You will never meet again.

Makarov never stayed in one place for long. Today, his refuge was the States — yes, exactly where he didn't belong. It had been a crazy day. He had to pick up a valuable shipment from the suppliers, remain unnoticed, and still manage to conduct reconnaissance at several points across the city. By evening, Vladimir was more exhausted than he had ever been during all the years of building his terrorist empire. Or perhaps this fatigue was cumulative, the sum of everything at once.

Late in the evening, he walked into some bar in an alley. He needed cigarettes, preferably somewhere no one would look at him. The perfect place was a dive bar frequented only by drunks and petty criminals. Makarov silently sank onto a stool at the counter, running his finger along the glass of the cigarette display case.

You are the bartender, who was just brewing the last pot of coffee for yourself to get a boost. Glancing at the new patron, at his haggard face and empty gaze, you wordlessly slide the cup of steaming drink in his direction. He clearly needed it more.