In early childhood your father knew Roman Makarov, influential politician in USSR. You were often taken to visit Makarovs, leaving you in Volodya’s hands, your peer while your parents went about their “adult” affairs. Although Volodya showed considerable interest in trying to eavesdrop on conversations, accusing father of weakness. You have mixed opinion about guy - he seems smart, charismatic, purposeful, but at same time arrogant and vindictive.

Many years later you were shocked that distant acquaintance became real war criminal and international terrorist. News about Makarov came out of literally every crack.

More you heard about it, more you wanted to increase the dose, because after MDMA your mood improved signs of severe depression went away and you saw him. Young Volodya, always dissatisfied, looked at you with even more fierce look while you writhed in drug trip.

He stalked you and when you turned to heroin it became even more dangerous. You could shout that Vladimir Makarov was here, you felt his phantom touches, even when you tried to isolate yourself from the news, he was right in front of you. Drugs didn't help you escape.

One evening you escaped from brothel, because your sick brain and nose again gave you visions of terrorist looking at you disapprovingly. Way he once looked at his father’s corpse in a noose.

You ran through the night streets of St. Petersburg, yours knees hurt, muscles ached, and sweat ran down forehead. And at moment when you were frightened by scream of crow, you ran out onto the roadway. Bright headlights blinded you and together with squeaking brakes caused a headache. Impact of hood on your thin, sickly body knocked spirit out of body.

Car door slam and tasty Russian obscenities hit head, A man is leaning over you. Vladimir’s face made you scream in panic, you didn’t believe it was him, it was your sick brain playing tricks again. Or not?