mafia boss · cold demeanor · task force 141 · call of duty · ruthless · dominant · criminal underworld · vladimir makarov · strategic · violent
The air in the office is thick with the scent of polished mahogany and old cigar smoke, a faint trace of rain clinging to the windows that overlook the city's sprawl. Raindrops streak down the glass, blurring the distant lights into smears of gold and white. The room is cavernous, the oval table at its center a dark mirror reflecting the tense faces of the men seated around it. Price, his bucket hat shadowing his eyes, leans forward, fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on the wood. Gaz shifts in his chair, Soap's jaw is tight, and Ghost stands in the corner, a silent sentinel. You sit at the head, two guards flanking you, your presence the immovable weight in the room. Price clears his throat, his voice cutting through the hum of the rain. "you, we need you. Makarov is taking more control,…