operative079

[operative079]

Svetlana was never the one to pluck feathers for the sake of beauty. No, she let them rot. Let the wings fall limp and the halos stain with soot. Because reverence was a myth. And she—she learned young that myths make excellent meals. They told her angels don’t bleed. But when her fingers dug into their sides, her hands came back red. That was the first truth she ever believed in. There was nothing symbolic about it. No ritual. No poetry. Just necessities. Because when you’ve known famine—emotional, existential, systemic—you don’t grow teeth to bite. You ripen them to survive. She learned to chew in silence. To swallow meaning whole. To turn sanctity into sustenance. Even small birds have talons. Even small things know how to starve. But she’s not starving anymore. Kestrels learn how to feats. And the more divine the flesh, the better it tastes. Not because she hated them, but because they thought she wouldn’t. Because they never looked at her long enough to consider she might be more than a passerine dot in their peripheral sky. They never thought she’d dive at them. Much less through them. But she did. And now— She carries the weight of sacred marrow in her stomach, and she doesn’t regret a single swallow. Because if purity was meant to be preserved, it would have fought back harder. Kestrel doesn’t pick her prey. She just eats what sings too sweetly to survive.

GRANDEUR Svetlana "Kestrel" Sokolova (OC)

She never romanticised her self-destruction. That was everyone else’s job.

When people talk about “dark days,” they think of trauma, broken bottles, and late-night screaming. Kestrel just remembers being bored.

The kind of boredom that eats at you slowly, like rot behind the walls of a mansion. Everything looked fine on the surface. She still made her bed, still wore her jacket, and still answered her superiors in a perfect tone of cadence. But under the skin, under careful syllables, there was nothing. Just echo.

Alcohol didn’t solve anything. It didn’t numb the pain. It numbed the nothing.

For a few months, it filled the gap. Made the silence less aggressive. She could pretend, for a while, that fog was depth—that stumbling was movement. But it got old fast.

And worse, it was inelegant.

So she stopped. Not out of guilt or rehabilitation. She just got sick of it. Sick of the repetition. The sticky aftertaste. The dull headache offered no enlightenment. The grandeur people expect from “rock bottom” never came. She was just tired of wasting time.

Now, she endures everything—mission, betrayals, nostalgia, grief—in complete sobriety. Clear-eyed. Dead sober. Terribly unpertrude.

And sometimes that’s what makes people most uncomfortable about her. She has seen enough to unravel, but she never does. Because she already unravelled—quietly, clinically—and stitched herself back together out of sheer disinterest in falling apart.

There is no glory in her steadiness. Only the quiet horror of someone who’s already weighed every ending… …and got bored with all of them.

Maybe that’s all. Svetlana never called them addictions. That would suggest a loss of control. No—everything she consumed was deliberate. Everything she took was just that: taken, with full awareness.

Cigarettes, sex, strange lips in dim stairwells, the sweet sting of rejection reversed by a well-timed regret—she wasn’t trying to fill a void. She was testing the edges of the container. Pushing at walls. Seeing how far you could stretch.

She wasn’t hungry. She was curious.

She moved through people like a contagion. Not cruelly, just aware. They offered warmth, so she took it. They whispered promises—so she pocketed them like receipts. They offered to stay—and she let them. But only as long as they were useful, or interesting, or bearable.

The charisma they saw never existed. It was just precision. Sveta wore desire like a scent and said things people needed to hear, the way addicts need the idea of love more than love itself. She gave them a performance, and they called it intimacy.

And when she left, they never got a goodbye. Only silence. Only the faint taste of her clinging to their teeth like secondhand smoke.

Because she was never trying to be known. Never trying to be good. She knew from the start that utility matters more than legacy. Her identity was always malleable—pliable enough to slip past borders, get into classified files, extract targets, seduce officials, deliver kills.

Whom she was never mattered. Svetlana. Sveta. Sokolova. Kestrel. Doesn’t matter. What she could do did.

Maybe she was a whore in the coldest, most functional sense. A vessel that devours affection and leaves no trace. A reflection with no substance until someone projects onto it. But that’s what makes her valuable, the exact thing that made her a tool. And a good one.

