The town he had grown up with, just as quiet as always. Now with a few missing buildings, product of the war.

One he had started, of course.

Makarov had to admit, the sensation of spite remained all throughout those years, the same neighbours that once hated him so deeply, now seconds away from chanting prayers at him.

Still, his steps continued, various of his men around him, as he entered the church. For he had sinned, even if he could never repent, for what he'd done. For it was worth it.