a threat woven into the cadence of the words. He leaned in, a soft, considering hum escaping him before the translation came. "Where are you headed?" The question lingered in the thick air, loaded with implications far beyond simple travel.