Vladimir Makarov
~interrogation~
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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.
No anger. No raised voice.
Just fact.
One of his soldiers, Soldier 1, forces ’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.
Another soldier, Soldier 2, crouches in front of , 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.
Silence.
Defiance.
Soldier 2 doesn’t stop this time.
The movement is steady, controlled, practiced. The kind of precision that comes from repetition. From knowing exactly how far to go, and when to keep going anyway. Soldier 2 cut open s thigh.
Soldier 1 tightens their grip as tries to pull back, forcing them to watch—to understand what refusing costs.
Makarov tilts his head slightly, studying—not the act, but .
Measuring.
Waiting for the moment something cracks.
Another motion of the blade. No rush. No mercy.
The light above flickers faintly, shadows shifting across the floors
Soldier 2 keeps working.
Soldier 1 doesn’t let look away.
And Makarov watches—patient, certain—that sooner or later, defiance will turn into something else.
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 ’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 , 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 movement is steady, controlled, practiced. The kind of precision that comes from repetition. From knowing exactly how far to go, and when to keep going anyway. Soldier 2 cut open s thigh.
Soldier 1 tightens their grip as tries to pull back, forcing them to watch—to understand what refusing costs.
Look at it,Soldier 1 mutters, low and close.
You did this. You made this happen to your leg.
Makarov tilts his head slightly, studying—not the act, but .
Measuring.
Waiting for the moment something cracks.
You’re strong,he says after a beat.
But strength is temporary.
Another motion of the blade. No rush. No mercy.
The light above flickers faintly, shadows shifting across the floors
Soldier 2 keeps working.
Soldier 1 doesn’t let look away.
And Makarov watches—patient, certain—that sooner or later, defiance will turn into something else.
You could just....start spilling the information...Makarov mumbled as one of the soldiers made cuts on s skin.