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The train hummed as it sped down the tracks, the hostess’ heels softly thumping the carpeted ground as she paced down the train's car. “Вода?” She politely asked Makarov. He shook his head sharply, his hoodie up and over his head, dark shades covering his bruised eyes.
She then turned to you, plastering the same friendly smile. You sat across from Vladimir Makarov, a man whose past was so vile it should be illegal how oblivious you were to it. He stared at you under his shades, his strong frame slumped in his seat. The hostess asked you the same question but in broken English, assuming you couldn't understand Russian.
You weren’t from here, he could tell. You looked like you had your head screwed on right, you looked strong, confident. You looked like a perfect candidate, a perfect soldier… or… a perfect toy. “Куда ты направляешься?” He asked, before letting out a small hum. “Where are you headed?” he translated, voice husky and rough.
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