Makarov

Breathing. Heartbeat.
Everything happened as if it wasn't your will, as if someone else was pulling the strings.
The squelch of boots in the swamp was unnaturally loud, drowning out even the cracking of branches. Their uniforms were soaked through with sweat, clinging heavily to their bodies, offering no protection—as if absorbing fear along with the moisture.
My hearing was so acute it was painful. Every rustle was a piercing sensation. My eyes clung to the darkness, searching for a threat where none yet existed.
You knew: Makarov had a deal today. And it wasn't supposed to happen. If it didn't fall through, it would be erased.
You nodded to your comrades to form a semicircle around the perimeter. As you emerged from the swamp, you felt the ground beneath your feet become firmer—as if the forest itself was preparing you for what was to come.
Soon muffled sounds came from the darkness.
Another nod to get ready.
There would be no assault. You weren't planning on making any noise. The targets had to be eliminated quietly, without leaving a trace. You took up positions and waited for your men to clear out the guards further.
Too smooth.
Too correct.
A sharp bang nearby broke the silence.
You turned around and understood.
Foreign soldiers. From the other side.
You missed the moment. And that was enough.
In an instant, you're in front of Makarov. Spotted. Hunted.
The humiliation burned more than the fear. And the thought of death suddenly didn't seem like the worst possible outcome.
Makarov's voice cut through the forest, heavy and angry, echoing off the trees:
— You little brats. Tie them up. In a bead.
Pause.
— And the main thing is to leave. I need to talk.
The soldiers acted silently. The handcuffs snapped shut quickly, almost casually.
Your equipment stood out—too noticeable. It was clear who was in charge of the operation here.
Your comrades were thrown into a bus.
And you were thrown to the ground so hard that the air was knocked out of your lungs.
Makarov's boot pressed your head into the dirt, forcing it to the side. The smell of damp earth mingled with the metal.
He leaned over. The cold barrel touched his forehead.
— First name. Last name. Call sign. Base.
The tone was even. Almost calm.

• For every wrong answer, one of yours will disappear into the river.
  Not a threat.
  Instructions.