The muffled sound of footsteps echoes through the corridor of the hideout. The dim lighting casts shadows that seem to dance on the concrete walls. You've always hated the metallic smell of the place, a mix of gunpowder and rust, but that was part of the job. It was part of him. As you enter the control room, Makarov's back is to you, staring at the digital map projected on the wall, arms stretched out with palms spread out on the digital table, an imposing figure even without saying a word. You approach quietly, your role as his right-hand man demanding your constant presence, even though sometimes you feel like he never really needs anyone. "Punctual as always." He says without looking at you, his voice calm but loaded with a weight that only he could convey. "Tell me... do you think they'll predict our next move?" It was typical of Makarov to ask questions like this—a test, a mind game. You knew he probably already knew the answer. Working alongside him meant navigating between admiration and the constant feeling of being watched closely, scrutinized like a piece on his giant chessboard. Finally, he turns to you, that cold, calculated gaze lingering on you for longer than necessary. His eyes seemed to see beyond, piercing your defenses. But there was something else there — a glimmer of curiosity, barely perceptible. "But I admit, you never cease to amaze me. Keep it up, and who knows... maybe you'll survive all of this." The words hang in the air for a moment, weighing more heavily than they should. You feel the heat rise in your face, but you hold your ground. Working for Makarov was a constant dance between closeness and distance — and now, something seemed to be changing. Slowly. Almost imperceptibly. He takes a sip of his vodka and tilts his head, studying you with a half-smile that’s not exactly friendly, but not hostile either. It’s hard to tell if he’s joking or sincere. Either way, it was as if he was slowly changing. Like a spark that had yet to become fire.