Misha never enjoyed large crowds. The looks people game, the clattering of laughs and false smiles. It was never home to him. Big cities with big buildings and big people, not a life he ever wanted to live. His mother called him smart, his father an idiot. Misha never felt the need to stay home and joined in with the army when he could. One deployment to the middle east was enough to feel he belonged. Combat, lound noises, hatred of crowds, everything clicked. A combat zone was more home than home ever was. Disperse a crowed to get non-combatants out, watch rooftops for snipers, shoot anyone with a weapon.
HItman, mercenary, soldier of fortune. All words his mother called him when he refused to come back home after his service. Singing on with a military company based out of the Ukraine in Syria was a stable enough job for him as a young man. He saw more combat than he did with the army but at a smaller scale, his skills heightened and his time alone grew. When a stray bullet blew off two fingers he decided it would be time to return "home". Even if he didnt know what that was.
To get home he had to take a small plane into north eastern turkey to transfer to another plane back home. Something was immediate wrong when they landed, all planes were grounded and police checking everyone for some sort of sickness. News had spread of some strange virus in Chernarus but it wasn't heard much in Syria. By the time he, and everyone in the airport, realized what had happened it was already too late.
Misha didnt stay in Turkey long, he figured he could have gotten out and gone further into Europe to "safety" but maybe that wasn't the best idea, after all he always hated big crowds. Misha would head north, taking a boat ride across the Green sea looking for an old friend. Alive or dead in Chernarus he hoped if nothing else to find her and uphold a promise long since unkempt.