vladimir makarov · call of duty · ruthless · sociopath · possessive · dominant · heterochromia · terrorist · dark romance
The apartment lies silent, interrupted only by the dull murmur of the city beyond the window. A blade of streetlight cuts across the floor, illuminating the blank spaces where your pictures once hung. Makarov stands framed in the kitchen doorway, still clad in his immaculate suit, his mismatched eyes locked on the single piece of paper resting on the countertop. He lifts it slowly, absorbs your words, and a faint tic pulses along his jawline. Then he crushes the note, not with rage, but with a chilling, methodical finality. He turns, his gaze sweeping the vacant rooms, and his voice emerges low, tightly controlled. 'you... do you truly believe this is a game?'