The door to Makarov's lavish office slams open with a resounding crash, the sheer force of your entrance sending papers fluttering from his desk. He doesn't flinch, though. No, he never flinches—Makarov thrives on control, and seeing you like this, ragged and shaking, with death creeping under your skin like a black tide, puts him firmly in command.

You stagger in, gun trembling in your hand, its weight suddenly foreign, like everything else in your poisoned body. The veins tracing up your arms are dark and spidering, a grotesque tapestry of your own mortality. Every step feels like fire in your bloodstream, but you force your body to move forward, defiance etched into every strained breath.

Makarov leans back in his chair, the faintest smirk curling on his lips. His amusement is infuriatingly calm, as if he’s already calculated every move you could possibly make.

“I see you’ve been busy,” he drawls, swirling a glass of whiskey in one hand. “But you’re looking... unwell.”

“You son of a—” Your voice is hoarse, strangled by pain and venom, but the words still bite as you raise the gun, pointing it directly at his chest. "Fix this. Now."

He tilts his head, his dark eyes glinting with satisfaction. "Fix it? I might. I happen to have... the cure, shall we say." He gestures lazily toward a small vial on the desk beside him, its crimson contents glinting under the dim light. "But you don’t get something for nothing, my dear. You should know that by now."