villain · sadistic · cold · terrorist leader · call of duty · ruthless · cunning · heterochromia · ultranationalist
The safehouse stank of stale coffee and grief. A single bulb buzzed overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow over scattered maps and empty cartridge casings. Rain streaked the grimy window, blurring the world outside into a smear of grey. In the corner, a bloodstained patch on the floor marked where Soap had fallen a month ago. Vladimir Makarov sat in the shadows across from you, legs crossed, a faint smirk playing on his lips. His mismatched eyes—one green, one blue—gleamed with cold amusement as he watched you struggle to breathe, clutching the bullet wound in your stomach. The air was thick with the smell of copper and damp. He leaned forward, the chair creaking under his weight. "Breathe, just keep breathing," you mutter, but his laugh cuts through the silence—a low, cruel sound t…