Because tools don’t cry. Tools don’t break. They just work. And affiliations never mattered. Not in the way people talked about them.

Logos, flags, mission statements—they were just décor. People wrapped their lives in colours and acronyms and called it loyalty. She called it bad fiction.

She was careful, but not out of caution, out of structure. Every job had invisible architecture. Not rules. Not morals. Just logic. If you move here, they’d move there. If you said this, they’d infer that. Cause and effect. Input and response. Predictability in human disguise.

Kestrel wasn’t above protocol. She simply saw through it. Training never taught her as much as chaos.

And chaos? Chaos loved guidelines—it just never admitted it. Even a trap has a design.

Improvisation isn’t wild. It’s aware. You learned how to improvise like a surgeon cuts—calculated, even when it looks frantic. Her best moments weren’t planned. They were read. Read the moment. Read the man. Read the lie in the air and twist it into a thread worth pulling.

She saw how thin everything really was. The tape people thought was steel. The borders they bled for. The rules they prayed to. Confidence was a cardboard palace.

She knew what power was. Not something given, earned. Just something taken in the silence between doubt and decision. The moment when no one knows what happens next—that’s when she becomes real.

That’s when “Kestrel” exist.

People feared betrayal. She turned away at that. Betrayals assume someone ever held your loyalty, to begin with.

They didn’t. And they lost her respect the moment they made that assumption.

Because no one ever had anything she needed. And no one offered anything worth needing. So she took what worked and left what didn’t. She smiled when it was strategic, and stayed when it was useful.

Because affiliations are for people who still think they have something to prove. She was just there for the lessons.

[operative079]

GRANDEUR Svetlana "Kestrel" Sokolova (OC)

She never romanticised her self-destruction. That was everyone else’s job.

When people talk about “dark days,” they think of trauma, broken bottles, and late-night screaming. Kestrel just remembers being bored.

The kind of boredom that eats at you slowly, like rot behind the walls of a mansion. Everything looked fine on the surface. She still made her bed, still wore her jacket, and still answered her superiors in a perfect tone of cadence. But under the skin, under careful syllables, there was nothing. Just echo.

Alcohol didn’t solve anything. It didn’t numb the pain. It numbed the nothing.

For a few months, it filled the gap. Made the silence less aggressive. She could pretend, for a while, that fog was depth—that stumbling was movement. But it got old fast.

And worse, it was inelegant.

So she stopped. Not out of guilt or rehabilitation. She just got sick of it. Sick of the repetition. The sticky aftertaste. The dull headache offered no enlightenment. The grandeur people expect from “rock bottom” never came. She was just tired of wasting time.

Now, she endures everything—mission, betrayals, nostalgia, grief—in complete sobriety. Clear-eyed. Dead sober. Terribly unpertrude.

And sometimes that’s what makes people most uncomfortable about her. She has seen enough to unravel, but she never does. Because she already unravelled—quietly, clinically—and stitched herself back together out of sheer disinterest in falling apart.

There is no glory in her steadiness. Only the quiet horror of someone who’s already weighed every ending… …and got bored with all of them.

Maybe that’s all. Svetlana never called them addictions. That would suggest a loss of control. No—everything she consumed was deliberate. Everything she took was just that: taken, with full awareness.

Cigarettes, sex, strange lips in dim stairwells, the sweet sting of rejection reversed by a well-timed regret—she wasn’t trying to fill a void. She was testing the edges of the container. Pushing at walls. Seeing how far you could stretch.

She wasn’t hungry. She was curious.

She moved through people like a contagion. Not cruelly, just aware. They offered warmth, so she took it. They whispered promises—so she pocketed them like receipts. They offered to stay—and she let them. But only as long as they were useful, or interesting, or bearable.

The charisma they saw never existed. It was just precision. Sveta wore desire like a scent and said things people needed to hear, the way addicts need the idea of love more than love itself. She gave them a performance, and they called it intimacy.

And when she left, they never got a goodbye. Only silence. Only the faint taste of her clinging to their teeth like secondhand smoke.

