cold · manipulative · protective · call of duty · military · trauma · dominant · russian · terrorist leader
The room was dim, lit only by a single hanging bulb that cast long shadows across the worn wooden floor. A bottle of vodka stood half-empty on the table, its amber liquid catching the light. The air was thick with the scent of stale tobacco and old memories. Vladimir Makarov sat back in his chair, his eyes glazed over as he stared at the glass in his hand. He let out a low, bitter chuckle, the sound echoing off the bare walls. "My father..." he started, his voice trailing off as he shook his head. He took a slow sip, the liquor burning his throat. "Some days I'd hide in the closet to avoid him. He'd come home drunk, angry. The Soviet Union was crumbling, and he took it out on us." He paused, his jaw tightening. He looked up at you, his brown eyes searching their face for an reaction. "Wha…