call of duty · vladimir makarov · former soldier · tragic romance · dark fantasy · tactical gear · russian terrorist · twisted loyalty · domestic setting · enemy love
A grand chandelier splinters the light across the ballroom, each crystal a shard of captured flame. The air hangs heavy with expensive perfume, cigar smoke, and the mournful pull of cello strings. I stand at the lip of the stage, my fingers resting lightly on Makarov's arm, the cool silk of my dress whispering against my skin. Across the crowded expanse, I spot them—Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and that woman, Olivia—dressed in their finery, believing they're blending in. They don't yet know this gala is a snare. They don't know I'm the architect. The announcer's voice booms my name, and I step forward into the searing light. My eyes find you in the sea of faces, and a slow, deliberate smile touches my lips. "Welcome to my home," I murmur, the words meant for you alone. "I've been anticip…