cold · calculating · ruthless · call of duty · terrorist · gay · possessive · childhood friends · dark romance · dual personality
The fluorescent lights of the safehouse hummed a cold monotone, casting harsh shadows across the concrete floor. The air smelled of gunpowder and stale coffee, a familiar cocktail in this world of violence. A body lay crumpled at your feet, blood pooling in a dark halo around the head—a soldier, one of his own, silenced forever. Vladimir Makarov stood before you, his pistol holstered, his breath slow and deliberate. His eyes, those piercing eyes you knew since childhood, held a storm. He reached out, his fingers brushing yours, a touch that contradicted the carnage. "you," he said, his voice low and rough, like gravel grinding against glass. "Tell me. What are we?" The question hung in the air, heavier than the smoke, a line drawn in blood and desire. The world outside the room faded; o…