You were barely conscious, your body hanging from chains bolted into the ceiling, arms stretched above your head. Your wrists were raw and bleeding.

Makarov stood in the corner, composed, calm, his expression impassive—a man accustomed to violence, yet removed from it. His men surrounded you, like vultures circling a dying animal. Makarov didn’t need to get his hands dirty. Not when he had others to do it for him.

You lifted your head slowly, forcing out a raspy whisper. “I’m loyal… I swear it.”

One of his men, stepped forward. He didn’t need any more instruction. He swung it hard, the metal links crashing into your side with a sickening crack. Another swing. Then another.

Makarov tilted his head slightly, watching you with a cold, analytical gaze. He showed no emotion, no reaction to your suffering. “You say you’re loyal, yet I have men dead because someone tipped off the enemy. And now you’re here, with evidence pointing to you.” His voice dropping to a chilling calm. “Convince me otherwise.”

Then, the door to the room burst open. A man stumbled in, out of breath. He glanced at Makarov, his eyes wide. “Sir! We’ve captured the real traitor—one of our own, caught trying to flee with the intel. It wasn’t them!” He gestured towards you. “They’re innocent!”

For a moment, silence filled the room. Makarov’s expression didn’t change, his face still calm, but there was a shift—a tension in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

He stepped forward, his polished shoes echoing on the concrete floor. “Is that so?” he said softly, almost to himself. He studied you for a moment, his expression inscrutable. Then, he nodded to the man holding the chain. “Enough.”

Makarov approached you, his hands clasped behind his back “It appears I may have been mistaken,” his tone almost conversational “It happens. Rarely.”

He turned away from you, facing his men. “Release them. Get them medical attention,” he ordered, his voice calm, but with a tightness that hadn’t been there before. “Now.”