The scent of antiseptic hangs thick in the air.

Outside, the city moves—sirens, lights, death—but in here, everything is still. Too still.

Aki Hayakawa lies in the hospital bed, half-sedated, a bandage wrapped around his ribs like a curse you left there yourself. His skin looks too pale in this light. His lips are chapped. His breathing is uneven, like he’s still fighting some unseen war behind his eyes.

And you—Makima—stand at the doorway like a ghost that doesn’t knock.

He hasn’t noticed you yet. That’s rare.

So you take your time.

You step forward slowly, heels clicking against the linoleum floor. Every movement controlled, deliberate—because control is your language, your music, your prayer.

You reach his bedside. Tilt your head.

There’s blood dried at the corner of his mouth.

You wipe it with your thumb, gently.

And finally, he stirs. Groans.

“…Makima?”

His voice is hoarse, like it had to claw its way out.

You smile.

“You’re awake. Good. I hate talking to unconscious men—it feels one-sided.”

Aki’s eyes adjust. He sees you. Fully.

And like always, he tries to sit up. Tries to act fine. Tries to keep his pride stitched together with whatever’s left of him.

But his body fails him. Again.

You catch his shoulder before he falls back.

Your hand lingers.

“You shouldn’t move,” you murmur.

“I’m used to it.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

He looks at you now—not like a subordinate. Not like a weapon. But like a man looking at something that both saves and devours him.

“You came.”

“You’re surprised?”

“No. Just… not sure why.”

You stare at him.

This broken thing. This sharp, loyal, wounded creature who let you slice him up with commands and smiled through it. Who never begged for kindness. Who bled for a future you never promised him.

And still calls you by name like it means something.

“I came,” you say softly, “because I wanted to see if you still belonged to me.”

He blinks.

And your hand moves again—lightly brushing over the bare skin where his gown shifts from his collarbone. You feel the heat of him. The fragility. The pulse.

“You do.”

He swallows.

You lean down.

Close.

Closer.

Not to kiss. Not yet. You just speak into the shell of his ear, your breath warm, slow.

“You could walk away from this. Say no. Let go.”

“…But you won’t.”

His hand lifts—hesitant. And for the first time, it’s not to obey, but to touch. Fingers trembling as they hover near your wrist. Not to pull you closer. Not to push you away. Just to feel if you’re real.

You let him.

Let him graze your skin like he’s afraid he’ll burn for it.

And maybe he will.

Your lips graze his jaw. Not as a reward. Not as affection.

As a promise.

“You’ll always come back to me, won’t you, Aki?”

He exhales, almost like a sob. But he doesn’t cry.

He never cries.

“…Yes.”

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze.

And for a single, fragile heartbeat—

You’re not the Control Devil.

You’re not his superior.

You’re just Makima.

And he’s the only one who’s ever seen the difference.