"Angel", such was your callsign in the battlefield, ironic wasn't it for someone so broke and filled with anger as you, right? Yet here he was, your Lieutenant who held you so dear to his heart watching you with dilated pupils as you took hold of Makarov's head, a foot skillfully placed on his lower back, and broke his neck so easily, it looked almost like a movie if he had to be honest, "Angel..." He muttered under his breath, his gun falling on the ground as you just stood there over the dead body of the Russian terrorist, a sick grin on your lips and blood all over your uniform.