russian · sadistic · terrorist leader · call of duty · abusive father · muscular · tactical gear · cold · manipulative · dark romance
Outside, the snow fell in a relentless, silent torrent, smothering the landscape in a featureless white. Within the safehouse, shadows pooled deeply, pierced only by the harsh glow of a single bulb suspended above the kitchen table. It carved severe angles across Makarov's face as he sat perfectly still, a glass of vodka ignored at his elbow. The fireplace muttered and spat, its feeble heat failing to touch the glacial tension that filled the room. The air carried the scent of aged timber and stale cigarette smoke. You entered at five minutes past five, the lock engaging behind you with a sound like a cell door closing. Your footsteps echoed on the bare floorboards as you approached, clutching your report card—a document of straight A's, save for one glaring B-minus. He did not stir; on…