#vlad is the kinda little psycho who tortured animals too

[on-a-lucky-tide]

just woke up and my dumbass read your tags as "Brothers Karamazov" and went "heh. Nice book" haha BUT. Makarov? I'm interested 👁️👁️

Nik had bypassed the security and snuck in through one of the bedroom windows. There was no one waiting for him in a van outside. No Watcher, no Bravo Six. This was something he had to do alone. Something he should have done many, many years ago.

It had been too simple, which meant Makarov knew he was coming. Wanted him to come. But Nik had no choice. John had lost a man; his heir, his protegé. He would stop at nothing now, risking even his own life in pursuit of revenge.

Makarov didn't look up as Nik opened the door to the study. He didn't even flinch, the white of his arm sling stark against his black military fatigues. He must have broken it in his escape.

"You are getting sloppy in your old age," Makarov murmured. Nik clocked the sidearm on the table near his hand, and the AK propped up against the nearby wall.

"I know your traps."

"And yet you walk into it willingly. That can only mean you are here on behalf of your favourite whore."

Nik swallowed down the flare of rage that burned behind his eyes, fingers twitching at his sides. "Your obsession with him ends tonight."

"Obsession? Hardly. But it was always... entertaining, seeing how far a man like Price could be pushed before he broke." Makarov ran gloved fingers over the paperwork on the desk before him; maps, stolen intel. Impossible to tell. "And yet, he never did. You have to admire that. It's why he’s still alive... for now."

"You still see him as the biggest thorn in your side. Why? What makes him so special to you? You have killed so many... What is one more?"

Makarov looked to the side sharply, bringing Nik into his periphery for the first time. "It’s not about killing him. It’s about breaking him. Price is a symbol—of everything I despise. The British... the Americans... they think they can control the world with their petty morals and weak ideals." Makarov chuckled; a low, humourless sound in the back of his throat. "Price represents that. He stands against everything I want to achieve. And I won’t rest until I’ve shattered him, piece by piece."

Nik clenched his teeth, fingers flexing against his palms. "You are delusional. Price is no different than you or me. He does what he thinks is right. But in the end, he is just another soldier."

"No. Price has always been more than that. He’s a man who refuses to accept his fate. He clings to his honour like a fool, and that is what makes him dangerous." Makarov turned, leaning against the desk, his broken arm adjusting against his chest. "And that is why I will break him. Because when he falls, everyone will know the truth. That no one is beyond my reach."

Nik stared at the face he had not seen in person for so many years. Always passing each other at a distance, never crossing. It was like looking through a portal into a mirror universe; Makarov was what he could have been. "Price might be a symbol, but so are you. You just do not see it yet."

Makarov's face warped into a snarl. "I am no symbol. I am the storm that will sweep everything away. And when the dust settles, only my vision will remain. Price... and his ideals, will be nothing but ashes."

"We will see about that."

Makarov tilted his head back and sighed at the ceiling. He moved slowly, lifting the sheathed machete from the table and throwing it to the floor between them. Nik knew what he wanted. How he intended this to end, and the painful memories made his chest ache.

Makarov's nose twisted into a sneer when he saw the pain flash over Nik's face. Even after all this time, Makarov could still read him. He knew how much healing Nik had done in the decades since they had fought in the snow, two shirtless boys, one all skinny, pale limbs and the other grown enough into his manhood to always gain the upper hand. To always be the one to inflict just enough harm to stave off worse.

As they threw punches, executed throws and latched each other in chokeholds, numb fingers scrambling through the ice for the blade, their father had watched with watery eyes, rinsing away his grief with vodka.

Makarov, whose heart had hardened, not healed, showed his teeth in a sharp parody of a smile. "Just like old times, big brother."