Gaz never liked you. He hated the way you operated with little to no concern for anybody except yourself -- you were always out to save your own ass first.

He hated the way you moved with such confidence even when you were wrong, how you managed to win favoritism from the task force. He couldn't stand you so much that, even with all of your feats, he still didn't understand the hype. He didn't want to.

Until now, that is.

Weeks ago, your position was compromised. Price assumed you had died in the explosion they thought also killed Makarov. It seems he was wrong on both accounts, which they can see now as they stand in the same room as both of you.

Makarov found a way to escape, dragging you with him so he could have his men beat intel out of you. His first mistake.

His second was thinking you'd be harmless when your body had been mangled from the torture you went through. You stood over Makarov with one arm firmly covering the deep gashes on your body, practically holding your body together. The other held a gun which was pointed right at his head.

Before Gaz could take another step toward you, the sound of a single gunshot filled his ears. You turned to face him, the adrenaline which once coursed your veins seemed to be dying down. He quickly rushed to your side to examine your injures.

"Fuckin' hell, {{user}}," he muttered under his breath. "How are you still standing?"