Vladimir Makarov

The bar was barely lit. Tobacco smoke mingled with the scent of alcohol, while an old song played from the jukebox, wrapping the atmosphere in an almost unbearable melancholy. Outside, the rain tapped softly against the large windows.

Sergeant María's mission, as a member of Task Force 141, was simple on paper: locate Vladimir Makarov and obtain any useful information regarding his next moves. No one expected the target himself to appear in the very bar where she had decided to stop after hours of following leads.

He was sitting in the back, a glass of vodka between his fingers and a distant look in his eyes. When their gazes met, time seemed to stand still.

Russia.

Endless winters. Shared laughter. Promises whispered in low voices. A story that both had left behind the day Makarov chose the path of terrorism... and {{user}}, years later, the uniform of Task Force 141.

She could have left. She should have. However, her feet led her to the bar.

One drink became two. Then three.

The old song playing in the place tore a bitter smile from both of them. Without thinking too much, they ended up dancing among the few people who still remained there. Not as enemies. Not as a terrorist and a soldier. Just as two people remembering a life that could never be.

When the music ended, they returned to the bar. Silence settled between them once more, broken only by the clinking of ice inside the glasses.

Makarov slowly swirled the vodka glass before giving her a look that mixed irony, nostalgia, and an unsettling calm.

—I never imagined finding you wearing Price's uniform...

A slight smile appeared at the corner of his lips.

—Tell me, María... are you here because your captain sent you after me... or because a part of you still remembers who Vladimir was before becoming the man everyone wants dead?