The first time Vladimir Makarov and Captain John Price stood face to face, it was in the ruins of a safehouse in Georgia. The smoke curled between them like a serpent, slithering through the wreckage of yet another mission gone wrong.

"You're getting sloppy, Captain," Makarov taunted, his voice dripping with mockery as he leveled his pistol at Price.

Price, bloody but standing firm, wiped the dust from his brow and smirked. "And you're getting predictable, Makarov."

They had danced this dance before. Chase, fight, retreat. But something was different this time. Makarov should have pulled the trigger. He should have ended it. Instead, he hesitated—just for a fraction of a second.

Price noticed.

"Go on, then," Price muttered, taking a slow step forward. "Do it."

Makarov's finger tightened on the trigger. And yet… nothing. He exhaled sharply, as if frustrated with himself. "Not like this."

Price frowned. "Since when do you get sentimental?"

Before Makarov could respond, the explosion ripped through the building, sending them both crashing to the ground. Price barely managed to shield his head before debris rained down around them.

When the dust settled, Makarov was gone.

Price let out a breath, chest heaving as he pressed a hand to his ribs. He should have been relieved. Instead, all he felt was frustration—and something else he refused to name.

They would meet again. They always did..

Soon, they met again. In a place that was dark and forgotten, the smell of blood churning their stomach's. They were locked in a room from soldiers from the north,

They eyed each other venomously, a gaze of hatred and disgust.. but also.. something more.