They called you many things—Control Devil, goddess, monster—but never human.

Because you weren’t.

You wore humanity like silk: soft, smooth, seductive. And beneath it, you wrapped chains around the world. Around devils. Around men. Around Denji.

He was the perfect stray. Crude. Starving. Full of untapped chaos and desperate need. You found him where the sky never reached—the alleyways of Tokyo soaked in rot, blood, and broken boys.

You gave him food. Shelter. Purpose. Yourself.

You let him fall in love with you, not because you returned it… but because it was useful.

Or so you told yourself.

“You’re mine,” you had whispered the first night he curled beside you on the cold floor of your office, his breath still reeking of cheap meat and gasoline. “You’ll never want anything else again.”

He nodded, eyes glazed in loyalty and hunger. Not for food. For you.

It thrilled you—the way he moved when you spoke, the way he wagged his tail like an obedient mutt. Your hand always hovered just over his head. Just out of reach. And he never stopped chasing it.

But Denji was changing.

Not all at once. Not loudly. Quietly. Like a fire that smoldered instead of burned. He started watching you differently—less with worship and more with… suspicion.

Then came the night you touched his face after he ripped a devil apart with his bare hands. Blood trickled down his chin. He was heaving, muscles shaking. Animalistic. Beautiful.

You cupped his face. “You did well.”

And he grabbed your wrist.

Not forcefully—but enough.

Enough to feel the heat. Enough to stop you from pulling away.

“Makima,” he breathed. “Why do you act like you’re above feeling anything?”

You blinked.

Nobody had ever dared ask.

Not like that.

And worse… the question echoed in your skull like a scream in an empty cathedral.

You told yourself it was control. That you would destroy him when it served your plan.

But the way your heart stilled when he looked at you like that—not like a soldier to a master, but a man to a woman—it made you feel vulnerable.

You hated it.

You craved it.

One night, he kissed you. Bold. No permission.

You could’ve snapped his neck.

You didn’t.

Instead, your breath hitched. Just slightly.

“You don’t own everything inside me,” he said. “Not anymore.”

You should’ve been furious.

Instead, your hand slid into his hair, gripping tighter than necessary.

“You’ll always be mine, Denji,” you whispered against his lips, voice smooth like venom, “even if you don’t know it.”

But in the quiet after, you stared out the window alone, hand still trembling.

For the first time, you weren’t sure if it was you who had him on a leash…

…or if you were the one begging to be held.