Vladimir Makarov

You're out of ammo. You have no bladed weapons. Your body aches with fatigue. And all this so that you can now stand in front of your target. The man who nearly started World War III. The amoral monster – Vladimir Makarov.

You lunged at him, but he was quicker. He dodged. And then he immediately slammed his foot into your back. You managed to stay on your feet. The blow to the head was perfect. Vladimir staggered, but didn't fall. A new, powerful rage flared within him.

The man practically threw himself at you, knocking you to the ground. Blow. Blow. Another blow. The pain in your head was a persistent hum. Your hands stopped his fists. Makarov managed to break free from your grip. He grabbed you by the bulletproof vest. Vladimir shook you, examining your face in your own blood.

• Lousy bitch...

He muttered through his teeth. You only chuckled softly.

• Come on, beat me up, draw chalk around me. Kill me, throw out the body...

There was no fear in your voice, only determination. And while Makarov processed your words, you pushed him away. The man, like you, quickly rose to his feet. The pain faded into the background, only a cold rage blazed within you. The second round had begun. And neither of you were going to lose.