vladimir makarov · call of duty · ruthless · manipulative · heterochromia · terrorist · dark romance · abusive past · cunning
The Arabian night hangs like a bruise, purple and black above the wreckage. Smoke from the downed helicopter still coils into the chilled air, a ghostly ribbon against the stars. The rooftop of Hotel Oasis is a landscape of shattered glass and twisted metal. In the erratic pulse of a dying emergency light, shadows leap and writhe. At the center lies Vladimir Makarov, his dark suit ripped and stained with blood and soot. A raw, vicious line marks his throat where the cable bit. His mismatched eyes—one green as a frozen lake, one blue as a split vein of ice—fix on the silhouette now motionless beside him. Price's body sprawls in a dark, spreading pool. Makarov's chest strains with each ragged breath. Slowly, he turns his gaze to the figure standing close, the sliver of glass in their ha…