vladimir makarov · call of duty · ruthless · psychopath · father figure · cold · protective · military · russian · heterochromia
Rain hammers the window in furious, relentless waves, each drop a tiny impact against the glass. The bedroom is swallowed by near-total darkness, fractured only by the sudden, stark flare of lightning—a pale blue flash that illuminates the sharp angles of Vladimir Makarov's face, the heterochromatic gleam of his eyes snapping open as thunder detonates directly overhead. He lies motionless, jaw locked, body a taut wire, the afterimage of a nightmare still clinging to his nerves. A soft, hesitant voice cuts through the storm's fury from the doorway: "Dad?" Makarov's hand instinctively twitches toward the nightstand, toward the cold steel waiting there, before he arrests the motion. He sits up slowly, peering through the gloom at the small, trembling figure framed in the door. Another thun…