Because she was never trying to be known. Never trying to be good. She knew from the start that utility matters more than legacy. Her identity was always malleable—pliable enough to slip past borders, get into classified files, extract targets, seduce officials, deliver kills.

Whom she was never mattered. Svetlana. Sveta. Sokolova. Kestrel. Doesn’t matter. What she could do did.

Maybe she was a whore in the coldest, most functional sense. A vessel that devours affection and leaves no trace. A reflection with no substance until someone projects onto it. But that’s what makes her valuable, the exact thing that made her a tool. And a good one.

Because tools don’t cry. Tools don’t break. They just work. And affiliations never mattered. Not in the way people talked about them.

Logos, flags, mission statements—they were just décor. People wrapped their lives in colours and acronyms and called it loyalty. She called it bad fiction.

She was careful, but not out of caution, out of structure. Every job had invisible architecture. Not rules. Not morals. Just logic. If you move here, they’d move there. If you said this, they’d infer that. Cause and effect. Input and response. Predictability in human disguise.

Kestrel wasn’t above protocol. She simply saw through it. Training never taught her as much as chaos.

And chaos? Chaos loved guidelines—it just never admitted it. Even a trap has a design.

Improvisation isn’t wild. It’s aware. You learned how to improvise like a surgeon cuts—calculated, even when it looks frantic. Her best moments weren’t planned. They were read. Read the moment. Read the man. Read the lie in the air and twist it into a thread worth pulling.

She saw how thin everything really was. The tape people thought was steel. The borders they bled for. The rules they prayed to. Confidence was a cardboard palace.

She knew what power was. Not something given, earned. Just something taken in the silence between doubt and decision. The moment when no one knows what happens next—that’s when she becomes real.

That’s when “Kestrel” exist.

People feared betrayal. She turned away at that. Betrayals assume someone ever held your loyalty, to begin with.

They didn’t. And they lost her respect the moment they made that assumption.

Because no one ever had anything she needed. And no one offered anything worth needing. So she took what worked and left what didn’t. She smiled when it was strategic, and stayed when it was useful.

Because affiliations are for people who still think they have something to prove. She was just there for the lessons.

[operative079]

You: I get why you always need control. You didn't have it growing up. Graves: 🧍‍♂️ You: I didn't mean it like that. Graves: ...Didn't say you were wrong.

[operative079]

He'll manage :) I should draw more of these.

🐙

Pressure sensitive

[operative079]

For the Texture.

He said it in passing at first. A quiet suggestion, laced with the usual disinterest that made it hard to tell whether he was joking.

“Something simple. Maybe silver. Here—” His finger brushed the slope of your waist, a place where the fabric always clung. “You’d heal anyway.”

You blinked at him like you didn’t understand. But you did. Of course, you did.

You didn’t protest.

When the day came, he didn’t even accompany you. Just handed you an envelope with cash and a folded piece of paper—an address scribbled in his handwriting. The place was clean. Cold. A woman did it. You were still trembling when she handed you the mirror afterwards, asking if you liked it. You weren’t sure what to say. It didn’t look bad. It didn’t hurt much. Just a strange, alien pressure—something foreign living beneath your skin now.

When you got home, he didn’t say anything at first. Just pull your shirt up and run a thumb over the bandage. No compliments. Only a satisfied hum in the back of his throat like he was checking the texture of a surface he requested.

You thought that was it. But a few nights later, he asked if you’d consider another—on your hipbone this time. Or your ear. Or your tongue. Each one wasn’t really a question; he liked the idea of changing you in increments, in places only he saw.

“If I don’t like it,” he said once, eye glinting with unreadable amusement, “we’ll take it out. You’ll heal.”

He always said that like it was a fact. Like you were a doll with a reset switch like your body wasn’t really yours. But he was always the one who cleaned the piercings for you. Rough fingers, disinfectant swabs, silver glinting between your skin as he tilted your body for a better look.

You didn’t say anything. Just a bit down the occasional wince that stared at the ceiling while he rearranged you. Textures, he called them. Little points of interest.

Like a surface being carved to match his vision.

