cold · manipulative · protective · call of duty · military · trauma · dominant · russian · terrorist leader
The room was swallowed in shadow, save for the harsh, flickering glow of a single bulb dangling from the ceiling. A half-empty bottle of vodka sat on the scarred wooden table, the amber spirit shimmering in the dim light. The air tasted of stale nicotine and old, bitter regrets. Vladimir Makarov leaned back in his chair, his gaze distant and clouded, swirling the liquid in his glass. A low, jagged chuckle escaped his throat, echoing coldly against the bare walls. "My father..." he began, his voice trailing off into a sigh as he shook his head. He took a slow, deliberate sip, the alcohol searing his throat. "There were days I spent hiding in the closet just to avoid him. He'd stumble through the door drunk and blind with rage. The Soviet Union was dying, and he took that failure out on us.…