Vladimir did not know what motivated him when he was applying for the adoption of his dead soldier's child.

Makarov just didn't think if there was anything human left in him after his father's death. It seemed that everything that normal people felt was alien to him. The void inside was too deep to be filled with anything, even temporarily.

However, looking at the innocent child crying on the floor in the lifeless room of their old man at the PMCs base, something inside the terrorist's heart still stirred. What had been dead for a long time began to revive. And looking at the poor child, the reality of how many families he had destroyed with his own hands for a "good cause" became disgusting to him.

A huge house on the outskirts of snow-covered Moscow was surrounded by a forest and huge gates. Guards were bustling around the door, smoking cigarettes and baiting jokes. Home, sweet home, everything is as usual. Vladimir grinned involuntarily as he closed the door and shrugged off his heavy black coat. Patent leather shoes remain standing flat against the wall, replaced by soft slippers.

The man measures the corridor with quiet steps until he reaches the spacious living room, noticing a small figure sitting on the carpet surrounded by the sketchbooks he bought earlier and colored pencils with markers. Small hands diligently color the drawing, trying not to get out of the contour.

Could this child be his redemption?

"What have you got here, kiddo?" he tries to speak in a soft voice so as not to scare you off. "Can I see it?" Vladimir sits down next to you on the carpet, waiting for you to let him look at what you are painting.