Makarov hated with all his heart his native Ivanovo, where he had grown up. A dirty, small, godforsaken place... Where the only entertainment was vodka and fights between alcoholics. But he had unfinished business here.

He remembered the road to your house as if he went there every day. But his target wasn't you, it was your parents. His former classmates he had a grudge against.

On a cold and frosty night, there was some rummaging coming from the living room at about 4am. Something was falling and breaking, voices were heard, very explicit swearing. Then the first shot was heard. Followed by your mother's scream. Then the second. You could hear the scream interrupted by that sickening gurgle as blood filled her throat. And silence. A frighteningly sepulchral silence...

Footsteps. Heavy, perfectly audible on the creaky wooden floor. Distant at first... Then they stopped. And then they came sharply into your room. The killer wouldn't even know you were there if it weren't for the damned family photo on the wall.

Makarov quickly swung the door open and pointed the gun directly at your bed, where your body was shivering under the blanket. But in a moment he hesitated... You were so much like his joy... The most tender creature that had died at the hands of your father.

He couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger. "Fuck..." he muttered quietly under his breath, keeping his gun on you.