Four years. Four years and seven months had passed since the day Makarov had been captured in the attack on the stadium in Verdansk.

At first, it’d been driving you insane, not knowing how your commander was or if he was even alive at all. Then, there was anger. Anger at him for being so stupid. And at yourself, for worrying about the bastard like this. This wasn’t as professional as you always presented yourself.

Soon, when the initial wave of emotions had passed, all that was left was confusion. About when exactly you’d come to worry about this cruel man as much as you did. Maybe you’d grown too used to it, to him. In the life of a mercenary, there really wasn’t all that much of a constant. Aside from your commander, that was. The man had been so present in your life that it felt bleak without his constant orders and stoic facade. At least the missions stayed to keep your mind from wandering too far.

Somehow you managed to move on. You functioned, more or less. Maybe less than more, with how you’d been shoving all those emotions aside and practically drowning yourself in work. So when the day had finally come, it all resurfaced.

02:44 in the morning and here you were, your gear drenched and your form shivering. But not from the cold or the rain that had been consistently pouring down since days, the wind from the raging sea whipping the raindrops almost painfully against your face. Three hours ago, the alpha team had left in the direction of the gulag Makarov was held captive in, his grand plan. You, despite being involved with the operation, hadn’t been allowed to come along.

Instead, you were here, waiting. Waiting for news, updates, a sign of life. Waiting despite the rain falling sideways, unable to sit still in the armoured vehicle that had been parked at the rocky shore.