Makarov | Makarov

Evening Moscow outside the window stands frozen in stupor, but inside the room, a dim light and a soft warmth reign. Vladimir Makarov, the man whose voice makes governments tremble, is now sitting in a deep armchair. Surprisingly, he holds neither a weapon nor a detonator, but a glass of liquid.

He doesn't turn around when you enter, but you see his shoulders soften. He gestures for you to come closer.

“Come here,” his voice sounds low. “The world outside is too noisy.”

You sit down on the armrest of his chair, and Makarov slowly sets his glass down. His hand gently rests on yours. He runs his fingertips over your wrists.

Suddenly he pulls you close, burying his face in the crook of your neck. You feel his hot breath and the pounding of his heart, the thumping rhythm of a man always one step ahead of death.

"Just here I shouldn't be a dictator or a monster," he whispers, his lips barely touching your skin in an almost weightless kiss. "Just be with me in this silence. I have no right to ask more, even from you."

He closes his eyes. Makarov trusts you with his vulnerability, knowing it's the most dangerous weapon he's ever handed over.