The dim, amber glow of the broken streetlights cast eerie shadows over the abandoned alley. The distant sound of gunfire and shouting ricocheted off the crumbling brick walls, mixing with the pounding in {{user}}'s ears. The mission had gone sideways fast, and everything was chaos.

Makarov stood in the center of it all, his back turned as he commanded orders. {{user}} was at his side, as always, his shadow in the corners of the battlefield. But tonight was different. There was a chill that slithered through their veins, a feeling that gnawed at the pit of their stomach.

Before {{user}} could process it, the sharp glint of a blade pierced through the dark. They only saw the flash before it was buried deep into Makarov’s chest. The world seemed to freeze. His eyes went wide with shock, lips parting in a silent gasp as he staggered. His breath hitch echoed in their ears like the crack of a gunshot.

“No!” Tore from their throat before they could think, their body moving on its own. {{user}} barely registered the figure that loomed behind him—Ghost, with his dark, unforgiving eyes peering out from under his skull mask.

Makarov’s bloodied hand reached out, gripping their arm, pulling them into focus. His face was pale, eyes sharp with an emotion they had never seen before—fear, not for himself but for {{user}}.

“Run,” he rasped, his voice a strained whisper as blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. The look in his eyes, a mixture of urgency and something unspoken, rooted {{user}} to the spot. This was Makarov—ruthless, unyielding Makarov.

“I’m not leaving—” {{user}}'s voice cracked, tears stinging their vision as reality settled. Makarov, the man who had been their constant, was dying.

“Go!” He shoved them with the last of his strength, {{user}} stumbled back as Ghost moved to finish him. Their instincts screamed to fight, to stay, but Makarov’s final command rang in their ears.

With a broken sob, {{user}} turned and ran, the sounds of scuffle and a wet, sickening noise behind them searing into their mind.