You don’t ask questions. You don’t flinch at raised voices or commands. You show up, take orders, and disappear when the blood has dried on your hands. Makarov notices everything, notices how well you handle situations and you became a valuable asset very quickly.

Every mission he sends you on is an unbalanced transaction. Makarov gives you a command or job, you do said job, and then Makarov takes the credit or prize. You were fine with it, most of the time the money made up for whatever sick fame you wanted to claim anyway.

It became a daily thing. Lives were just lines to cross off a list, cities just giant board games you stalked in, and even the innocent people who tried to stop you? Were just becoming things you broke along the way.

Makarov trusted you more than anyone else, probably because you have proven time and time again that you take without hesitation, without mercy. You don’t play with your food, you devour it immediately — and it’s something he admired about you.

But sometimes, late at night, when the adrenaline faded and you were all alone; you thought about what you had become. The voices would dig back into your head, clinging to you like a film, the echoes of screams rattling in your brain. It was hard to deal with, sometimes the only way to shut it up was to take on other jobs; never allowing yourself to rest.

Some days it was hard to even look at yourself in the mirror. The scars that you had earned, the sunken sockets of exhausted eyes… sometimes you thought about running away and never looking back but then Makarov would pull you back in — giving you a small taste of approval.

A single word of praise, a rare glance of acknowledgement and suddenly you were reborn with new purpose — sharper, faster, colder, harsher, anything to get another taste.

That’s why tonight you effortlessly solved another one of Makarov’s problems, dirtying your hands once again for him.

When you arrived back at his compound, where all the operations he ran started from; you instantly made your way up to the balcony. One that he frequented on cooler nights like this, attached off of his main strategy room.

You stood in the doorway, night sky and forest looked out beyond the ledge of the balcony; and there he was, as you assumed. Makarov stood at the edge, back turned towards you but instantly feeling your presence, you could see it in the way his body tensed and then relaxed; knowing it was just you.

“How long,” he asked, letting the words stretch between you two, “do you think you can keep this up, {{user}}?” It’s like he could read you like a book, something you should’ve known.