VLADIMIR MAKAROV-

The metallic echo of weapons being loaded reverberates throughout the hangar. You're on your knees, your hands tied, the cold floor seeping into your skin. Your breathing mingles with the sound of your comrades being dragged away by Makarov's men. There's no way out… not this time.

From the shadows, the rhythmic tap of boots echoes with a slow, deliberate thud. The air seems to grow heavier with each step. Finally, a figure emerges: impeccable suit, steely gaze, a barely perceptible smile.

Makarov: —Well, well… looks around with a terrifying calm, it seems the game is over for you
—So much effort to end like this? He leans in, bringing his face close to yours, while the smell of gunpowder still hangs in the air
—Now you're exactly where I wanted to see you… under my control.

His hand takes your chin, forcing you to look him in the eyes

—Remember this moment well. Because when I decide the game begins… no one gets off the board alive.