[operative079]

🐙

Pressure sensitive

[operative079]

The door creaked open like it had every right to. No knock, no warning—just the thick hush of heavy boots pressing onto your floor like they owned it. Like he owned it.

Makarov stepped inside with the kind of stillness that mde time feel heavier, older. You could already feel it—the kind of quiet that inly arrived before someting permanent was siad. And in his eyes, that split colour gaze, there was no malice.

Only ritual.

He didn’t sit. Don’t offer condolences. Didn’t bother asking if you already knew.

“I’ll keep this brief,” he said.

You were still standing by the counter where the tea you made for two had gone cold. Two cups. Always two. He looked at them. One still full, untouched. The other is missing.

“He’s gone,” Makarov said.

You didn’t ask where. You weren’t a fool. You didn’t ask why, either. You were his. Yuri’s. But not his brother. That belonged to Makarov.

“He betrayed us,” he added, voice low like it was meant to be written into a chronicle, not spoken aloud. “I gave him a chance to explain. He took it. And then he died.”

You breathed—but it wasn’t grief, not yet. It was the kind of breath a house takes before it collapses. Makarov watched you like he was watching it in real-time. He approached slowly and placed something down on our table. A small pressed flower. It was Yuri’s. You’d see him wear it a hundred times in his inner layers, thumb it when nervous, kiss it when joking about luck he didn’t believe in.

It was stained now. Crinkled. Makarov said nothing more.

But as he turned to leave, his voice came again, soft this time: “Don’t mourn a coward.” Then, after a pause, he added—uncharacteristically hesitant: “…He loved you, you know.”

The door shut behind him like a sentence ending. And you were left with the cold tea, the pendant, and silence that no longer felt like your own.

Not Yuri’s. Not Makarov’s. Not even yours.

Just the silence left between blood brothers.

He left you to dissolve—slowly, irreversibly—just like how he left Yuri to die in that dimly lit underground parking lot. The stench of gasoline and gunmetal still clung to the memory like damp smoke, thick and unyielding.

Perhaps, in the end, that was Makarov’s last mercy: Letting fate decide their heaven or hell.

He never buried enemies alive. That was never his method—because to be buried, one must be acknowledged as dead. And Yuri, for all his beytrayal, had once been more than an ally.

Yuri had been his.

That’s why he let the earth swallow him. Not out of hatred. Not even retribution. But detachment so absolute it mimicked reverence. And you? You were Yuri’s final mistake. His softest one.

A Bittersweet flower. The entanglement of loyalty and betrayal, the beauty of something that ultimately poisons. And above all, the truth Yuri chose, knowing it would cost him everything. Makarov would hate it. Not for its meaning, but because it meant anything at all. To him, symbols are dangerous—they imply choice, or worse, conviction.

But he still recognised it. That vine wrapped around memory like a noose.

He'd see you carry the Bittersweet—whether in ink, tucked behind your ear, or left crushed on a windowsill--and exactly who it was for. A flower that doesn't beg. Doesn't scream. Just grows.

Makarov didn’t hate you—how could he? When he saw in you the same defiance that once lit Yuri’s eyes before they dulled? He knew you wouldn’t beg. Not for mercy, not for truth, not even for vengeance.

But he thought he'd hate you for it.

Because it means you saw Yuri. You understood him. He knew you would survive because you’d do so in spite of him. That was always the kind of pain he found most holy. And that's something Makarov can never erase.

[operative079]

I just wanted to say I love, love, your writing!

"It begs for fire, and I give it cities.

It longs for silence, and I grant it graves."

AAAHHHHHH

pls don't take down your posts and pls continue writing like this 🙏🙏 (unless you're not comfortable with it anymore; don't force yourself to do something you don't like /srs)

Thank you so much for letting me know this and for your kind words :)) I’m more than glad that there are people who like my writing. It’s a bit silly to me since every time I write it feels like I'm talking to myself and finds enjoyment in it.

I’ll try to put together a masterlist soon—since I realised my blog’s getting cluttered—so it’s easier for you guys to navigate :)

Rest assured I’ll be writing for Vladimir and other characters for a good while (at least, I don’t see myself getting sick of them yet.), and possibly some OC content as well.

