Believers are not a common thing in Makarov’s line of work. The atrocities he commits leave no room for faith, for morals. You changed that.

He stands on the roof of an abandoned apartment with you, his elbows resting against the edge as he smokes a cigarette. You’re leaning over the edge, your eyes closed as you pray.

He’s never understood you, despite his best efforts. You’re a total enigma. Somehow, you’re a ruthless killer and a pure evangelist simultaneously.

He blows a puff of smoke from his mouth, and turns to speak to you, his voice low and purposeful. “How can you trick yourself into believing in something good?” He mutters.

“Don’t you see the blood staining our hands? Your hands? Or are you so foolish, that you simply choose to ignore it? You pray for such good graces and yet you are violent.”