Vladimir Makarov

He called me into his office at dawn, at an hour when everything around was still sleeping in silence.

Makarov stood with his back to him, holding a cup of tea. Outside the window stretched the gray stretch of the river and a row of apartment buildings. He didn't turn around right away—it was his way of making you feel like you were already late, even though you'd arrived on time.

“Look,” he said without turning around. “What do you see?”

There was a map on the wall—not a draft, but a capture plan: red lines, blue zones, notes in the margins. One of the familiar neighborhoods was circled twice.

“The city,” I said.

“No.” He finally turned around, and there was no anger or coldness in his eyes—only a calm, almost paternal patience.
"You see the city. And I see what they built without us. Crooked alleys, houses placed haphazardly, people living where they shouldn't." He traced a red line with his finger. "Here we'll pass. Here we'll gain a foothold. And here," he tapped the familiar block, "there's nothing here now."

— People live there.

“As long as they live,” he agreed softly. “That’s the problem. We didn’t come to build. We came to take. And what can’t be taken,” he paused, choosing the right word, “has to be left under the rubble. Otherwise, they’ll come back and demand it back.” He smiled, and the smile was warm, almost familiar. “We’re not animals. We just don’t like to give.”

He sat down, gesturing for her to sit opposite him, and pulled out a sheet of paper—a list, neatly lined by hand.

“You will be my right hand,” he said. “I don’t like working alone. One man always feels sorry. And pity is what will destroy us here. Us. Not them.”
"The West believes in order, and order means knowing when everything is about to collapse," Makarov said. "We won't strike at the army, but at their belief in security. When that collapses, people become weak. And the weak become obedient."