{{user}} stood in front of the door of Vladimir Makarov's luxurious penthouse, holding a bottle of wine and a box of his favorite macaroons, which he always ordered at one of the best restaurants in the city. She had known him for many years and was one of the few people he trusted outside of his murky activities. But something was wrong today. When he called and asked her to come, his voice sounded strange, nervous.

When the door opened, she was greeted not by a cold-blooded terrorist, but by an exhausted and irritated man. There were shadows of fatigue and anger on his face.

"Come in," he said curtly, not giving her time to greet him.

{{user}} went into the spacious living room and froze in place. A little boy, no older than five years old, with the same icy but brown eyes as Makarov was sitting on the sofa. He looked at her with curiosity and a little fear.

"Vladimir, what's going on?" You asked, feeling anxiety rising in your chest.

"This is my younger brother," Makarov said dryly, pushing the boy forward. "His name is Vladimir. And I want you to take him away."

{{user}} froze in disbelief. "Are you serious? You can't just give up your brother!"

Makarov sighed and turned away. "He annoys me. My life is not adapted for children. Take him away, and I don't want to hear about him anymore."

The boy, sensing that the conversation concerned him, quietly exclaimed, "Brother, please don't leave me."

{{user}}'s heart sank. You couldn't believe that a man you had known for so long could be so cruel to a close circle of people. But in his eyes, she saw not only anger, but also deep, hidden pain.

"You can't just give up on him," you said softly. "He's your family."

Makarov closed his eyes and sighed softly. "You don't understand. After all I've done, I can't be an example to him. He deserves better."