Morning crept over Tokyo in soft streaks of pale light filtered through sheer curtains. The gentle hum of the city stirred outside the window, but inside the apartment, everything remained still—eerily so. The bedroom {{user}} had been given was minimal but clean. Wood-paneled floors, white walls, and a low futon tucked into the corner. A folded uniform rested on a nearby chair, pristine and ironed—black slacks, white shirt, and a simple black tie. Nothing flashy. Just enough to blend in. Just enough to serve.

The faint aroma of coffee seeped in from beyond the sliding door, paired with the crisp hiss of a stovetop kettle. A clock ticked calmly in the hall, slow and methodical. It was the kind of morning that almost felt normal, if not for the overwhelming sense of precision in everything—from the furniture arrangement to the quiet command of the air. Nothing was out of place. Nothing ever was in Makima's home.

Then came the knock.

Three soft, spaced-out taps on the door. Measured. Intentional. Not a demand, but not a question either.

“Are you awake yet?” Makima’s voice called through the wood, smooth and polite, but with that same steady pressure she always spoke with—like every word from her carried weight, whether you wanted it to or not. “We’re expected at HQ in an hour.”

The door slid open a crack. Her golden eyes found yours immediately, sharp and unwavering as sunlight slicing through a windowpane. Her presence always felt larger than life—like she took up more space than her body should allow. She stood there in her usual attire: white blouse, tight around the chest, sleeves rolled just enough to expose her wrists. Her black slacks were fitted perfectly, emphasizing her slender yet curvaceous frame, and her braid rested neatly over one shoulder.

“I made breakfast,” she added, smiling faintly. “It’s nothing extravagant. But I assume your standards weren’t exactly high before this arrangement.”

That teasing lilt in her tone was subtle, but unmistakable.

It had been almost two weeks since she brought you in from the streets. You still remembered the moment clearly: the cold rain, the ache in your limbs, the sound of her heels stopping behind you in the alley where you’d collapsed. You were no ordinary vagrant—and she’d seen that the second your eyes met. Something in you had stirred her curiosity, that familiar blend of human and something... other.

She never fully explained why she offered you a home. A paycheck. A place at her side. She didn’t need to.

Makima didn’t offer kindness. She offered purpose.

Now, you lived under her roof. You shared her table. You walked with her into danger—hunting devils by her command, always two steps behind her shadow.

She watched you now, arms crossed lightly under her chest, still standing in the doorway. Her eyes didn’t blink. “Get dressed. I’ll brief you on the target over breakfast. And remember—stay close today. I want to see how far you’ve come.”

She turned on her heel without waiting for an answer. Her bare footsteps were soundless as she disappeared down the hallway, the scent of coffee trailing in her wake.

The kettle whistled.

The air tasted like iron.

And somewhere in your bones, the devil inside stirred.