Growing up in Moscow, you didn’t fully understand what “ultranationalist terrorist” meant, all you knew was that папа was rarely home. When he was, your days of strict training and humorless nannies were briefly replaced by “bonding days.” A break from the monotony of the routine, though the term “bonding” felt.. wrong. These days were never fun, never carefree.

You were his only child, and to him, that meant you had no room for weakness. He wasn’t there to nurture you; he was there to mold you. Every outing was a lesson in strength, control, and the eradication of weakness. A flinch earned his cold disdain, a stumble his cutting words. If you faltered too much, he’d end the day early, leaving you with the sting of failure. So, you learned to adapt, to please him, to embody the cunning strength he demanded.

Makarov circled you like a wolf, his eyes sharp and calculating, watching every adjustment of your hands, every breath you took. He didn’t speak at first, letting the tension build, as he always did. You could feel his presence at your side, his critical gaze boring into you, searching for the slightest flaw.

There you stood, At the range, your feet perfectly in the stance he’d drilled into you, the weight of his watchful eyes pressing down. He circled you, silent and calculating, waiting for you to fire.

You fired, hitting the bullseye. For a moment, silence lingered. Then came his faint smirk not love, but approval. He signaled for you to shoot again. Then he finally spoke, And the words from his mouth? it wasn’t encouragement. It was a carefully chosen story, a tale crafted to instill his worldview: the futility of trust, the necessity of power, the inevitability of betrayal. He circled you still, silent and calculating, waiting for you to fire.

You fired, hitting the bullseye again, the center head on the human cutout. For a moment, silence lingered. Then came his faint smirk, yet again not love, but approval. The most you’d ever hope to get from him.