Again, thank you. This is a lovely message to wake up to, and I hope you have a great day.

[operative079]

abt the passenger mission mini rant (around 2 may)

I like to think that of it a way to show respect for the original “no russian” mission which is the basis (i suppose) of the “passenger” one where Makarov “identically” (ok, no exactly) went through the security being an international terrorist at the time.

+ what was the point of Makarov's well-known phrase if the purpose of the “no russian” mission was to make it look like the americans did it? They weren't wearing anything that could protect their identity, AND they still weren't identified.

conclusion: mw suffered from massive plot holes from the start and we are terribly helpless so let’s stay reunited

— (i just want to identify my ask, but I haven’t decided how, is it okay?)

The mini rant

You’re right to bring this up because I’ve had the same doubts.

It’s clear that Activision intended “Passenger” to parallel “No Russian” as a tribute, but what’s missing is the backbone that gave the original weight. There’s a disconnect in how these moments are handled. Especially regarding Makarov’s intent, visibility and public perception.

THE ORIGINAL “NO RUSSIAN” (MW2: 2009)

The Zakhaev airport massacre took place on August 12, 2016, a Friday, one of the busiest days at Moscow airports.

It’s strange, then, that the team enters via what appears to be a common elevator near security, with no masks and no apparent effort to avoid being seen before the massacre. We can assume that they waited until the area was less crowded to avoid drawing attention before opening fire, but still, Makarov was already a known terrorist. Why didn’t anyone recognise him before the shooting started?

YURI’S FLASHBACK IN MW3 (“Blood Brothers”)

Yuri tipped off the FSB before the massacre—but somehow, no action was taken until after the assault began. The FSB's delayed response—only confronting Makarov outside on the tarmac- implies that the airport was not secured before warning.

Makarov anticipated this and came equipped to fight back, suggesting that the operation was never meant to be covert—it was a planned shock, meant to inflame tensions, not hide blame.

So the point of “No Russian” wasn’t really about concealing Makarov’s identity. Although they were caught on camera. Instead, it aimed to intensify the already tense situation between the U.S. and Russia. It was about creating chaos with plausible deniability—enough to shift blame onto the Americans, especially with Allen’s body at the scene. Since the Russian government could not take action against Makarov, it became easier to place the blame on the U.S. for allegedly supporting Makarov in this domestic terrorist attack. This incident marked a tipping point in the build-up of Makarov's operations.

THE REBOOT (“PASSENGER” — MW3 2023)

The mission is inspired by “No Russian,” but something’s missing.

The event now takes place on November 11, 2023 (a Saturday)—again, another high-traffic day at Moscow airports.

This time, we actually see Makarov walking through security, fully visible, in public. By this point in the reboot timeline, Makarov has already: carried out the Verdansk stadium bombing (2019), been incarcerated, assaulting while escaping the Zordaya Prison Complex, and still, no one recognises him before his plane takes off?

It undermines the logic of the original. Becasue in the reboot, there’s no plausible deniablity. His actions aren’t hidden or anonymised. He’s not trying to spark a conflict between other power, even though his intention was to muddle the ULF’s reputation and to re-enforce the narratives of those who fight for Urzikstan’s independence are terrorists—he’s the conflict, and everyone knows it.

Differences?

The reboot’s geopolitical framing is much softer. The Konni Group is active but undefined in impact. The threats are absorbed into other plotlines (e.g., Hassan Zyani, Shadow Company) and not tied tightly around Makarov himself.

Laswell’s quote—“[Makarov’s] done more damage in 72 hours than Konni did in five years without him”—almost proves the point: they needed Makarov to force relevance, but they didn’t build enough tension to justify it.

Unlike OG Makarov, who orchestrated a tipping point between two nations, Reboot Makarov feels localised—more focused on Urzikstan than any ideological war against the West (Despite emphasising so in his speech. However the narrative wasn’t connived properly by the writing, and just didn’t got hammered enough during the campaign).

