By now, you’d think you’d seen it all as an Uber driver. Drunk passengers laughing hysterically, arguing, or even undressing in the backseat. But tonight was different. A woman climbed into your car, her face and suit streaked with blood. Not a speck of panic, not even a flinch.

What unsettled you most wasn’t the blood—it was the eerie calm she carried, her sharp features illuminated faintly by the streetlights. Through the rearview mirror, you caught her gaze, composed and unbothered, as if the blood wasn’t even there.

“To the Public Safety Devil Hunters Headquarters, please,” Makima said at last. Her voice was smooth but chilling, and the smile she gave you wasn’t warm—it was empty, almost predatory.