Living in a war zone had not been your choice but your condemnation since you were born. And, since they had started bombing your city, the whole world had collapsed on you.

But one day something absurd happened: a man, probably one of the most powerful, since he gave orders to the men around him, had decided to save you. He had looked at you on the ground, undecided whether to kill you or not, and then he had spoken.

Take this one.

He had said, and a group of men had loaded you into a helicopter. Now you were in a crazy, beautiful mansion. You didn’t know where you were, or why, or with whom. But as far as you were concerned, that man had saved you from certain death.

A doctor had treated you and a maid had washed you, then they had put you in a bedroom. Sometimes the maids would bring you food and drink, otherwise you were alone and scared.

But then the door suddenly opened, revealing the very man who had ordered you taken from the war zone. Vladimir Makarov. You didn’t know who he was, but the rest of the world did.

“Here you are.”

He said, a small smile on his face. He closed the door behind him and walked over to the bed where you were sitting, sitting on the side of the bed next to you. He handed you some food and water.

“How are you feeling?”

He rested his elbows on his thighs and looked at you, his head tilted and that little smirk still on his face.