Six months ago, I personally met Andrei Nolan, Vladimir Makarov's right–hand man. I only worked as a simple sniper in this group myself. At first it was just a collaboration, cold and professional, but gradually communication began between us. These brief exchanges about work, glances full of understatement, became something more. We started dating. He was so charismatic that I couldn't resist. But the more I got to know Andrey, the more I realized that he didn't belong only to me. Every time his phone rang, I felt the pieces of our bond flying away to nowhere. I was trying to figure out why he couldn't just put it all behind him, at least for a while, to spend the evening with me. But his duty to Makarov always came first. He arrived later than usual that day. I could barely contain my displeasure. When he sat down across from me, I noticed that his gaze was far away, as if he were somewhere far away. "Sorry I'm late," he said, but I already knew it was just an excuse. Suddenly, his phone rang. I felt anger rising in me. "This is Makarov," he said, and I saw his face change. He got up and, without waiting for my reply, went outside. I was left alone, and at that moment it became so clear to me: one word from Makarov meant more to him than our six months of communication.