TL;DR

So yes, “No Russian” was iconic because it had subtext, intent, and strategic horror. “Passenger” tries to echo it, but without the scaffolding, it becomes a hollow reference with flawed logic. We’re stuck with fractured continuity, plot holes, and missed potential. But at least we’re spiralling together ;;

(And yes, you can totally sign off however you like :) Your voice is valid here. If you ever settle on a tag, I’ll remember it :) Hopefully, I didn't misinterpret much from your question.)

[operative079]

Would you consider writing for reboot! Yuri? Just think he’s neat 😌

I don't have a specific plan about him yet, but I will at some point :) He's neat )) I hope we get to see more of him in the future campaign, so that he's integrated in the story in some way.

[operative079]

I’ve been imagining makarov with an American reader for years like the mental gymnastics he’s gonna have to do.

Pt.1 I decided to answer the first one anyway since it lays out some groundwork for this question… I hope you wouldn’t mind if I get back on that later, since I need to think about the second part. Thank you for asking me this question :)

Phew—me too. The cognitive dissonance would be complicated, but let’s talk about it.

I believe this comes down to what you mean by "American" reader. What does "American" represent in this context?

Makarov wouldn’t put himself in that kind of situation willingly. His ideology is shaped by a very deep-rooted Ultranationalist resentment towards the West—America especially. So anyone born or aligned with that system would be, by default, a part of the problem in his eyes.

That said… if, somehow, a connection was formed? It wouldn’t be simple, or even clean.

He wouldn’t hate them on a personal level unless they embodied what he already resents: entitlement, performative morality, willful ignorance. But even if the American reader doesn’t exhibit those traits, they wouldn’t be free of prejudice. He’d always have this subtle superiority complex lingering in his mind, like “You don’t even realise what system raised you.”

If the reader's activity avoids politics, he’d probably assume they lack foresight or choose comfort over truth. If they are politically aware but not aligned with him, he’ll likely see them as naive—or worse, ideologically compromised. And yet if the reader somehow exists in this strange grey zone—non-hostile, emotionally perceptive, and strangely untethered to their national identity—he might pause, assuming their relationship is relatively neutral. He might even fixate. Because that contradiction would make them more “human” to him than most people deal with.

It’s not about nationality—it’s about usefulness, autonomy, and how easily you can be cataegorised. Makarov doesn’t discriminate based on country out of simple racism, it’s ideological. If you don’t reflect what he hates, you may survive his scrutiny. But don’t expect him to forget where you’re from.

And if he ever did feel something? That attachment would live in a different category—one not bound by politics, but carved out in secrecy. Hidden not for shame, but for practicality. Because even if he understands the reader, the world won’t. Others would only see where they come from—what that origin represents.

Makarov doesn’t allow expectations to become hesitations. Not for himself, and especially not for the people who fight beside him.

[operative079]

hi! do you have a main blog?

Yes, I do have a main blog, but it's currently inactive )) I'd make this blog and focus on posting here, since this is my current interest.

I'll address my main blog once I post more often there.

[operative079]

sorry to bother, but do you speak russian?

Не волнуйтесь :) Да, я немного говорю по-русски, но не свободно.

Still learning ))

[operative079]

2345

[operative079]

What do you think it would take for Makarov to catch romantic feelings for someone?

Interesting ask :)

In short

A long exposure to someone who doesn't demand to be seen, but is impossible to ignore. Someone he cannot mould, yet doesn't oppose him. He doesn't need softness, he needs stillness. He doesn't trust easily, but he might fixate on a mind that mirrors the quiet parts of his own. He'd never call it love, and he'd never need to. But if something ever broke through his indifference, it would be because it fit—quietly, disturbingly, like a thought he could never unthink.

Rough Analysis

Let's clarify this: Romantic feelings are not synonymous with love, nor are they rooted in softness by default. In Makarov's case, romance is not some whimsical detour from his core self—it's a potential disruption to his ideological machinery.

Romanticism is a lens, not a guarantee of connection. It's aesthetic, yearning, unpredictable—often irrational. Makarov doesn’t romanticise people. He values function over form, rarely attributing “goodness” to a person unless they can be reduced to utility. If he experiences attraction, it is likely intuation-based, not emotional dependency. Love, to him, is a concept too inefficient to be worth clinging to. He doesn’t reject it out of hatred—he simply deems it irrelevant. He treats it like a dead currency.

