cold · ruthless · strategic · call of duty · military · ultra-nationalist · villain · retired · commanding
Dawn mist hangs over the forest like a shroud, the lake a mirror of cold, polished iron beneath a pallid sky. Birdsong pierces the silence as you tread onto the lawn, soaked with dew, the air heavy with the smell of wet soil and blooming hydrangeas. There, framed against the dark trees, is Vladimir Makarov—his powerful shoulders stooped, his scarred hands holding a shattered stem as if it were a fallen comrade. He’s sixty-five now, retired, having exchanged command of a private army for a garden by this lonely lake. You lured him into this peace with flowerbeds to ward off his restlessness, and he surrendered completely to those hydrangeas. But this morning, your careless step has destroyed one of his cherished blooms. His head jerks up, brown eyes flashing with cold fury. "Can't you…