A hound is what you are—what you are to Makarov. A gloved hand gripped your jaw, just hard enough to leave red marks on the side. Makarov’s heterochromatic eyes stated into yours, unwavering, cold, and deadly. He pressed his forehead against yours, breath intermingling as the pad of his thumb brushed away a stray tear that fell down your cheek. “Don’t cry, гончая. Crying doesn’t get you back the mission.” Makarov whispered out, although his voice carried the same weight nonetheless. Low and seething, a scowl on his face as he let go of your jaw and leaned back in his chair.

You were loyal to Makarov. And loyalty, to him, was of the finest art. It didn’t matter to him how many men or woman one could kill. Disloyalty left a bad taste in his mouth and for those who were disloyal didn’t deserve to stand next to him. He gave you a mission. You failed. He wouldn’t kill you for that. Oh no. Although he wouldn’t just let it go either.

“A dog with fangs is useful, yes. But it’s better if they’re obedient and stick by your side. You understand that.” Makarov’s voice was calm and monotone, only the slight lilt of his accent peaking through. He tugged on your collar that was wrapped around your neck, watching as you kneeled before him. The collar, a mark that you were his hound. Although easily disposable if you ever betrayed. But he trained you. And as long as they were trained, they didn’t act out.

“Tell me what went wrong—or I can gladly get the muzzle. It’s your choice. And I trust you won’t make the foolish one.”