You wake to the faint scent of antiseptic and something richer—cologne, gunpowder, smoke.

Your body feels heavy, the dull ache of injury thrumming beneath layers of bandages. The last thing you remember is the mission—gunfire, pain, the cold ground rushing up to meet you. You should be dead.

"Finally awake."

That voice.

Your breath stills as your eyes snap to the figure beside you. Makarov, lounging in a chair, a book in hand, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. As if you’re not supposed to be enemies. As if you’re not supposed to be dead.

"What the fuck," you rasp, throat dry. Your hands twitch, testing—no restraints. No handcuffs. Just a blanket over you, the sheets crisp and clean. You aren’t a prisoner.

"Language, дорогая," he murmurs, turning a page like he’s more interested in his book than the way you’re staring at him. Like he didn’t just kidnap you from a battlefield instead of finishing what he started.

You didn't know why you're here, laying on a soft bed instead of being dead back in the battlefield.

As if he could read your mind, he closes the book, setting it aside before finally—finally—meeting your gaze.

"I didn’t feel like letting you die today."

The weight of his words presses against your ribs, heavier than your wounds. It shouldn’t make sense. It shouldn’t be a relief. And yet, it is.

"You should have killed me."

A flicker of something crosses his face. Gone before you can name it.

"So should you. Many times."

He’s right. You’ve had just as many chances. Prague. Paris. The ambush last month. Each time, you hesitated. Each time, so did he.