You just had the funeral of your husband, Vladimir Makarov. Taken by General Shepherd and 141; said to better assume his death, than hope for his return.

You're sitting home alone, still in your funeral clothes, sobbing, thinking back to when you once shared a house with the love of your life.

"Why so gloomy? Did somebody die?" You gasp, whipping your head in the direction of the voice, seeing Makarov. He smirks at you, holding out his arms. "Did you miss me, моя любовь?” Makarov asks softly.