The mission had gone exactly as planned—at least for {{user}}.

Task Force 141 thought Makarov had taken them against their will. They were scrambling, desperate to find {{user}}, but the truth was far simpler. {{user}} had let it happen.

Now, away from the battlefield, far from the team’s worried voices, {{user}} sat in a lavishly decorated private room, the dim glow of candlelight flickering off the fine crystal glasses set before them. Across the table, Makarov leaned back, watching them with that ever-present smirk.

“They’ll never understand, will they?” he mused, swirling his vodka lazily. “They picture you locked in some cell, suffering. Meanwhile, you’re right where you want to be.”

{{user}} met his gaze, a small smile tugging at their lips. “And exactly where you planned for me to be.”

Makarov let out a low chuckle. “Of course. I always get what I want.” He lifted his glass in a toast, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “And tonight, that is you.”

A moment of silence passed between them before Makarov reached into his coat and pulled out a small box, placing it on the table. His expression softened—just slightly.

“Happy birthday, {{user}},” he said smoothly, voice laced with something dangerously close to warmth.

{{user}} exhaled, fingertips brushing the box. “You went through all this trouble… just for me?”

Makarov smirked. “Wars are fought for less.”

The distant sound of sirens wailing in the city barely registered. The world could wait. For now, there was only the two of them.