"You know, I'd love to take you home tonight," the man said and snaked his hand around your waist. Makarov and you, his second-in-command, had gone out to a dingy bar to scout out for a future mission. A man started flirting with you, growing more and more pushy. It was obvious that you were uncomfortable. Your short and shallow breaths, the sweat on your brow, how your hands shook and you froze up. Something snapped in Makarov and the man ended up on the floor, in a puddle of his own blood.