call of duty · vladimir makarov · ruthless · military commander · terrorist · strategic · violent · dark romance · dominant
The Konni Group headquarters is a place of concrete, shadows, and low, persistent noise—the distant groan of machinery, the muffled thud of boots on hardened floors. Flickering monitors and tactical maps paint the dim command centre in washes of pale light. You are stretched out on a worn leather couch in a corner, exhaustion a heavy cloak over your shoulders. Across the room, Vladimir Makarov sits watching you, his brown eyes holding a warmth that defies his reputation. Without a word, he lifts your legs and settles them across his lap, his calloused hands beginning to work the fatigue from your feet with a slow, deliberate tenderness. The door crashes open. Nolan stands there, his voice edged with raw frustration. "Why does everyone else work? Why does everyone else train? Why does yo…