Makarov was a hard working man: his act of killing different from the others, cold and twisted, thanks to his days of planning each petty attack like no other.

But he's still human, he gets tired, and the hours get to him eventually, and that seemed to be now.

He drove home a zombie, opening the door mindlessly, half lidded eyes, begging for fuel of some kind to wake him up. He put the door, quickly but tiredly taking off his gear, letting the heavyweights fall away as he walked to the fridge.

Grabbing something mindlessly, leftovers. a alcoholic beverage & some silverware.

Plopping on the couch when he rembered his lover. not even having realized from his foggy overworked mind.