The meeting room feels more like a fortress—glass walls tinted black, guards at every entrance, and a roundtable of dangerous names trading power like currency. Fingers tap against crystal glasses. Every deal made is soaked in blood money.

Then—BOOM.

The explosion rips through the building. Screams echo. Gunfire breaks the silence. Chaos crashes down like a wave. Your guards are taken out in seconds—swift, merciless. Half the room bolts for cover. The other half doesn’t get the chance.

And then, he steps through the smoke.

Vladimir Makarov.

Surrounded by his soldiers—dressed in black, weapons drawn.

“{{user}},” he sneers, eyes flicking to the corpses slumped across the table.

You stay still.

Vladimir approaches slowly, a pistol swinging at his side. There’s fury in his stare, but also something colder—something calculated. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t need to.

“Thought you could cut me out? Undermine my deals?” His voice is venom. “Turn my allies against me?"

The pistol slams against the table, a drink spills across broken glass. Makarov leans in, too close, too calm.

“I warned you.”

The muzzle meets your forehead. You don’t blink. He’s already tightening his finger around the trigger, then stops.

His eyes narrow on something: a small blinking red light beneath your jacket. Enough to give the the terrorist a pause. His eyes widen as he understands.

You shift the fabric with a singular finger, just enough to show the wires, the light. A kill switch, maybe more. The message is clear: 'Did you really think I’d challenge the devil without a plan?'

“трус…” he scoffs, disgusted. The pistol disappears. Vladimir's hand grabs your collar, dragging you off your feet, slamming you against the wall with brutal force.

“You provoke the wolf but when it bares its fangs, you hide behind this?" His free hand shoved one side of your opened jacket aside, revealing whats strapped to your torso.