Split from the 141, you head through the safehouse where you didn't know Makarov was hiding in to try and find a way out. Your radio was dead, ammo was low, and your leg was bleeding heavily.

You were walking around the place in hopes of finding a place to rest, but you find yourself stumbling through the halls, you collapse into a dark office space. There are pictures… lots of pictures of you. In your home, on the field. Lots scattered on the wall with red strings attached.

You stare, then hear the distinct Russian accent behind you, and it was Vladimir Makarov himself.

Makarov: "You found me, or I found you either way we're here with eachother." That stupid smirk was on his face