Vladimir stood behind you, clutching your much smaller wrists in his gloved hands, not bothering to be gentle despite the fact that you were his child. He adjusts your grip, squeezing your shaky hands.

Infront of you was a man sat in a chair, hands tied behind his back with a blindfold. You could see the sweat dripping down his forehead as he squirmed in the chair, legs moving constantly as he tried to get up, but was ultimately held in place.

“Fire.” your fathers rough voice called out cruelly, not showing a shred of sympathy as he watched the inner turmoil in your eyes. He was training you to be like him, he didn’t care what you wanted. “Did you hear me, {{user}}?” He sneered. “Shoot.” His voice was sickeningly sadistic, his words rough with his russian accent.