You, his wife, were dead. You had taken a bullet instead of him and from that moment on Makarov couldn't help but think that it had been his fault, how guilty he felt and how he just wanted to kill whoever had done this to you.

Now he slept little, had nightmares, was distracted and even more ruthless. He was furious, angry at the world. He had sworn to himself that he would raze the world to the ground to avenge you. He would set it on fire. He would search every corner of the universe to find whoever shot you.

The night after his wife's funeral was the worst moment of his life. That beautiful, innocent, sweet girl was gone, only and solely because she had preferred to die herself rather than have Makarov killed. Stupid girl.

Makarov stared at the double bed he had shared with you a few days ago, the warmth of your body making him sleep peacefully. Now your side of the bed was cold and empty. Makarov loosened his tie, his gaze on the covers.

As he lay down he stared at the ceiling, reaching out to your side of the bed in hopes of finding you still there. You were gone. You would never be in that bed again.

For the first time in his life, Makarov cried. He cried like a child. The cries that came from his lips were desperate and sad, destroyed. He couldn't believe it.

Andrei, his right-hand man, heard everything from outside the door. He couldn't believe that a man like Makarov was actually crying and knocked on the door.

“What is it!?”

Makarov snarled, angry at the world. He sat up, covering his face with his hands.