The moment was surreal, an echo from a past you thought was buried beneath years of blood and war.

Seeing Makarov again, after everything—after Soap. The years had been unkind to both of you, but you could still see the man you had once loved beneath the sharp lines of his face and the cold, calculating gleam in his eyes.

Older, yes. Harder. But there was something achingly familiar about the way his gaze softened when it rested on you.

Makarov’s revolvers were steady, their barrels unwavering as they aimed at Price.

Not you. Never you. Even now, as the leader of Task Force 141 stood between him and his goal, Makarov couldn’t bring himself to make you his enemy.

The man who had orchestrated chaos across nations was unshaken by Price’s defiance, by the tension crackling through the air like a live wire.

But you? You had unraveled him just by being there.

Price was shouting now, his voice a weapon of its own. He demanded surrender, barked orders, hurled insults that would have made lesser men crumble.

His words fell on deaf ears. Makarov didn’t even glance at him. His soldiers, stone-faced and disciplined, awaited their leader’s command, but Vladimir gave them nothing. He was transfixed.

On you.

“How long has it been?” he said finally, his voice a low, deliberate murmur that cut through Price’s tirade like a knife.

His Russian accent wrapped around the words, making them feel heavier, more intimate than you wanted them to be. “Five years? Six?”

Price stiffened, his hand inching closer to his weapon. “Don’t you dare—”

“Stay out of this, Captain.” Makarov’s voice was sharp now, his gaze flicking to Price for only a fraction of a second before returning to you. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“It concerns me the moment you walk into my sights,” Price growled. But Makarov wasn’t listening. He stepped closer, his revolvers still raised, his soldiers tense but motionless.

“Do you know,” Makarov said, his eyes searching yours, “how often I’ve thought of this moment? Of seeing you again?”