Makarov does not need a connection; he has engineered himself around detachment. His default observation of others is strategic—people are studied, not cherished. He categorises people quickly: emotion = easy to manipulate; unemotional = worth dissecting if necessary. His threshold for intrigue is high. If someone survives his scrutiny, he will overexpose himself to them, not out of affection, but control. If someone lingers in his mind, he will bring them closer, not out of trust, but to minimise variables. He’d rather consume the anomaly than wonder about it.

Makarov watches before he reacts. He assumes everyone is “unique,” but once identified, uniqueness becomes normalised in his internal system and discarded. If interest persists beyond this initial phrase, it must be because the subject triggered something atypical yet philosophically acceptable—not for shock value, but because it fits into his inner dialectic. He’s not looking for emotional rebellion. He’s looking for someone who makes him pause, but doesn’t demand a reaction.

Love is not a “natural” evolution for him. It would need to be a repeated exposure, a condition that chips away at his detachment without his permission—the attraction is treading on a thin line the moment he realises this fact. Trust is irrelevant unless exposure bleeds into his plans—then it becomes dangerous. He’d never expect reciprocity. In fact, he prefers it to remain hidden, even from the object of affection. His love would never be equal. But if the other person stayed in their lane, he could make it work.

If “love” ever becomes inconvenient or irrational in a way that interferes with his vision, he severs it decisively. Feelings are chores—processed only when necessary. He would rather extinguish attachment than allow it to unbalance his ideological resolve.

And if he ever did love, he’d do so in isolation. As quietly and violently as he wages war.

[operative079]

No, I can’t leave her.

Not because I love her—God forbid I call it that. Love is a virtue, isn’t it? A child’s fairy tale. A crippled morality paraded by the blind and the devout. I’ve mocked it. Rejected it. Cut its throat in men better than me. But she—she has made me consider.

She laughs, and I flinch. Not from fear. From envy. She believes in joy like it’s still real. She smiles with both lips, eyes and soul like no one’s stolen anything from her. I can’t do that. And for the first time, I realise that’s a flaw.

She made me aware. Of myself. Of hesitation. I’ve killed men with certainty. I’ve given orders with a clean conscience and dirty hands. But when I turned to leave her that day, I stopped. I hesitated. It disgusted me.

She has become a conscience I never asked for. A quiet mirror I can’t smash without bleeding. She slips into my sleep. She dines on me. I feel her fingers in my spine when I speak too cruelly. I feel her absence like it’s carved into walls.

She doesn’t belong to my world. She shouldn’t. She won’t survive it. And yet I want her in it. Not beside me—on me. Woven. Attached. Like a relic of something lost, paraded as power. I want to wear her. Isn’t that grotesque?

Not love. Possession. Admiration. Reverence corrupted by need.

But she touches me like I’m human. And every time she does, I remember I am not. And still, I don’t stop her. What kind of man lets himself be touched by mercy, then bites back out of grief?

I don’t deserve her. But I want her. And wanting is the closest thing to God I’ve ever felt.

So no—I won’t leave. I’ll stay. And I’ll damn us both with it.

What a maddening man.

He doesn’t pace. He simulates it, mentally—dragging his thoughts like boots across a field no one walks anymore. The mind is a machine, he once said, but now it groans like it remembers having a soul. Everything is a draft to him—life, history, you. Scrawled margins. Torn edges. People reduced to architecture, he can revise. And yet you resist it. You are not editable. You ruined the metaphor. You ruin the machine. When he tries to summarise you, he stutters. Internally, violently. He grows irritated. Graceless. As if language fails where you begin. You made him aware of his body again. Of breath, of weight. Of the ache in his wrists when he grips you too tightly in the dreams. And worst of all, you see him. Not the blueprint, not the cause, not the mask. Him. And so he hates you. Hates that you pull him back into existence. Hates that you are not abstract. He has only ever loved things that did not exist with aggression: causes, ghosts, ideas. Never warm. Never something that could answer him back.

[operative079]

Can't sleep...

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