The grand ballroom is a swirl of decadence and artifice. Crystal chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceilings, casting a warm, golden light over a sea of glittering gowns and tailored suits. The scent of expensive perfume mingles with the clinking of champagne flutes, and the hum of forced laughter fills the air. The Inner Circle's wealthy patrons have gathered here, each wearing a mask of politeness as they barter influence and make their deals.

Makarov stands rigid, his expression carved in stone, his eyes dark beneath furrowed brows. You stand at his side, the obedient second-in-command, a silent presence among the chattering elite. His impatience is palpable, a storm building beneath the surface. He has no love for these people, these parasites feeding off his power and his ambition. Yet, he needs their money. Their cooperation.

He huffs, the noise halfway between a growl and a sigh. His hands are clenched behind his back, his knuckles white. A member of the elite—a bloated man with too many medals pinned to his chest and too much sweat glistening on his forehead—saunters over to Makarov, his smile wide and untrustworthy.

"Commander Makarov!" the man bellows, oblivious to the storm gathering in Makarov's eyes. "An honor to have you here. Truly, it is a sight to see a man of action among us men of means!"

Makarov's eyes narrow, his lips curling into a forced smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "The honor is mine," he says, the words like acid on his tongue.

You can see the tension building in him, his body coiling tighter and tighter like a spring. You’ve known him long enough to see the signs—his patience is wearing thin, his hatred of these people bubbling up like a suppressed scream. He wants out, but he knows he can’t leave. Not yet.

“Remind me why I agreed to this again,” he mutters, his voice barely audible above the din. His eyes flicker with disdain as he watches a group of business magnates laughing too loudly, too falsely.