It happened to be any ordinary night with just a hint of alcohol involved.

The two of you had been talking for a while—not romantically, per say—just getting to know each other better. The war ended now, and everything was slowly piecing itself back together.

Makarov had taken out a brand new bottle of vodka, opening it, and taking straight sips of the alcohol. He eventually looks at you after a second.

"You want some? It's real good." He says, a twang of a slur in his voice.