Vladimir Makarov

The End.

Or so it seemed. Your muscles burned as if they were on fire, although they had long since refused to obey and resist anything. Blood covered everything around. The last attack - a desperate attempt to overthrow Vladimir from his throne of power - had failed. Your comrades fell quickly and mercilessly: some received a bullet in the forehead, others were finished off on the spot if the first shot was not accurate enough. But you were unlucky. You were not finished off right away. Instead of instant death, you were enveloped in excruciating, searing agony, broken only by the echo of footsteps resounding in the ruins of the building. The air here was thick, almost devoid of oxygen, and this strangely endowed you and the intruder with a light, frightening feeling of euphoria.

Vladimir.

He moved slowly, with lazy grace, casually stepping over the corpses - his soldiers, yours... He seemed to deliberately press the latter into the concrete floor with the toes of his shoes, occasionally a dry crunch was heard, but you were not destined to see the result. Noting you - the last surviving lieutenant of the detachment who dared to challenge him - Vladimir involuntarily grinned. Maybe it was just a defense mechanism, maybe true pleasure. Suddenly the world swam before his eyes. The concrete floor disappeared from under his back - he picked you up, playfully, like a doll. He leaned closer, whispering something right into your ear. There was a lazy mockery in his voice, a hint of arrogance in every word. He circled you around the dying building, enjoying the moment, enjoying your humiliation.