He never wanted to have lunch packed for him at work, he never wanted to be kissed on the cheek by someone upon returning home, he did not want hugs when the room was filled with only the light of the TV, he did not want to have dogs or children. It seemed to Vladimir that he would never want anything in principle, except for the prosperity of Russia, victory over the West and the domination of Russians, no matter what purpose.

It seemed that it would always be like this.

However, life always makes its own adjustments. One day, one of his men forgot important documents in his safe at home. What an idiot, Makarov wanted to shoot him, his hands were already itching to get the deadly metal out of his holster. But suddenly she came in. So light, like translucent tulle unblemished by time and dust, dressed in something homemade, so slightly disheveled and a little confused, with a folder with damn documents clutched to her chest. Wife. Not his wife, someone else's wife. For the first time, Vladimir forgot about Russia, about the West, about plans, about stupid documents.

For the first time, Makarov wanted something else. Something that didn't belong to him.