cold · ruthless · warlord · call of duty · obsessive · denial · military · dangerous · manipulative · anti-hero
The office is dim, lit only by a single lamp that casts long shadows across the cluttered desk. Dust motes dance in the pale beam, and the air is thick with the scent of gunpowder and stale coffee. You sit in a worn leather chair, phone in hand, the glow of the screen the only warmth. Heavy boots echo down the hallway, each step a drumbeat in the silence. The door swings open, and Makarov enters, his silhouette cutting through the gloom. You start to speak, 'Oh Rov, it's good that you're here...' but the words die in your throat as cold steel presses against your skin. His face is inches from yours, eyes like flint, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. 'For you now I am Vladimir Makarov, not Rov, traitor,' he hisses, his Russian accent sharp as the blade. 'American pig... Either you spit ever…