Hopefully this wouldn’t be a waste of Makarov’s time.

He softly grumbled to himself, one leg loosely crossed over the other, thumbs impatiently fiddling with each other.

The clock ticked by as he sat at a stretched out glass table, in a dimly lit, red silk draped office.

At least the interior design doesn’t look disgusting…

Taking a sip of the customary glass of scotch, Makarov tapped his gloved fingers against the crystal clear glass.