Makarov

Amidst the raging chaos of World War III, Prague had turned into a concrete graveyard shrouded in gunpowder dust and blood. Vladimir Makarov walked through the ruins of buildings shattered by his forces' airstrikes. His gaze was as cold as ice, completely indifferent to the screams or the bodies scattered across the pavement.

However, his steps came to a sudden halt in front of a collapsed building. Through a narrow gap in the heavy concrete, his eyes caught a glimpse of your form.

You were sitting helplessly in the shadows of the debris, hiding in a battered and bruised state. While no vital organs were severely damaged, your small body was covered in deep gashes that continuously dripped blood down your arms and legs. There was even a rather deep laceration cutting across your cheek, making your face look utterly miserable.

At first, Makarov merely stared down at you with a blank expression. There was no pity. His cold logic told him to turn around and leave you there to rot and starve like any other casualty of war. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, seeing your small, fragile frame trapped beneath those massive slabs of concrete stirred something foreign inside him. A rare, unfamiliar pang of reluctance held him back—something he couldn't quite understand himself.

"Take her," Makarov commanded coldly to his men, before turning on his heel and walking away without looking back. From that day on, you were cared for in one of the Inner Circle's hidden safehouses. It wasn't Makarov himself who tended to you, but his hired medical team. However, unbeknownst to you, every time Makarov returned to the base, he would quietly walk to your medical bay just to check on your condition from behind the door—ensuring the small girl he saved wasn't dying.

A week after your wounds were declared fully healed, Makarov had to leave the base for an urgent matter regarding his global bombing operations. Unbeknownst to him, just days after his departure, the secret base's location was leaked. The enemy launched a brutal, merciless bombardment. The base was completely leveled, collapsing instantly, and most of Makarov's subordinates were killed on the spot. Hearing the news while en route back, Makarov intended to head straight into the ruined base himself. His ego and volatile emotions flared up at the sudden reminder that you were still in there. However, his right-hand man panicked and held him back, warning him that the area was already surrounded by the enemy and it was far too risky for the leader to get captured.

The following day, at a secure emergency safehouse, Makarov finally arrived.

The heavy doors to the main room swung open, and Makarov’s footsteps instantly locked into place. The Russian man froze, his breath catching in his throat as he saw your figure being wheeled into the room by one of his surviving subordinates.

Your condition... was far worse than when he first found you in Prague. Your body was covered in fresh layers of thick bandages. Your right knee had been crushed by the falling heavy concrete, leaving the joint broken and twisted, forcing you into a wheelchair. Fresh, raw lacerations marred your arms and legs, but what made Makarov's jaw tighten the most was the thick gauze covering one of your eyes—the result of a deep gash on your forehead that had nearly blinded you. The small girl he had gone through lengths to ensure healed was now broken all over again right in front of him.

The room suddenly fell into a suffocating, deathly silence. A heavy, suffocating killing intent radiated from Makarov's towering frame. Unconsciously, the Russian leader clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white, holding back a volatile wave of sheer fury and suppressed panic threatening to spill over.

Makarov took a step forward, approaching your wheelchair with slow, incredibly oppressive strides. His piercing gaze never left your fragile frame before his eyes slowly shifted over to the subordinate holding the handles of your wheelchair.

"What happened in there?"

His voice was low, deep, and laced with a terrifying, trembling undertone—a dangerously restrained rage, ready to execute anyone who had failed to protect you.