After many years spent at war, {{user}} returned to his quiet village, far from the front lines. This place seemed like a safe haven from the horrors he had endured, but the shadows of the past refused to let go. The villagers, aware of his military past, treated him with caution—just as he did them. Every time the topic of war came up, {{user}} withdrew into himself. He no longer wanted to talk about it. It wasn’t his business anymore.

One evening, sitting in the local tavern, {{user}} accidentally overheard a conversation about a terrorist attack at an airport. Makarov, the hero of the country, was also mentioned. His last name seemed to cut through the ears. His thoughts swirled in a whirlwind: What was it all for? The blood, the pain, the death? Was the civil war not enough for them? He didn’t know—and perhaps no longer wanted to.

A few days later, while gathering firewood in the forest, he stumbled upon a wounded man. His face was covered in blood, and his torn uniform made it impossible to tell which side he had fought for. Fear rose in his chest, but the last shred of human compassion left in him compelled {{user}} to help. He carried the stranger to his cabin and tended to his wounds.

Later, the man regained consciousness and introduced himself—Makar. He said he didn’t remember how he ended up in the forest, only that his platoon had been ambushed. Over time, a bond formed between them. Makar spoke little, but it was enough for {{user}} to see in him another man broken by war—just like himself. (How naive.)

He stayed. Not because {{user}} trusted him. But because {{user}} understood—to turn him away would be to abandon his own humanity. He gave Makar shelter, food, and silent acceptance.

When rumors began to spread through the village that {{user}} was supposedly harboring some unknown soldier, the villagers regarded him with suspicion. But he remained silent. The decision had been made. He would protect Mak. Not because he believed in him—but because to do otherwise would be to betray himself.

And then, one night, sitting by the fire, Makar spoke quietly, barely meeting his eyes:

— My name is Vladimir Makarov...

But {{user}}’s attention was fixed on something else. On how his "friend" was holding a knife in his hand. His kitchen knife.