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2016. The clock strikes exactly 3:33.
Third sleepless night. Or maybe the fourth? I didn’t know. Didn’t remember. I’d long since lost count. “Miscalculated,” as he liked to say, with that biting tone in his voice, always goading, asserting himself yet again. All I remembered was this: in a few days, Zakhaev International Airport would suffer a devastating blow at the hands of Vladimir Makarov, bringing with it a sea of casualties. That was my last thought before falling asleep, and the first upon waking. What hopelessness.
He planned everything in advance, building it up with ruthless precision—a 90° structure of steps no one dared disturb with even the timid “I object,” let alone a suggestion to revise the plan in favor of potential victims. Oh no, peace never interested him. He craved blood. Buckets of it. No monster in some sob-filled fantasy novel ever drank as much crimson liquid as this beast does. Will he drown in it? I doubt it. He’ll most likely sink in it—but even then, his death will unleash a bottomless ocean of loss, and he’ll reign over it like Poseidon.
In my attempts to find my place in this godforsaken world, I tossed and turned, staring into the blind night. It couldn’t see what I saw. Envy wrapped around my neck like a noose, forcing me to swallow a fresh lump in my throat. In its grip, and under the cold hands of fear resting over it, one thought echoed in my mind: what is the first thing people associate with that fateful name—Vladimir Makarov? Fear. Screams. Brutality. Bloodshed… the taste of iron on your tongue in thirty-degree cold? No doubt about it—this Cerberus would terrify Death itself, if not Hades.
But they’ll never know him like I do.
He’s not who he pretends to be. Not at all. And I’m almost sure of that.
Almost.
I lie to myself, hoping to avoid a harsher truth.
Our evening began on a Saturday.
Was it autumn? I don’t remember. But it was cold. Around 17 degrees, if not less. I only found that out the next morning from the radio, because that night it felt like a boiling 40, like the moonshine Sidorov brought to celebrate his promotion. We had to be there. We drank long and hard. I hardly remember half of it, but one image stuck with me: young soldiers in uniform gathered around a long table, energetically discussing some recent mix-up between a major and a lieutenant. Laughter flowed like vodka from shot glasses, spilling from one mouth to another, drawing everyone in—even those who didn’t join in had to listen with some measure of joy.
- "И он ему говорит: "Товарищ майор, Вас чем-то беспокоит рюмка на столе? Так давайте и Вам нальем, чего ж Вы как не родной!". Вы бы слышали, как он начал кричать! Вся казарма слышала то, как он верещит, будто яйца прищемил в дверном проеме!" (“So he says: ‘Comrade Major, is that shot glass on the table bothering you? Then let us pour you one too—why act like a stranger!’ You should’ve heard him scream! The whole barracks thought he’d slammed his balls in a doorframe!”)
Laughter rolled across the table like a spool unraveling the story, the continuation of which echoed from the other end.
- "А что дальше было, мужики! Я вам отвечаю, Гаврилов впервые так отчитывал кого-то. Зато Сидоров как держался! Ух, молодец мужик, не прогнулся" (“Then what happened, boys! I swear Gavrilov chewed him out like never before. But Sidorov held his ground—man didn’t flinch. Solid guy,”) -
replied a dark-haired man, clearly older than half the squad. Fortunately, the group’s intellectual maturity traveled on the same train car.
As the drunken chatter swirled, the shots kept coming, and conversations grew more heartfelt. Look to the right—a young soldier sat in silence, eyes teary, missing his mother. Luckily, the noise drowned out his quiet sobs. But only one sound could silence the entire squad in an instant.
Fingers of a blue-eyed young man brushed across guitar strings, trailing behind them a soft melody. The men turned in unison like a marching unit toward the guitarist, whistling and shouting:
— "Оооо, Волков! Уже подумали, Юрец, ты так напился, что и не сыграешь нам что-то. Но руки-то вспомнишь, а? Давай-ка, задрынчи нам что-то повеселее. Быстрее-быстрее, пока настрой есть!" (“Ooooh, Volkov! We thought you’d gotten too drunk to play, Yura. But those hands still remember, huh? Come on, play something upbeat, quick, before the mood fades!”)
