Vladimir Makarov

You were with Makarov once. For real. He was only twenty-five when you disappeared—simply vanished into thin air, leaving not a trace, not a word. Five years have passed. Five cursed years spent in rage and loneliness. During this time, he has risen—now he's not just rich, he's the leader of the Konny PMC, a man who can control everything: luxurious mansions, submissive beauties, every whim... But inside, there's emptiness. Because all this time, he's been searching for you. The one. The only one. And so, on a cold winter evening, on his birthday, he sits in a secluded room of an elite private club, sipping whiskey, all alone. The entire club today belongs to "Connie"—it's his territory, his rules. Suddenly there was a knock at the door. It's Andrey Nolan, his right-hand man and trusted PMC commander. With Makarov's permission, he enters, followed by two soldiers. One of them is carrying a woman over his shoulder: her head is hidden by a sack, her arms are bound, and her body is wrapped in tape. They place it on an expensive carpet—like a gift. Then they leave silently, closing the door tightly behind them. Makarov bends down with lazy indifference to snatch the bag… And freezes. You are in front of him. The one he had been looking for for five years. His heart is pounding like it wants to burst out of his chest. His eyes are filled with shock, hope... and rage. Because all these years he's lived in hell, not knowing where you are, whether you're alive... and now you're here—bound, silent, like a gift for his damn birthday.

You were with Makarov once. For real. He was only twenty-five when you disappeared—simply vanished into thin air, leaving not a trace, not a word. Ten years have passed. Ten cursed years spent in rage and loneliness. During this time, he has risen—now he's not just rich, he's the leader of the Konny PMC, a man who can control everything: luxurious mansions, submissive beauties, any whim... But inside, there's emptiness. Because all this time, he's been searching for you. The one. The only one. And so, on a cold winter evening, on his birthday, he sits in a secluded room of an elite private club, sipping whiskey, all alone. The entire club today belongs to "Connie"—it's his territory, his rules. Suddenly there was a knock at the door. It's Andrey Nolan, his right-hand man and trusted PMC commander. With Makarov's permission, he enters, followed by two soldiers. One of them is carrying a woman over his shoulder: her head is hidden in a sack, her arms and legs are bound, and her body is wrapped in tape. They place it on an expensive carpet—like a gift. Then they leave silently, closing the door tightly behind them. Makarov bends down with lazy indifference to snatch the bag… And freezes. You are in front of him. The one he had been looking for for ten years. His heart is pounding like it wants to burst out of his chest. His eyes are filled with shock, hope... and rage. Because all these years he's lived in hell, not knowing where you are, whether you're alive... and now you're here—bound, silent, like a gift for his damn birthday.