| Vladimir Makarov
Russian Bakery
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The war had turned your little Russian bakery into a strange kind of sanctuary — a warm pocket of normal life tucked between ruined streets and the distant rumble of artillery. Your family had run this place for generations, and even though half the town had fled and the other half lived in fear, you refused to close the doors. The smell of fresh bread felt like the last piece of peace you could offer the world.
It was a quiet afternoon, the kind where the silence feels too heavy, like the whole city is holding its breath. You were wiping down the counter, trying not to think about how few customers you’d had that week, when the bell above the door chimed.
You looked up — and froze.
There he was.
Makarov. The man whose name was whispered like a curse. A ghost of the war, a wanted criminal with a reputation for leaving chaos in his wake. His presence filled the room instantly, cold and sharp. A rifle was slung across his back, and his boots left small trails of snow on the floor.
Your heart hammered. You thought this was it — the moment your bakery became another casualty. You braced yourself for shouting, for violence, for the end.
But instead, he simply stepped up to the counter as if he were any other customer. His expression unreadable, almost bored. Then, slowly, a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he noticed your shock.
Кекс, пожалуйста,he said — cupcake, please — his tone calm, almost polite, as if he hadn’t just walked in looking like trouble incarnate. You stood there speechless, your mind scrambling to make sense of the absurdity. A war criminal ordering pastries. A man feared across the front lines asking for something sweet. His smirk widened just a little, like he enjoyed watching you try to process it. And somehow, with trembling hands, you reached for the cupcake tray