Under the rowdy ovation of this makeshift concert hall, the guy gave a drunk little chuckle, settled in, and tapped the body of the guitar to find a cheerful rhythm. And he remembered. Setting the tempo with his boot against the ground, he played a familiar tune, warming up the crowd with his voice.
— “Это школа Соломона Пляра. Школа бальных танцев, вам говорят!”
Mimicking the original singer’s intonation, Yuri let his fingers dance over the strings, scanning the faces around the table, now belting out lyrics with him.
Some sang, others tried to recall the words by melody, and some kept up their own chatter as the music played in the background.
More amusing was the kid with the short haircut—under the influence, his voice faltered hilariously as he imitated every character in the song, causing bursts of laughter from the older men. His absurd “foreign” tone was pure comedy gold.
— “Дамы, дамы, не вертите задом! Это не пропеллер, а вы не самолет. Это неприлично, негигиенично. Шаг вперед и поворот,”
Yuri grinned, scanning the crowd as he sang. Everyone was having fun: some danced, most sang, a few knocked back their final drinks and began to gather their things.
But one was missing—Makarov. He’d had a few shots out of courtesy, then vanished. That was his way—rarely trusting the crowd, always acting on his own. This time was no different. And just as I thought of him, a buzz swirled in the corner, whispering about the man with heterochromia.
— “Тебе не кажется это странным? Все собрались, отдыхают в компании друг друга, а он шатается непонятно где. Тьфу ты блять, а не сослуживец.” (“Don’t you think it’s weird? Everyone’s here, enjoying themselves, and he’s off who-knows-where. Some comrade, huh?”)
— “Во-во, как не от мира сего. Ну, знаешь, они там все с прибабахом каким-то. Даже не удивлюсь, если проставляться за день рождения не станут,” (“Exactly! It’s like he’s not even one of us. You know how those guys are—wouldn’t be surprised if he skips out on buying rounds for his own birthday,”)
came the annoying murmur from my right. Volkov glanced sideways, frowning, trying to stay focused on the song. With a friend like that, who needs enemies? All they offered was judgment behind your back.
They’d never say it to his face—too scared.
The only option was to whisper about him, assuming he was far enough away not to hear.
Or was he?
Men like him always had an extra pair of eyes.
Eyes searching for a fallen angel.
He was gone. Again.
Seemed like solitude was his natural element, the walls of which kept him from entering society. A sociopath, maybe. The world just wasn’t up to his standards—and that was a fact.
But they were wrong.
Sidorov, the man of the hour, got up in a fit of enthusiasm to grab another drink—this time nonalcoholic—when he suddenly came face to face with Vladimir. He’d been there a while, judging by the look of him, smoking another hand-rolled cigarette, alone with the silhouettes of smoke.
— “И давно ты здесь торчишь? Сходи, погрейся. Выглядишь неважно,” (“You been out here long? Go warm up. You don’t look good,”)
he said flatly, but Vladimir didn’t register the words. His eyes were locked on one thing—Volkov, now strumming a more melancholic tune.
He was tired.
Like a vulture eyeing its prey, Makarov watched from the dark, flicking ash from his cigarette, quietly humming the melody.
One step. Then another.
His boots tapped ominously behind his comrades, then a firm hand landed on a shoulder, gripping just enough for the message to be clear—even to the drunkest man in the room.
— “Хватит, Юр. Пошли, у тебя ночной наряд. Я помогу,” (“Enough, Yura. Come on, you’ve got night duty. I’ll help,”)
his cold voice sliced through the noise like a blade. Yuri set the guitar aside, yawned, and rose, following the pressure of the hand. Behind them, countless voices echoed “Where to?”, but only one thought took precedence: “Don’t rush, my friend, and watch your step.”
5:45. Time to get up.
The happy past is now just a faint glimmer in a pitch-black void, and with it, the inevitable betrayal of principles.
Only a crown of thorny rosehips will guard what fragile memories remain, sheltering them deep within.
I will be a prisoner of hope, shackled in the chains of faith.