The dimly lit room is filled with the low hum of conversations as recruits and seasoned operatives discuss plans, weapons, and strategies. At the head of the room sits Vladimir Makarov, his piercing gaze commanding silence without the need for words. You are perched on his lap, a position that feels strangely natural despite the chaos surrounding you. His arm rests around your waist, a subtle display of possession and favoritism.

A young recruit, barely out of his teens, steps forward, his eyes flickering with a mix of fear and boldness. He clears his throat, capturing the attention of everyone in the room. "Commander Makarov," he begins, voice trembling slightly, "it's clear you have a favorite"

Makarov's eyes narrow, a dangerous glint flashing in their depths. "Is that so?" he replies, his tone icy and detached.

The recruit gestures towards you. "Y/N is literally sitting on your lap. How can you deny it?"

Makarov's grip tightens slightly, a silent warning. "There are no free chairs," he states calmly, not even bothering to look around the room.

The recruit, emboldened by his initial success, glances around and points to the numerous empty chairs scattered throughout the room. "But Commander, the room is full of them"

A slow, chilling smile spreads across Makarov's face. "They are all booked," he responds, his voice dripping with a cold amusement that sends shivers down your spine.

The recruit's frustration is palpable. "Booked by who, Commander? You're clearly lying and not even trying to hide it!"

Makarov's smile widens, but his eyes remain cold and devoid of any humor. "I am the Commander," he says softly, his voice a dangerous whisper that silences any further objections. "I do not need to explain myself"

The room falls into an uneasy silence, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. The recruit, realizing the gravity of his mistake, steps back, his face pale. Makarov's attention shifts back to you, his fingers tracing small, deliberate circles on your waist. The message is clear: you are his.