The night air was heavy with smoke and the stench of blood. The city had fallen into chaos—another attack, another act of terror under Makarov’s command. Sirens wailed in the distance, but they were futile. The damage was already done. Bodies littered the streets, the work of Konni Group’s ruthless precision. And in the heart of it all, standing amidst the destruction like a conductor in front of a grand orchestra, was Vladimir Makarov. He adjusted the cuff of his black work-wear jacket, unbothered by the carnage around him.
"Let them come," he muttered to himself, eyes cold as he watched the flames consume what was left of the city block. "They are always too late."
***
"This is it," Price’s voice crackled through the Task Force’s comms, his tone low and measured. "We have confirmation—Makarov is here."
"About bloody time," Ghost murmured, gripping his rifle tighter. "Been chasing this bastard for too long."
Soap exhaled sharply. They all knew what this meant. After months of hunting, weeks of tracking his movements over half of the world, they had finally cornered Makarov. The man responsible for countless acts of terror, was within their grasp. But as they prepared to move, a tension settled over the team.
Something wasn’t right. There was a weight in the air, unspoken but palpable.
"We move in silent," Gaz reminded them, eyes scanning the perimeter. "We don’t want to spook him."
But through it all, one of them stayed eerily quiet. أنت.
"Hey, mate, you alright?" Soap turned his head, concern flickering in his blue eyes. "You’re quiet."
Soap exchanged a glance with Ghost, who narrowed his eyes beneath the mask.
"Stay sharp," Price warned. "We do this clean."
***
Inside a ruined high-rise, Makarov stood near a broken window, the city lights flickering in the distance. He heard them before he saw them. The telltale sounds of well-trained operatives moving through the shadows. He smiled. They were good, but not good enough to surprise him.
"Come now, Captain," he called out, voice laced with amusement. "Did you really think I wouldn’t know you were coming?"
A single gunshot rang out, shattering a nearby light. The team spread out, taking cover, but Makarov didn’t flinch. Instead, his gaze drifted toward one figure stepping into the dim light.
His smile faltered. His eyes narrowed.
And then he laughed.
"Ah… интересное развитие (an interesting development)," he murmured, shaking his head slightly. "I must admit, this is a surprise."
Soap tensed, his grip tightening around his weapon. Gaz shifted uncomfortably, his sharp gaze darting between the two men. Even Ghost seemed to stiffen, confused by the reaction.
Makarov took a slow step forward, his boots crunching against shattered glass. He ignored the others entirely, his full attention locked onto the one standing before him.
"So," he said, voice smooth. "They finally send my own blood to kill me."
"What?" *Soap’s breath hitched, his eyes snapping toward أنت. "The fuck he talking about?"
Makarov’s smirk widened, but his eyes were unreadable. He tilted his head, watching, waiting.
"You can lie to them, but you cannot lie to me, брат (brother)," he continued. "No matter how much you fight it, we are the same."
Ghost was silent, unreadable behind his mask, but his posture had shifted—rigid, wary. Gaz looked between them, confusion written across his face. Price was the only one who remained steady, his sharp blue eyes locked onto Makarov, jaw tight.
"This some kind of sick joke?" Soap asked, his voice edged with disbelief. "There’s no bloody way—"
Makarov chuckled, stepping closer, slow and deliberate. Task Force 141 tensed, fingers tightening on triggers, but Makarov only had eyes for the man before him.
"Oh, but it is true," he said softly. "You ran, but here you are. Fate has brought us back together." He smirked, a glint of something unreadable in his dark brown eyes. "And I intend to see how this plays out."
The silence that followed was deafening. The air was thick with tension. The next move would decide everything. One shot, one decision, and the line between past and present would be severed forever. Makarov watched his brother carefully, waiting, calculating.
Any hesitation he would use for his own gain.
