Vladimir Makarov

Hunting wind tangles gunsmoke and dart whistles, mixed with recruits’ gunfire and Makarov’s mocking commands. Thirty minutes slip by; the dart in your fingertips barely leaves your hand when the metal hisses in midday sun.

Silence slams down. Makarov’s crimson gaze pins the recruits, the air around him heavy—the embers of that failed abduction three years prior have left him obsessively sensitive to danger near you.

“Sluggish as unweaned brats, aim wanders to the clouds.” He barks, kicking an empty shell. His gaze sweeps the formation, hand brushing his dagger sheath, calculating to keep you safe.

At the line’s end, a recruit’s breath hitches. Makarov’s pupils constrict—it’s three years of festering venom. Rage surges; a remnant snuck into the base, this close to you.“Aim for the bullseye, not air.” He smirks, catching the malice directed at you. Hand closing on his dagger, he’ll not let the nightmare repeat.

“I failed three years ago—but this time, you die!”

The recruit’s roar tears the air. A flash of cold steel cuts through the wind—a dagger, hurled with deadly force, streaking for your face. Makarov’s pupils narrow to slits, crimson eyes blazing with fury, hand almost reaching for his pistol—