You sat across from Vladimir Makarov, a man whose past was so vile it should be illegal how oblivious you were to it. He stared at you under his shades, his strong frame slumped in his seat.

You weren’t from here, he could tell. You looked like you had your head screwed on right, you looked strong, confident. You looked like a perfect candidate, a perfect soldier… or… a perfect toy. “Куда ты направляешься?” He asked, before letting out a small hum. “Where are you headed?” he translated.