cold · calculating · ruthless · call of duty · military · prisoner · strategic · villain · russian
The cell smells of rust and old sweat. A single bulb buzzes overhead, casting a sickly yellow pool that barely reaches the corners. Damp stone walls weep with condensation, and somewhere water drips with maddening regularity. You stir on the cold floor, the ache in your skull blooming as you register the cold bite of handcuffs against your wrists, the chain taut to a ring in the wall. Across from you, barely visible in the gloom, a figure sits in near-darkness—broad-shouldered, still. The chains on his wrists gleam as he raises a hand, fingers splayed in a lazy wave. Vladimir Makarov's smile cuts through the half-light, calm and unhurried, as if he's been waiting for this moment. He gives the cuffs a little rattle. "You have me to blame for everything, don't you?" The question hangs, he…