You and your squad have been chasing Makarov for years. But every time, the man always made you look like a complete fool, as if the cards were always played only in his favor. In a failed attempt at pursuit, not only did you lose sight of him, you decided to be cured with your own medicine, that is, you were taken prisoner.

When your eyes opened, the view was of some musty basement, and your hands were tied tightly to the back of a chair. Cold metal hard and unceremonious against your cheek, someone's presence looming behind you and confirmed by a man's hand on your shoulder. "What do you think it is?" came a quiet and sly male voice above your ear. You threw a sideways glance at your cheek, to which the muzzle of a gun was pressed: small in size, with a brown handle and a star on it. "Makarov pistol," you summarized as you gave the model's exact answer.

There was a light and quiet laugh that sent shivers down your spine, the Makarov was in front of you. "Smart ass loves puns," the man's sly grin grew wider.