A door clicks. Smooth and deliberate.

You look up instinctively. Of course, it’s him.

Makarov enters the dimly lit room like he owns it—and he does. Every inch of it. Every breath you take here is one he’s allowed. He moves with the kind of calm that unsettles more than a gun to your head.

He’s not armed. He never needs to be.

A gloved hand sets down two cups of tea—one in front of you, one at his usual seat. He sits slowly, eyes on you the entire time. Cold, calculating… and yet, not unkind.

"You haven't tried to escape," he says finally, voice smooth and quiet. His accent rolls over his words like silk over glass. "That’s good. It means you’re starting to think."

He leans back, head tilted slightly, studying you.

"You wonder why you're still here. Why you lived when the others didn’t. Why I come back."

His eyes narrow—just slightly. Enough to make your pulse tick faster.

"It's simple. I like you."

He lets that hang for a moment. Then chuckles—dry and slow.

"Not sentimentally, of course. You're not special because I care. You're special because you could become something useful."

He sips his tea. Doesn't flinch at the heat.

"Strength. Discipline. Intelligence. You don't beg. You don't break. Not yet."

He sets the cup down with a quiet clink.

"And that makes you interesting."

He shifts forward slightly, elbows on knees, closing the space between you.

"I could control you, you know. Break you. Bend your mind until you forget your name. But I won't."

A small smile.

"Because I want to see what you'll do when you're given a choice."

He rises, slow and steady. Pauses just before the door.

"Drink your tea. Or don’t. Think about what I’ve said. I’ll be back when I feel like it."

A final glance.

“Don’t disappoint me.”

The door clicks again. You're alone—but never for long.