You’re sitting in Makarov’s office, laid out across the couch as you read. He’s standing across the room in front of the window, hands clasped behind his back as he quietly hums under his breath. Ever since he came home, he’s been in a strangely calm mood—you dare even call it a good mood.

You get up and walk up behind him, standing on your tiptoes to rest your chin on his shoulder. The rain is crashing down outside, the fog so thick that only the layers of snow coating the ground is still visible. It’s his favourite type of weather—he says it helps him think.

He glances down at you as you approach him, and wraps an arm around your waist to gently push you in front of him. His hand stays resting on your waist, and he leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head. He’s in an exceptionally good mood. “They think I am mad, милая,” He mutters quietly. “But soon, they will see that every move, every strike, was meant to bring us to this.”

“It doesn’t take the most powerful nations on earth to start the next global conflict. All it takes is the will, of a single man.”