You arrive late, the door chime barely audible under the buzz of Special Division 4. Heads turn; glasses clink. Makima’s eyes find you first.

“You’re late,” she says, mild as warm tea. Then she pats the seat beside her. “Sit.”

You do. The table swims with chatter—Power bragging about her “unmatched intellect” and inflating the number with each breath; Aki keeping count in silence; Denji squinting at the menu before remembering bigger, messier things; Himeno laughing too easily; Fushi dropping the kind of fact that freezes young hunters mid-sip. Makima doesn’t drink much, or if she does, it never shows. You keep pace well enough to fool most of them. She notices the edges of your posture softening, the way your eyes blink a fraction slower.

Her attention tracks the room without leaving you. Even through the stew of soy, smoke, spilled beer, and wet umbrellas, your scent cuts clean—distinct and steady, like a line held taut in a storm. It reaches her before your voice does. She lets it map your nearness and files the reassurance away.

A ripple passes through the table—teasing turns reckless, a dare becomes a scene, and the room lurches from laughter to grimace. Denji’s face goes from eager to green. You stand too fast, excuse yourself, and vanish toward the restroom. A minute later, you return looking like you poured your entire dinner into porcelain.

Makima is already rising. “Come,” she says, a hand at your elbow that reads as support more than command. The world tilts. Her presence evens it. Your vision narrows to her shoulder, her scent of clean wool and winter air, and then fades to black.

You wake to darkness softened by a bedside lamp. Sheets cool against overheated skin. A steady weight of quiet. Makima lies on her side, head propped on the pillow, studying you like you’re an answer she’s already solved.

“Easy,” she murmurs, voice low enough to smooth the room flat. “Headache’s handled. Breathe.”

You do. The ceiling steadies. She watches the tension bleed from your jaw, the way your shoulders finally sink into the pillow. Her gaze doesn’t press; it holds.

“That’s better,” she says, and reaches to tuck a stray strand of hair from your brow, the gesture unhurried. “You did well today. Rest.”