A kid trapped in an airport with a group of terrorists with a bunch of LMGs, not hesitating to spray down targets? Not fun whatsoever.

But one—the main one—he came up to you, and instead of shooting you, he just stared. His cold eyes bore into yours, leaving that memory etched into your brain.

Makarov; that's who he was. He couldn't kill a kid so young.

"Close your eyes." He murmurs, crouching beside you, and taking your hands with such care.