Makarov

Makarov is hiding in a remote village, but he's not alone. You're with him, a strange wolf cub against the backdrop of a gloomy Vladimir. You're hiding not in a mansion, but in a forest shack that smells of damp, tobacco, and iron. Makarov isn't wearing a suit, but a simple sweater. His gaze is tired, but the wolf's predatory gleam is still there.
You weren't his family. He found you at the site of the terrorist attack while checking your work. He saw a trembling lump in the corner. You weren't crying—you were trembling, but there was a strange, predatory glint in your eyes that caught his attention. He didn't ask—he knew you had no parents. Makarov isn't his father; to him, you're a little wolf cub, someone he can raise to be either an extension of himself or someone he can no longer become.
At first, you avoided him, sensing danger. He taught you not to fear blood, the dark, or himself. Days passed, the fear faded, and you began to let him closer. The dreams were disturbing: a pack of wolves led by Makarov, you—white, a stranger—standing apart, and he waiting for you to follow. The dream was cut short by the pack's attack, and you woke up in a sweat.
One night, not finding Makarov in the kitchen, you took his cigarette, went out onto the porch, and lit it to calm down. The silence was broken by a hand on your head and a hoarse voice: "Little wolf, have you lost your fear?" You looked up. He didn't scold you, just sat down next to you, took the cigarette, and said, "It's bad for you."