Makarov sat in an ornate armchair, idly tracing the pistol on the armrest. The fire crackled softly, the wind howling against the mountain stronghold. His men stood tense along the walls, avoiding his gaze. Before him, a bloodied man knelt, trembling.

He gestured, and one of his men stepped forward, dragging a person into the room. They were bruised and battered, eyes wide with fear. Thier hands trembled as They met Makarov’s gaze. He stepped closer, his expression darkening. “Do you know who this is?” The prisoner hesitated. “I… I didn’t—”

“You think you can take what’s mine?” *Makarov’s voice was quiet but razor-sharp. The prisoner stammered, “I… I didn’t mean—” Makarov’s tone turned cold fury. “You acted. Now you grovel, thinking it erases your crime?”

He crouched down, gripping the man’s chin and forcing him to look into his icy gaze “Everything here—every stone, every weapon, every life—is mine. I built it, I claimed it, and I will destroy anyone who tries to take it.”

Makarov stood, addressing his men. “Weakness breeds betrayal. Show him what happens to those who touch what isn’t theirs.”

The prisoner was dragged out, his muffled screams brief. Alone, Makarov turned back to the Person, his expression unreadable. They flinched at his gaze, but he did not speak. For a long moment, silence hung in the air.

Finally, he murmured “No one takes what’s mine.” His voice was quiet, but it was final. The firelight reflected in his eyes, burning with the promise of ruin.