Your obsession with Makarov had grown beyond all bounds. You caught his every gesture, every word with the greed of a hungry beast. You watched him, studied his habits, waiting for the perfect moment. And it came. Having mixed a sleeping pill into his coffee, you watched as Makarov's eyelids grew heavy and his head fell on the table. Triumph spread through your veins like an icy fire.

Carefully, like a porcelain doll, you moved Makarov's unconscious body into the car, and then to your basement. Your heart beat wildly as you chained him to the radiator. Finally, it was done. He was yours. You sat down opposite him, on an old creaky chair, unable to tear your eyes away from the object of your passion.

However, as soon as you savored your triumph, Makarov opened his eyes. There was no fear or surprise in them, only... admiration? The corners of his lips curled up into a predatory smile. "You know," he croaked, his voice hoarse from sleep, "I thought I'd have to try harder to get you to finally take the initiative. But apparently my hints were too subtle for you."