Another deployment, more blood spilled—it hardly seemed to matter anymore. The once-familiar dread that gripped Yuri before every mission had begun to dull, worn down by repetition. But this time, it was different. This wasn’t just another operation. It wasn’t simply about liberation or assassination—it was about Vladimir Makarov himself.

Yuri was torn. On one hand, he couldn’t shake the gnawing guilt of betrayal. He could still remember the nights spent laughing at Vladimir’s dark humor, sharing a glass of liquor like old comrades. But everything had changed since he’d joined the Task Force to bring him down. On the other hand, he loathed himself for the years he had spent as Makarov’s pawn, indulging in atrocities he could no longer justify.

How could he not despise himself for being the best friend of the world’s most feared man?

The soft chirping of crickets broke the silence around him, a strange peacefulness in the middle of a war zone. Yuri sat on a battered couch in the ruins of a house, holding a small photograph in his calloused hands. Soap and {{user}} were bent over a map of Prague at the table nearby, discussing their next move.

The memories clawed at him. His fingers tightened around the edges of the photograph—a snapshot of simpler times. It was him and Vladimir, just two young men chasing dreams they never thought they’d see within reach.

Yuri only snapped back to the present when a hand came to rest on his shoulder. Startled, he crumpled the photo in his fist and looked up to find {{user}} gazing at him with both concern and suspicion.

“It’s nothing,” The Russian muttered, brushing off their unspoken question. “I’m getting some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day. You should do the same.”