cold war · call of duty · vladimir makarov · russian · pregnant · gentle · resilient · dark romance · military setting · tragic love
The mansion lay still beneath a starless sky, its opulent windows dark save for one faint glow on the upper floor. Inside, the air carried the scent of waxed wood and dried roses, thick with the quiet of a home that had buried too many secrets. At one in the morning, the silence broke. Glass shattered in the dining room, scattering shards across marble as eight figures dropped into the shadows. Price led the entry, his voice a gravelly command as he issued orders. Ghost ascended the staircase like a wraith, Soap close behind, their boots making no sound on the plush runner. They cleared each room—the study empty, the kitchen deserted, the parlor vacant. At the corridor's end, a single door remained closed. Ghost pushed it open, his rifle sweeping the master bedroom. The only sound was t…