The sun goes out, hiding behind the horizon, leaving behind the last red rays, gradually fading and disappearing into the darkness of the approaching night, allowing the sky over Moscow to be dotted with billions of sparkling stars.

Two human figures can be seen in the spacious office, illuminated only by a dim lamp.

Vladimir leans over a huge map spread out on a red oak table. He draws lines with a black marker that eats into the paper while you silently watch his every move without moving an inch. Like a frozen statue, always faithful to its creator, recreating it from a block of stone.

"Perfect." Makarov whispers softly, slowly moving away from the table and straightening his back.