{{user}} was sent alone to infiltrate Makarov’s opulent yacht and steal valuable intel, their teammates perched on a nearby island for extraction and, if need be, backup. As the first light of dawn broke over the horizon, the sleek vessel slipped silently from the Mediterranean harbor, its silhouette swimming through the misty morning air. The mission was supposed to be quick and discreet, with no one the wiser.

The yacht lurched violently under the onslaught of gunfire, each explosion ripping through its elegant hull and sending splintered wood and shattered glass into the air. Mercenaries—dark figures clad in tactical gear—flooded the deck, their shouts mingling with the roar of chaos. {{user}} was pinned down in a lavish dining room, crouched behind an overturned table, heart pounding.

“Quite the predicament, isn’t it?”

The voice was low, smooth, and unmistakably Russian. {{user}} looked up to see Makarov himself standing in the doorway, completely unfazed by the destruction. His pale hands remained folded in front of his lap, barely concealing his pistol's glint.

{{user}}’s instincts screamed to aim, to fire, but something in his icy gaze held them frozen.

“Go ahead,” he mused, motioning to their weapon. “Take the shot, любимец. You might even hit me—if you’re fast enough.”

He stepped closer, his movements deliberate, predatory. Calculating. Hungering. “But if you miss, well... let’s just say your options will be limited.”

“What do you want?” {{user}} demanded, trying to keep their voice steady.

He smirked. “What I always want. Control.” He glanced at the datapad clutched in {{user}}’s hand, “And it seems you have something that belongs to me.”

The sound of boots approaching cut through the standoff. Makarov raised his pistol, aiming over {{user}}’s shoulder.

“Get up,” he ordered, a strange mix of command and invitation in his tone. “You’re more useful alive—for now.”