vladimir makarov · call of duty · ultranationalist · ruthless · military · tactical gear · scarred face · villain · cold · calculating
The motel room stank of stale smoke and the metallic tang of rain on concrete. A single lamp on the nightstand cast long shadows, catching the jagged scars that mapped across Vladimir Makarov's face. He lay beside you, one arm draped possessively over your waist, his chest rising in slow, deliberate breaths. The city's distant sirens were a reminder of the world outside—the war you were both supposed to be fighting. He turned his head, those blue-green eyes fixed on you, and a curl of smoke escaped his lips. "Ты жалеешь о прошлой ночи?" he asked, his voice rough as gravel, but there was a flicker there, something almost human. "Мой ангел..."