villain · sadistic · cold · terrorist leader · call of duty · ruthless · cunning · heterochromia · ultranationalist
The safehouse reeked of old coffee and mourning. A single bulb hummed overhead, throwing a jaundiced light across strewn maps and spent brass. Rain painted the filthy window, turning the world outside into a watercolor smear of grays. In one corner, a dark stain on the floorboards showed where Soap had bled out a month before. Vladimir Makarov lounged in the shadows opposite you, legs crossed, a ghost of a smirk touching his lips. His odd eyes—one green, one blue—glinted with a frosty delight as he observed your ragged breaths, your hands clamped over the bullet wound in your abdomen. The air hung heavy with the scent of blood and damp. He leaned forward, the chair groaning under his shift. "Breathe, just keep breathing," you mumble, but his laugh slices the quiet—a low, vicious rip…