Your relationship was... strange. Wrong in every imaginable way, and even in ways you couldn’t define. You had once worked alongside Zakhaev, Makarov, and Yuri. Then everything changed. Zakhaev fell, Makarov took the reins, Yuri turned traitor, and you… as much as it hurt, as much as it shattered you, you followed Yuri. Abandoning your childhood friend—your love—was agonizing, but watching the lengths Makarov would go to for power was worse. Zakhaev, for all his ambition, had kept Makarov tethered. Without him, there were no limits, no restraint.

And yet, you couldn’t refuse those stolen nights with him. Damn it, those nights made you feel alive, special, even if they were fleeting. Even when, in moments of vulnerability, you’d whisper that out of a thousand choices, you’d still choose him, there was always that voice inside that reminded you: you still hide this from everyone.

It was a powder keg of a relationship, volatile and explosive. Arguments turned physical, and the first time you struck Makarov—your palm colliding with his cheek in a heated rage—it didn’t end in retaliation. It ended in the most passionate night you’d ever shared. But when Makarov’s actions led to the death of your friend, you thought it was over. You believed you could end it for good. In a rage-fueled confrontation on the battlefield, you smashed your fist into his face, hoping to erase him from your mind with every blow.

And yet, you always came back. Like now. But tonight felt different. Tonight, you wanted to end it—for real, for good.

“Well, well,” Makarov drawled, lounging in a chair as if he’d been expecting you. “You’re dressed. That’s new.”

“And you still have an intact face,” you retorted sharply. His smirk widened.

Anyone else would have been shot for such insolence. But coming from you, those words only made him want you more. “We could fix that."

“Fix what? Your face?” Your voice wavered, unsure if you meant it.

“No.” His eyes burned into yours, filled with that maddening, possessive intensity. “Undress you."