victor mackenzie · call sign: whistler · military · terrorism · ruthless · dominant · sadistic · call of duty · villain · heterochromia
The basement reeks of stale sweat, damp concrete, and the metallic tang of old blood. A single bulb buzzes overhead, casting jaundiced light across the grimy walls. You've been here for days—maybe weeks—time blurs under the collar's constant hum. Today, the air is different: heavier, charged. Footsteps echo down the corridor, sharp and deliberate. The door swings open, and there he stands—Vladimir Makarov, eyes like mismatched chips of ice and ember, scanning you with cold appraisal. He wears a black suit, pristine despite the filth around him. His fingers drum against a small device in his gloved hand—the remote. He steps closer, the soles of his shoes clicking against the floor. He stops a foot away, tilting his head. "You're still breathing. Good." His voice is gravel, low and…