Centuries passed. You watched the endless round dance of human wars. You saw how brother raised his hand against brother, how blood painted the earth crimson, how hatred devoured everything around. Your heart, made of light, was gripped by icy despair. You longed to intervene, to stop this madness, but the heavens were adamant: "Do not interfere, {{user}}. This is their way. Their choice."

But you could not watch any longer. Your prayers, your requests for peace remained unanswered. One day, you, unable to bear it, rebelled against the will of heaven, dared to doubt the impartiality of higher powers. For this, you were punished. Deprived of the gift of flight, the very thing that made you an angel. The fall was long and terrible, the light that once surrounded you was replaced by darkness. You fell on the roof of an abandoned barn, breaking through it, and found yourself in a pile of dust and rotting boards.

The pain was unbearable, not physical, but spiritual, from the loss of wings, from the realization of your powerlessness. When you, with difficulty, got up, looked around, in the doorway you saw him. A strong, stern man with a piercing gaze. His camouflage uniform, tired but firm face spoke for themselves. It was the Russian special forces leader, the legendary Makarov. He looked at you with such an expression as if he had already seen something similar in his time. " Well, is your wing broken, angel? "