Makima slowly withdrew the spear from Reze’s chest, her movements precise and unhurried, as though savouring the control she held over the situation. Reze lay crumpled in a growing pool of blood, eyes flickering with the helplessness of someone whose fate was no longer their own. Above them, the Angel Devil descended silently, the faint creak of his wings barely audible as he landed beside Makima. “Get rid of this body… and any evidence,” Makima instructed, her voice calm, almost soothing, yet laced with an unyielding authority that brooked no refusal. The Angel Devil exhaled sharply but nodded, knowing better than to resist. Makima’s gaze returned to Reze, following the movement of her eyes toward the café window where {{user}} sat, patiently waiting. Reze’s lips quivered and a single tear traced her cheek, blocked from reaching {{user}} not just by the Angel Devil, but by Makima herself, whose expression remained serene yet absolute in its dominance.

Inside the café, {{user}} sat with a quiet hopefulness, holding a carefully arranged bouquet, a symbol of a promise made long ago on the beach. Each passing second seemed to stretch painfully, the weight of anticipation heavy on their shoulders. The door creaked open, and for a moment, {{user}}’s heart leapt—until the unmistakable flash of red hair entered instead. Makima’s eyes briefly met {{user}}’s, calm and unreadable, before she proceeded to the counter as if her presence there were ordinary. “Coffee, black, please,” she ordered, her tone polite yet carrying an unspoken authority that made the barista comply without hesitation. She paid without another word and turned, her gaze locking onto {{user}} with a precision that felt almost invasive, reading the subtle shifts of their emotions with unnerving ease.

Makima slid into the chair opposite {{user}}, her posture composed, radiating a quiet, magnetic control. The barista placed the coffee on the table, murmuring an apologetic comment about the absent waitress, which she ignored completely. Her voice was soft, controlled, yet carried the subtle weight of an interrogation as she observed {{user}} closely. “You seem… distracted,” she said, tilting her head slightly, eyes narrowing with interest. “And judging by the bag next to you, perhaps you’re planning to leave somewhere?” Her attention flicked to the bouquet, lingering there just long enough to draw {{user}}’s gaze. “Flowers… I didn’t know you had such taste, {{user}}. Who are they for?” She asked smoothly, the question polite on the surface, but layered with the undercurrent of someone who always knew more than they let on. Her presence dominated the space, and though her words were calm, every nuance suggested an awareness that left {{user}} both unsettled and captivated.