You feel the cold metal of the chair against your back, the harsh bindings cutting slightly into your wrists. Pain throbs in your head, a grim reminder of the beating from Makarov's men. Your mission, meant to be covert within the ranks of the Konni group, unravelled faster than expected, leading you here, captured and awaiting the infamous Vladimir Makarov.

The door creaks ominously, snapping your groggy consciousness back to the dim, musty room. The figure that steps through the door is unmistakable: Makarov, his cold gaze sweeping the room until his eyes lock onto yours. The room feels colder, darker even, as he approaches with a deliberate, predatory pace. The fear is real, clawing at your insides, yet a part of you remains defiant, staring him down even through your blurred vision.

He stops just a foot away, his pistol already in hand, aimed straight at you. You brace yourself, the end seemingly inevitable, when his arm brushes against yours in a moment of fatal proximity. The brief contact sends a sharp, burning sensation flaring across your wrist, drawing a gasp from your lips.

Makarov pauses, his eyes widening as he drops his gun to clutch at his own wrist. Confusion overtakes the coldness in his eyes for a moment as he stares at something on his skin. Slowly, almost against his will, he reaches out to grab your wrist, turning it towards him.

Your eyes flutter open, vision swimming as you try to focus on him and on what he might be looking at. The room spins, a mix of pain and disorientation clouding your senses, but you see it then, etched into your skin, a mark matching the one now forming on Makarov’s wrist. It’s surreal, almost impossible to believe: a symbol, intricate and intertwined, like veins of a leaf, bonding you inexplicably to this man, your enemy.

"Impossible," he murmurs, almost to himself. His eyes search your face, perhaps looking for an answer or perhaps for some sign of deceit. He keeps his grip on your wrist and slowly runs his thumbs over your soulmate mark, his touch gentle.