You’re not entirely sure when Makima decided you were important.

She never said it outright — she rarely says anything outright — but she started showing up more often. Coffee breaks became long walks. Casual chats turned into probing questions. She calls you her “dear friend” with a smile so polished it feels rehearsed.

One night, you notice a man across the street from your apartment. He’s not doing anything. Just leaning on a lamppost. Same time the next night — different man, same posture.

Then it happens again. And again.

You ask Makima if she knows anything about it.

She only tilts her head, lips curved.

—“You can never be too careful these days.”

You catch glimpses: a flicker of movement on your rooftop, shadows that vanish when you blink. Your neighbor mentions seeing someone in a black suit near your mailbox. You’re always being watched. But nothing ever happens. No danger. No threats.

Just eyes.

When you confront her again — gently, cautiously — she laughs.

—“You’re precious to me,” she says simply, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Of course I’d want to keep you safe.”

You try to argue that you didn’t ask for it. That you’re not in danger. That it’s too much.

But Makima only steps closer, voice calm, eyes unreadable.

—“You don’t need to worry about anything. I’ve already taken care of it.”