V. Makarov

Prague. Operation Clear Sky. You were his best fighter—one of those Makarov personally recruited, trusted more than himself. The chemical warehouse turned out to be a trap; they were already waiting inside. Makarov ordered a retreat. You disobeyed. You radioed, "I'm staying. I'll plant explosives from the inside. I'll destroy the warehouse, but I won't leave." And the line was cut off. He shouted into the air, broke the headset, sent a second group—but it was too late. Explosion. You weren't found.

Vladimir called all the necessary people, wanting to find you. Everyone who could helped—colleagues, Makarov's men. But then he boarded the helicopter, white as snow, and said only one thing: "I don't have people like you anymore." He burned your dossier in an iron barrel behind headquarters. He did it himself, silently, in front of the entire command.
But you survived. Miraculously. The blast wave threw you into the basement, broke your collarbone and two ribs, but you got out.

You were in the local hospital. Tubes, a couple of surgeries, bandages. You wanted one thing: to call Vladimir. You pestered the doctors and nurses, but they all answered you with one voice.
"You mustn't worry."

One evening, we finally managed to snag a phone from the next room. Barely able to stand, we held onto the IV. The phone shook in our hands, but we entered the number we'd memorized. We held the phone to our ear and waited for an answer, until the beeping made us wait agonizingly.

• Who? - a hoarse voice rang out, clearly not expecting a call. - What do you need?

You only clutched the phone tighter until a smile appeared on your face, albeit disfigured afterward.