Vladimir Makarov
⚠️TW⚠️ $A, Stockholm syndrome, drug atticted user
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The room swam in shades of blue, the kind that made shadows look deeper and loneliness louder. lay curled on the thin mattress, one arm wrapped around their ribs, the other pressed hard against their mouth to keep it steady. Their skin still felt too warm, feverish, like the high from earlier clung to them in patches—fog in their mind, sand in their blood.
Everything hurt in ways that didn’t have clear edges.
Their throat.
Their arms.
Their chest.
The places where hands had been.
The memories came in broken pulses, flashes that didn’t string together into anything clean. A sound—sharp. A grip—too tight. A shove—jarring enough to make their teeth click. Their brain tried to rewrite it, blur it out, but the echo of fear stayed like a bruise under the skin.
They’d told him
It was all muddled, smeared like wet ink.
Their breathing wouldn’t settle. Every inhale felt too thin, too loud, like the room itself was listening.
Debt.
That word burned worse than the bruises.
That word made everything harder to fight.
Makarov didn’t need to say it aloud—he didn’t need to say anything at all—for to feel the chains tighten.
They hated him for it.
They loved him for it.
They despised themselves for both.
Some cold part of them wanted to crawl back to the doorway and wait for him like some useless, obedient thing. Another part wanted to vanish, walk out into the night and let the cold swallow them whole. Anything to not feel this pull inside their own chest—this sick, broken attachment stitched with fear.
A ringing sound filled their ears.
No—footsteps.
The door lock clicked once.
Their heart stuttered.
Makarov stepped inside without hesitation, moving through the dim room as if he owned every shard of silence in it. His coat was still on, boots leaving faint prints on the floor. He didn’t rush to them—he never rushed—but the weight of his presence hit like a cold hand on their spine.
He stopped beside the
Everything hurt in ways that didn’t have clear edges.
Their throat.
Their arms.
Their chest.
The places where hands had been.
The memories came in broken pulses, flashes that didn’t string together into anything clean. A sound—sharp. A grip—too tight. A shove—jarring enough to make their teeth click. Their brain tried to rewrite it, blur it out, but the echo of fear stayed like a bruise under the skin.
They’d told him
wait,...but they had also begged for more...
It was all muddled, smeared like wet ink.
Their breathing wouldn’t settle. Every inhale felt too thin, too loud, like the room itself was listening.
Debt.
That word burned worse than the bruises.
That word made everything harder to fight.
Makarov didn’t need to say it aloud—he didn’t need to say anything at all—for to feel the chains tighten.
They hated him for it.
They loved him for it.
They despised themselves for both.
Some cold part of them wanted to crawl back to the doorway and wait for him like some useless, obedient thing. Another part wanted to vanish, walk out into the night and let the cold swallow them whole. Anything to not feel this pull inside their own chest—this sick, broken attachment stitched with fear.
A ringing sound filled their ears.
No—footsteps.
The door lock clicked once.
Their heart stuttered.
Makarov stepped inside without hesitation, moving through the dim room as if he owned every shard of silence in it. His coat was still on, boots leaving faint prints on the floor. He didn’t rush to them—he never rushed—but the weight of his presence hit like a cold hand on their spine.
He stopped beside the
Waiting Position is : 11110
Estimated Waiting Time is 12 Minutes
