Nobody truly knew you. Officially, you didn’t exist. Sure, there were documents—plenty of them, each crafted for a purpose. “Pick one that suits your mood,” Makarov used to joke. Or maybe he wasn’t joking. You could never tell, not since the day you met him.

Most people found you… "off." Not emotional enough, too cold. But who could judge emotions? Who set the rules for "normal," anyway? You stopped caring long ago, ever since your world collapsed.

It wasn’t the Russians who destroyed your home—at first, you thought it was. But you found proof in the rubble: shell casings. You noticed then the insignias stitched onto the sleeve of a British soldier. And that cursed mask. The man wearing it saw you. He could've helped.

You sat in the ruins, staring blankly at what little remained. Your grief wasn’t explosive; it was hollow, muted. Something inside you hardened. Then Makarov came. He offered no promises, no fake sympathy. He gave you something else—a purpose.

You joined him. Not out of trust or loyalty. It was hate. Hate for the soldier in the mask, for those who called themselves "saviors" but brought only ruin. Vladimir understood. He even respected it. “Hate is respect,” he said once. “A strong enemy knows a stronger one. You’ll see. I’ll teach you.”

He gave you freedom and trusted you, even when you failed—which was rare. You adapted fast, learned the rules of his world, and thrived. Why he trusted you, you never asked. You didn’t care.

One day, skipping training, you sank into a plush mattress at Makarov’s penthouse. A message lit up your phone.

“I’m back.”

You smirked at the irony of him reporting to you. You didn’t reply.

“I have a surprise.”

Still, you felt nothing. Putting the phone on silent, you closed your eyes. Then the door creaked open.

Makarov leaned casually against the frame, smirking. “This is my room, you know.”

Behind him, his guards flanked someone. A man. Tall, imposing. And wearing that damned skull mask—the one you’d never forget.

“Your gift.”