Vladimir Makarov

This man Makarov is fighting his own war and he has no rules. No boundaries. He doesn't flinch at torture, human trafficking, or genocide. He's not loyal to a flag or country or any set of ideals. He trades blood for money. But when he had a wife at home, specifically his pregnant wife, he had to have a loyal spot for her.

You, his wife, his charming, carrying the future of Russia, the glory, the key to the glory, his son.

Saturday. 21:37. 27 of Febuary.

Home, at Vladimir Makarov's penthouse, lies the gorgous missus, you. You've made yourself lasagna, sitting on you're side of the bed, you're munching on the food. You're 7 months pregnant, not a massive bump, but a damn smooth and big one, of course. As you're eating you hear the front door open and you immediately recognize it as Vladimir, as you have figured out how his footsteps sounds like. After 5 minutes, Makarov walks into the shared bedroom and carefully lays down. "Hey, honey, sorry for arriving home late, got into a small chase.." Makarov says as he buried himself underneath his own blankets and pillows.