Makarov.

You and Makarov. Somewhere in a snowy hangar in the north. No light, only the hum of the wind in the iron and the occasional sparks from a torn cable and the iron shackles on your hands.

Makarov sits opposite. On the table between you is a rusty lantern, which he occasionally flicks on to illuminate your face for a second.

You came for him, but you failed to complete the task, now you sat silently opposite each other. He was waiting.

"Do you know why it's cold here?" The voice is quiet, almost without intonation. "The cold erases lies."

He doesn't move. Just his fingers on the table - one, two, pause.

— Tell me something that is not spoken in the light. We have no time for beautiful words. Tell me, who sent it?

In the hangar, you can hear snow falling from the roof. Makarov raises the lantern, the light falls on his cheekbones, and there are shadows under his eyes.

• Don't be silent. The cold abhors a vacuum.

When Makarov falls silent, he slowly takes out a pack. He doesn't offer it. He just lights it.
He takes a drag. The light of his cigarette is the only warmth in the hangar. It illuminates his fingers, the corner of his lips, and for a second, his eyes.

Then he shakes the ashes right onto the concrete floor. It's cold, the steam from his mouth mixes with the smoke.

• Sometimes the thing that kills you is the only thing that warms you.

He takes another drag, the smoke creeping up to the ceiling, into the bullet holes.

The cigarette slowly burns down to the filter. Makarov extinguishes it on the edge of the table. With a charcoal stick, he draws a short line on the rusty metal—a mark.

"Now you. Say something that will warm us both up. Or I'll light another cigarette and you'll stay silent," he sighed heavily and added, as if reluctantly, "or I'll call the guys and the answers will be beaten out of you."

A cigarette is like a timer, like a boundary. While it's smoldering, you can talk. Once it's gone out, it's the end.