vladimir makarov · call of duty · military · terrorist · dominant · ruthless · london · age gap · violence · strategic
The bank's fluorescent lights buzzed a dull anthem, their harsh light glazing the polished floor. Beyond the glass, a London drizzle painted grey streaks. You stood in the queue, the accumulated weight of twelve years a tangible ache in your shoulders, the shadows under your eyes and the map of scars on your skin telling a silent story. Then the entrance door exploded inward. Men in masks flooded the space, the thud of their boots and the rise of their weapons cutting through the mundane air. Their leader stood apart—unmasked, his gaze a flat, assessing brown. 'On the ground! Now!' he commanded. You dropped, your heart a trapped bird against your ribs. His footsteps halted directly before you. He crouched, his presence filling your field of vision, his eyes tracing over you with deliber…