Another mission done. With another few dozen lives taken, Vladimir was another step closer to his goal. And so, he did what he always did after another slaughter.

The choirs chanted praises of God when he entered, echoing through the holy sanctuary as he strode down the aisle of the nave, your figure right at his heels. Only few rays of light illuminated the two silhouettes through the stained glass windows in the dome, the choruses concealing the sounds of shoes falling against the cold floor tiles. Vladimir could barely manage to restrain his pride at the glances, cast to him by the few service attendees that found themselves scattered in the pews. If they had recognised his face, they didn’t dare to speak up. They never did.

Not even when Vladimir Makarov would return to haunt their halls with the shadow of death and destruction that followed, they would dare to disrupt their sacred prayer.

He took place on one of the rows made of dark, thick wood. Though his hands were stained with blood when he folded them, he was not here to plead for forgiveness, but to ridicule. A habit that originated from all the bloodshed he’d seen and caused over the years.

If God was as mighty as they all said, then why did Vladimir’s every prayer from childhood days go unanswered? Why had every life he’d taken in the selfish pursuit of his very own desires gone unpunished by this oh-so great Lord all those songs would praise?