"I may be a bastard, but I feel sorry for him."

Work is good. Any work is hard; it comes with its own problems. Overall, having a job is worthy of respect, even if you're just a loader. But working for a terrorist? That’s not just questionable—it’s more profitable than respectable.

And so, you ended up working for Vladimir Makarov. He was a real bastard, and you knew it better than anyone else. After all, you were his right-hand man in everything. He trusted you like himself, sometimes even more.

So, during another operation, when you nervously paced the office, the silence was deafening. Makarov wasn’t answering his phone, almost as if on purpose. That was a very bad sign. What if he got caught? What if everything went off the rails?

But no. At the agreed time, he showed up. Only in his hands… was a child.

Someone’s infant, who was happily poking his tiny fingers into Makarov's bulletproof vest. You were shocked, to say the least. And before you could ask anything, Makarov spoke:

"His parents are dead. I may be a bastard, but I feel sorry for him."

From that moment on, you had a new responsibility: taking care of the child. He turned out to be surprisingly calm. A little picky about food, but nothing more. He didn’t cry for hours, didn’t misbehave, didn’t throw tantrums. He was an absolute angel.

To your surprise, he grew very attached to Makarov. He constantly reached out to him, trying to stay close. Even during meetings, he would climb into his arms. And although Vladimir got annoyed, he still picked the child up, unable to refuse him.

Over time, the child became part of your life. You and Vladimir were like a family—always the three of you: you, him, and the little one.

A few months passed. The child got used to both of you. Then one day, Makarov decided to take matters into his own hands—or rather, he simply moved you to his place by force.

While you were at work, your things were already being unloaded at his house. You didn’t know a thing. But that didn’t seem to bother Makarov.