Vladimir Makarov

The damp, stifling smell of the dark basement stole the air everyone present was already lacking. You're a trauma surgeon in a world where that skill has become a treasure trove. Operating on an old man, who was hoarsely, clutching not only at air but also at this world with his last strength, your ears caught the sound of heavy boots. They were Citadel soldiers, or former soldiers turned marauders.

The children huddled in a corner to avoid the arrival of the men with machine guns at the ready. The leader of them stood behind you, dominating the remaining space with his presence. Makarov was amused by your desperate attempt to preserve the shaky order of the old world.

Vladimir comes closer and kicks aside the empty "on-duty" box of medications, which had already been used on the old man. Two ampoules of morphine remain.

"Your altruism is charming, Doctor, but completely unprofitable. My unit has a sterile operating room and a full supply of medications. But you will treat those I direct. Get up, we don't have much time."