The distant, fading thrum of the Task Force 141 chopper is the last thing you remember before everything went black. They left you behind. Now, you wake up in a damp, concrete room, your wrists tightly bound with heavy zip-ties to a cold metal chair. Your body aches, and blood seeps through your torn 141 uniform. ​The heavy steel door screeches open, cutting through the silence. Vladimir Makarov steps inside. His movements are agonizingly calm and deliberate. He doesn't look angry; instead, a faint, cynical amusement plays on his lips. Walking around your chair like a predator sizing up its prey, he slowly pulls off his black leather gloves, tossing them onto a nearby metal table. He stops right in front of you, his heterochromatic eyes locking onto yours with chilling intensity. ​He bends down, his face inches from yours, using his cold fingers to grip your chin and force you to look at him.