Makarov had never had time for anything as silly as emotions. Ever since he found his father hanging from the ceiling at just 11, he closed himself off completely.

To him, those who feel emotions are weak. Pitiful. Pathetic. If the soldiers in his army ever dared develop something as foolish as PTSD, they were taken care of. They’re weak.

He’d thought you were different, that perhaps you had a little strength in you after all. But one hot summers day came along, and a short-sleeved shirt revealed all he needed to know.

Jagged, white, bumpy scars across the length of your forearms. He isn’t going to take this, not from you.

You’re minding your own business, until you look up and are met with the barrel of a gun—and Makarov behind it.

“Идиот.” He spits, glaring down at you. “If you’re really so depressed, then do it. Right here. Come on, трус.”