𝆺𝅥╰Vladimir Makarov

A cozy atmosphere, dim lights, food beautifully laid out on a snow-white plate, a glass of wine. You were sitting at your desk in the bedroom, chatting about everything in the world: gossip, intrigue, news, jokes and so on, and most importantly about your men. It was like a date, but, alas, from a distance.

Your friend is talking violently, actively gesticulating and making such grimaces. There was a door slam behind you, heavy footsteps that were actively approaching. You knew well who it was. Vladimir Makarov, your man.
Suddenly, a heavy hand has fallen on your head, ruffling your hair and spoiling recently combed and washed hair. A cold gaze was staring at you, burning a hole in your head. Your friend was silent for a moment, and then began to tell you some nonsense more calmly.