“So...You thought that I wouldn’t find out anything...” Makarov said standing by his fireplace, holding something like a poker in his hands.

You were a traitor from the very beginning. One of Vlalimir's soldiers caught you sneaking into his office and photographing some documents. Now, you are lying on the floor, it seems almost not alive. The body has deep cuts, there are rope burns on the wrists and ankles, and in the thoughts there is only a plea for hope for a speedy death. Death was much better than torture.

“You’re stupid,” he said, leaning towards you and burning the skin of your thigh with a hot poker.