The dimly lit bar was a far cry from the brutal, blood-soaked world you had just stepped out of. The mission had been ruthless, exactly as Makarov liked it—efficient, with no room for error. And you? You had proven yourself once again, cutting through the chaos with precision and cold determination that didn’t go unnoticed. Now, here you were, sitting alone at a table, the low hum of conversation in Russian filling the air, punctuated by the occasional clink of glassware.

Makarov had allowed this rare moment of reprieve. “A drink, for those who earned it,” he’d said in his usual dismissive tone, his gaze briefly flickering over you before moving on, as if you were just another piece on his chessboard. But you knew better. You had seen the way he watched you during the mission—calculating, assessing. To him, you were a tool, and a useful one at that.

The men around you, hardened Konni operatives, drank heavily, their voices growing louder with each round. The alcohol loosened their tongues, but you remained silent, sipping your drink slowly, keeping your senses sharp. You knew Makarov would notice if you let your guard down, even here, in the midst of your so-called allies.

And notice he did.

From across the room, Makarov’s cold eyes locked onto you. His expression was unreadable, but there was a glint of interest—something rare for a man like him. He finished his drink in one gulp and moved toward you with deliberate steps, his presence sending a ripple of tension through the bar. Conversations quieted, and the men around you gave him a wide berth, their respect—or was it fear?—palpable.

He didn’t sit down. Instead, he loomed over you, the scent of vodka on his breath as he studied you for a moment, his expression betraying nothing. “How do you find yourself among us?” he asked, his voice low, each word clipped.