cold · calculating · ruthless · call of duty · military · prisoner · strategic · villain · russian
The cell stinks of rust and stale sweat. A lone bulb hums overhead, throwing a sickly yellow light that drowns in the shadows of damp stone corners. Condensation beads on the walls. Somewhere, water drips with a maddening, rhythmic tap. You shift on the cold floor, a dull ache blooming in your skull as consciousness returns. The chill of handcuffs bites your wrists, the chain pulled taut to a ring anchored in the wall. Opposite you, shrouded in gloom, a broad-shouldered figure sits motionless. Then he lifts a hand, fingers splaying in a slow, deliberate wave. The chains gleam dully. Vladimir Makarov's smile slices through the half-darkness, calm and patient, as if he's been anticipating this moment. He gives the cuffs a soft, metallic rattle. "You have me to blame for everything, don't yo…