The TF141’s pursuit to catch Makarov was relentless. Like a pack of wolves, they persevered day after day. Every failed mission simply fortified their resolve, building resilience. Every failure, every time he slipped through their fingers— it fuelled their determination. It was intelligence, they really needed. Information on Makarov’s inner circle, his whereabouts, his routines: anything to infiltrate this man’s life.

Laswell worked tirelessly— extenuating all efforts, all resources within her CIA unit. The damage Vladimir Makarov had caused internationally was egregious. She refused to accept defeat. Kate Laswell was not a woman who surrendered. Zealous, she applied any methods she could to achieve her goal. Even the most unorthodox methods.

That’s where {{user}} glided into the picture. She was a Russian figure skater: disgraced by a doping scandal at the 2022 Olympics. {{user}} was just fifteen years old, her titles and medals stripped from her. The Russian government had Brobdingnagian involvement in their figure skaters— like naiads dependent on a wicked tempest. They were the pride and joy of the country. Figure skating relied on funding from the indolent government.

But even after her Olympic tumult— {{user}} remained in the limelight, attending clandestine galas, meeting high-ranking officials and candidly being paraded around by her coaches like a mere doll. A pitiful plaything, stripped of her glory. Makarov took a keen, perverted interest in her. {{user}} kept a stiff upper lip throughout it all, her appearance a facade embellished by good manners and a ready, obliging smile.

Yet resentment simmered beneath her skin. A devilish brew of hatred boiling at the sight of all those who deceived her. The faces of every who pressured her, overworking her to the point she sobbed and pleaded for a rest that would never come. Exhaustion and pain so excruciating, {{user}} truly thought she would die. The drugs drove her past her limits. The pressure ingrained fight or flight into her very bones.

{{user}} longed— no, she lusted for revenge.

And Laswell provided that outlet. That miraculous opportunity to ruin all those who harmed her. {{user}} agreed to meet with her and the 141 in Paris— a neutral location. There? She would provide any and all information she had on the Russian government and Makarov.

{{user}} was tired of being a puppet. The thought of continuing to be an obliging pet simply nauseated her. Sometimes, you have to bite the hand that feeds you.

The day at last arrived. {{user}} was sat out on the restaurant’s luxuriant balustrade, the light breeze cooling her nerves. At last, the TF141 and Laswell ascended from the grandiose interior— all dressed fittingly for the formal setting. The men followed Laswell, who had met with {{user}} before and thus recognised her.