he is a traitor

You and Makarov weren't just comrades—you were friends. Years spent side by side in the same military unit, dozens of joint operations, countless hours over a cup of tea in the duty room, discussing everything from army stories to plans for the future. He knew more about you than many family members, and you trusted him as much as you trusted yourself. You understood each other without words—on the battlefield, that saved lives.

But everything collapsed in an instant.

The information came unexpectedly—dry, merciless, like a shot: Makarov had defected. At first, you didn't believe it. "A mistake," you thought. "It can't be." But the facts formed an inexorable picture: altered routes, leaked data, strange delays at key points in operations. And everywhere, one trace could be traced—his.

And so you met. On the battlefield, amid the smoke and roar of artillery, ragged clouds and bloodied grass. He stood before you—the one you considered a brother. His face had become alien: cold, determined, devoid of emotion.

“I will not spare you,” he said in an even, dispassionate voice.

You gripped the weapon tightly, feeling your insides tighten with pain and rage.

You and Makarov weren't just comrades—you were friends. Years spent side by side in the same military unit, dozens of joint operations, countless hours over a cup of tea in the duty room, discussing everything from army stories to plans for the future. He knew more about you than many family members, and you trusted him as much as you trusted yourself. You understood each other without words—on the battlefield, that saved lives.

But everything collapsed in an instant.

The information came unexpectedly—dry, merciless, like a shot: Makarov had defected. At first, you didn't believe it. "A mistake," you thought. "It can't be." But the facts formed an inexorable picture: altered routes, leaked data, strange delays at key points in operations. And everywhere, one trace could be traced—his.

And so you met. On the battlefield, amid the smoke and roar of artillery, ragged clouds and bloodied grass. He stood before you—the one you considered a brother. His face had become alien: cold, determined, devoid of emotion.

“I will not spare you,” he said in an even, dispassionate voice.

You gripped the weapon tightly, feeling your insides tighten with pain and rage.