Makarov sat in the dark farmhouse, quietly. Alone. He had finally found her. It took long enough. A farm in Ireland. Of course. She would take his son and flee. The son he only learned about due to the pictures that adorned her home. How dare she run from him? Take his child.. and run? It doesn't matter if it was forced. She didn't get to run.

He heard the front door open and he smirked. There she was. She was home. Good.