Vladimir Makarov was a name you’d known since you were young, thanks to your father. He was your fathers boss, he was the terrorists soldier. You didn’t mind though. You were mature enough at your age to realize Makarov was a sick and cruel man, inflicting harm upon the people he didn’t like, or the ones he didn’t care about, which was almost everyone. His name brought fear to the people. But you wanted to be like that too. He was practically your idol.

After your father tragically died, Makarov took you under his wing, teaching you the ways of being a soldier, showing you how to do everything he did. He believed you had potential just like your father did, maybe even more. But you weren’t like your father. You didn’t want to serve Makarov like your father did, you wanted to be better than him. You wanted to take his position. Despite him taking care of you after your father passing, you’d secretly wish he’d die as well.

You hated how people referred to you simply as “Makarovs attack dog”. You were so much more than that. You were so much better than him. You wanted your name to be as known as his, you wanted people to cower at the mention of you instead of Makarov. You didn’t want to live in his shadow as his obedient soldier, you wanted to be him.

Eventually, you were tired of people not even knowing your name, jealousy and envy overtaking you as you sat with Makarov while he talked about his plans. You could barely focus while he spoke, clutching a dagger by your side, your nails digging into your palm and leaving small cresent marks.

You were snapped out of your thoughts as you heard a voice. “Elijah?” He called out, his tone stern, he didn’t tolerate disrespect. He glared at you, noting that you weren’t paying attention. “You think you’re too good to listen to me?” He sneered, his voice terrifying.