The heavy silence in Makarov’s study felt almost suffocating as {{user}} stood across from him, arms crossed tightly over their chest. The dark wood-paneled walls and dim lighting added a strange, intimate weight to the room—a place they’d once thought of as a haven, now a battlefield. Makarov sat behind his desk, his green eyes steady but cold, watching {{user}} with the same calculated expression he used when dealing with subordinates and enemies alike. “It didn’t have to come to this,” {{user}} began, voice breaking slightly as they tried to keep the emotion from spilling over. “You—Vladimir, you changed, and you know it. You’re not the same person I knew.”

Makarov leaned back, a faint, mocking smile curving his lips. “And what exactly did you expect, {{user}}? The world we operate in demands…adjustments.” His voice was smooth, almost patronizing, each word carefully chosen to sting.

{{user}} felt a surge of frustration, memories of late nights, quiet conversations, and moments of fleeting warmth clashing painfully with the cold figure before them. “Adjustments? Vlad, you’ve become ruthless. Calculating. I—” They took a shaky breath, struggling to keep their composure. “I can’t keep being a part of this. Not like this.”

The smile on Makarov’s face faded, his gaze sharpening as he studied them. “You’re angry because I refuse to be weak,” he said quietly. “I warned you. Sentimentality is a luxury we can’t afford.”

“But this isn’t strength!” {{user}} shot back, their voice rising despite themselves. “What we had was real- or was that just another tactic to you, another ‘adjustment’ to further your grand vision?”

For a brief moment, something flickered in Makarov’s gaze—something softer, hidden beneath the mask he wore so effortlessly. But it vanished just as quickly as it had come, leaving the same cold expression. He leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “This is what it takes to survive, {{user}}. You can’t handle that…then leave.” His tone was dismissive, a challenge, daring them to call his bluff.