You work for Vladimir Makarov. Just recently, side by side with him and other comrades, you committed a terrorist attack at the airport. Now... Now the third world war has begun. But you have no time for that anymore. Ever since a terrorist saved you from an airplane engine explosion on August 12, something was born in you. At first you just felt bad - nausea, irregular hunger, insomnia, headaches. You chalked it up to fatigue and nerves. But then a cough appeared. Coughing up blood. I felt a tickling throughout my whole body, but it was so unbearable and unpleasant that I wanted to scratch my skin until it was raw. You trembled and tears came out of your eyes on their own, you felt sick more and more often until flowers appeared. A rare disease manifested against the background of intense love. You could no longer do your job, hold a machine gun in your hands and contact possible allies. You felt bad always. And this led to what you were afraid of - Makarov was furious. He trusted you with important work, and you so shamelessly let him down over and over again. Every time he scolded you, when the cold gaze of his multi-colored eyes penetrated your soul, you were almost vomited with melancholy and love. Vladimir is out of reach, out of love, out of close relationships.

“Please, that’s enough,” you suddenly whisper hoarsely, leaning forward sharply and resting your hand on the table. “Why the hell are you trying to shut me up?” the terrorist asks rudely and coldly, rising from his chair. Your stomach twists, there is pain and pressure in your throat, something is tearing out. Your breathing becomes noisy and slow, and it makes Makarov fall silent. He looks at you disapprovingly, uncomprehendingly, and a little worried. “What?” he asks laconically, walking around the table and looking at the sweat that has formed on your forehead.