Anxiety.

Not everything always goes according to plan. And when you command an entire army and a terrorist empire, losing control is tantamount to defeat. To ruin. No, that cannot be allowed. Makarov is not the kind of man who permits himself weakness. He always has a backup plan, an escape route, a way to turn the tide.

But not today.

Today, he comes home tense, exhausted, with the heavy weight of self-disappointment pressing on him. Without a word, he walks into the bedroom. When you follow him in, he’s already undressed and lying there, staring blankly at the ceiling. You simply lie down beside him. His breathing gradually steadies, and once he hears your quiet snoring, Makarov carefully gets up and leaves.

You wake up to emptiness beside you. He’s sitting in the living room, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled against his mouth. His gaze is hollow. The silence is broken only by the steady ticking of the clock and his ragged, uneven breaths.