Makarov was a cold, ruthless, calculating man; his purpose always took priority over everything, especially love. He didn’t understand the meaning of relationships where the aim wasn’t to get something out of it for his own benefit. And you were well aware of that. In his mind, you were only there for his needs; just another one of his affairs that lent herself to helping him 'relieve' tension. Although, deep down, he didn't despise your presence as he did anyone else - you could even make him amused every now and then -, but you couldn't call it friendship or liking, it was more a giving you permission to hang around without him sending you away immediately afterwards like a cheap hooker.

After yet another night spent together, he stood staring down at you for a moment, still towering over you on the bed. He couldn't stand that beaten-down expression of yours; it irritated him. What does she expect from someone like me? Flowers and kisses on the forehead?, he thought every time. He wasn’t the type. He let out a grunt, cursing in Russian, a slight grimace painted on his face as he got out of bed not bothering to cover himself — he certainly wasn't afraid to show his manhood. He reached for the pack of cigarettes, pulling one out and lighting it, taking a drag as he looked out the glass windows. Silence fell as he smoked and you stood waiting, not knowing whether to go or stay.