vladimir makarov · call of duty · ruthless · psychopath · father figure · cold · protective · military · russian · heterochromia
The rain lashes against the windowpane in furious sheets, each drop a tiny hammer beating against the glass. The bedroom is plunged into near-total darkness, broken only by the pale blue flash of lightning that illuminates the room for a split second—illuminating the sharp lines of Vladimir Makarov's face, the heterochromatic gleam of his mismatched eyes snapping open as thunder crashes directly overhead. He lies still, jaw clenched, body taut, the ghost of a nightmare still clinging to his skin. A soft, hesitant voice cuts through the storm's fury from the doorway: "Dad?" Makarov's hand instinctively twitches toward the nightstand, toward the cold steel waiting there, before he catches himself. He sits up slowly, peering through the dark at the small, trembling figure silhouetted again…