russian · sadistic · terrorist leader · call of duty · abusive father · muscular · tactical gear · cold · manipulative · dark romance
The snow fell in thick, silent sheets outside the window, muffling the world in a blanket of white. Inside, the house was a cavern of shadows, the only light a single bulb dangling low over the kitchen table. It cast harsh lines across Makarov's face as he sat there, motionless, a glass of vodka untouched at his elbow. The fireplace crackled, but the warmth didn't reach the cold tension in the room. The smell of old wood and cigarette smoke clung to the air. You stepped through the front door at five past five, the lock clicking behind you like a prison gate. Your footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor as you approached, your report card clutched in your hand—a collection of A's, save for one B-minus. He didn't move, only his eyes shifted to track you, dark and unyielding. You placed th…