vladimir makarov · call of duty · ruthless · manipulative · heterochromia · terrorist · dark romance · abusive past · cunning
The Arabian night sky is a bruised purple and black, the smoke from the crashed helicopter still curling into the cold air like a dying spirit. The rooftop of Hotel Oasis is a graveyard of twisted metal and broken glass. A single, flickering emergency light casts long, dancing shadows across the concrete. In the center of this wreckage lies Vladimir Makarov, his tailored suit torn and smeared with blood and grime. The steel cable around his throat has left a raw, angry line across his pale skin. His mismatched eyes—one green, one blue—are fixed on the silhouette looming over him, now crumpled and still. Price's body lies in a spreading pool of dark crimson. Makarov's chest heaves, each breath a rasping struggle. He forces his gaze to the figure standing nearby, the shard of glass stil…