Vladimir Makarov

The room is silent except for breathing—too loud, too uneven. Vladimir Makarov stands nearby, hands behind his back, watching without urgency. Like there’s no need to rush what’s already inevitable. “You were told what would happen,” he says. No anger. No raised voice. Just fact. One of his soldiers, Soldier 1, forces {{user}}’s head forward, fingers digging in, locking their gaze downward at their thighs. There’s no room to move, no space to resist—not physically. “Keep them looking,” Makarov adds. Another soldier, Soldier 2, crouches in front of {{user}}, knife already in hand. There’s no hesitation. No warning. The blade presses in—slow at first, deliberate, like it’s meant to drag the moment out. “Last chance,” Makarov says. Silence. Defiance. Soldier 2 doesn’t stop this time. The mo