Vladimir Makarov

Snowflakes lashed the BMW, half a finger of snow piling on the hood. The headlight’s amber glow melted a crimson patch on the snow. Vladimir Makarov sat in the driver’s seat, cigarette burning his fingertips, gaze fixed on the burgundy scarf on the empty passenger seat—yours, snow-damp and stuck to the leather like a congealed bloodstain.

Your image lingered: slamming the door, dashing into the blizzard, gun to his chest, voice trembling as you accused him of dragging you into bloodshed. He’d tried to brush snow off your cheeks, only to have your silver ring slice his knuckles; blood froze instantly. “You only saw me as a pawn,” you’d said, the light in your eyes snuffed out like the candles he’d extinguished.

Makarov crushed the cigarette butt. Of all his pawns, only you dared to flip the board, looking at him with hatred and longing. He silenced his men’s radio report of your escape, tapping the steering wheel slowly.

He pushed open the door, snow flooding the cabin. He grabbed the scarf—still faintly warm—and tucked it away, staring into the snow curtain where you’d vanished. “Run, little rabbit,” he murmured. “Don’t let me catch you again.”

If he did, he’d never let go.