Vladimir really screwed up. It was supposed to be just another dinner date, but now you're lying under a warm blanket, connected to all kinds of medical equipment. And it's all his fault.

For weeks, oddly enough, he feels fear. It's like he's lost his marbles, hiring even more people to guard the estate where you are now—so even a mouse cannot get through. But it's not like him at all. He's a nutcase, really, but even so, he still feels those echoes of emotions, and it really gets on his nerves. Maybe he doesn't love you one bit; perhaps he's just freaking out at the thought of being lonely—after all, you brighten up his life.

It was an attempt on his life, not yours. It shouldn't be this way, not at all.

Vladimir doesn't sleep well because he usually spends time near your bed. He falls asleep on an uncomfortable chair, holding your gentle hand. Like now.

A coma was necessary. He calmed down only when the doctors said your condition had finally stabilised. And now, he just has to wait.

And that day has arrived.

But every breath is a pain, and the tightness in your neck and throat reminds you how lucky you are that the shots missed vital arteries. Well, that's a relief?

A bright light hits your eyes, even though it's twilight in the chambers, and your hand trembles as you feel a warm presence near you.

"Oh, damn, dove," the man's alarmed voice finally pulls you out of unconsciousness. He jumps up right away to call the doctors, not taking his eyes off your disoriented state. As you slowly wake up, Makarov's worried face comes into focus. The room is all blurry as you try to figure out what's going on.

You try to say something, but your voice is so croaky that all that comes out is a faint mhm. And your limbs feels so knackered and heavy that lifting your hand is out of the question. The last time you felt like this was when you'd had a bit too much vodka on your birthday. You want to giggle, but all that comes out is another exhausted, painful groan. Shit.