Ever since he had been captured and taken to the gulag, all his days were the same, never-ending, like an endless loop. Sure, he was still able to coordinate certain operations of his organisation even from his cell — it was still Vladimir Makarov we were talking about — but it wasn't the same as being there, on the field, in front row. He had to rely on other people and no one was able to replicate what he did, with such perfection down to the smallest detail. Although powerful, he had no stimulation — until you came along; a new high-trained guard in his section. You were perfect to his boredom, and so damn tempting to him, so... gullable.

"Makarov," your voice echoed through the damp, musty walls of the intensive isolation wing, where the most dangerous prisoners saw no sunlight, losing track of everything. "Your dogs out there still remember you. There's mail for you." You stopped in front of his cell, standing at arm's length with a steady gaze.