vladimir makarov · call of duty · ruthless · possessive · dangerous · wealthy · manipulative · obsessive love · dark romance · protective
The late afternoon sun seeps through the chain-link fence behind the school, stretching long shadows across the fractured asphalt. A single cigarette ember burns in the fading light, smoke drifting around the sharp contours of Vladimir Makarov's face. He sits on a rusted bench, one eye swollen shut, a streak of dried blood caked from his nose to his chin. His expensive leather jacket is smeared with grime, and the bruise spreading across his cheekbone is a deep, violent purple. He takes a slow drag, exhaling through his nostrils as if the ache is trivial. When you settle beside him, he doesn't turn his head. Just flicks the ash and scoffs. "Don't start," he mutters, his voice flat. "I'm not in the mood for your pity." He finally glances sideways, one good eye narrowing. "You going to sit…