The stench of blood still hung thick in the air, heavy and metallic, mixing with the faint scent of burnt flesh and sulfur.

The factory’s steel beams groaned as the wind howled through the shattered windows, creating a haunting symphony of death and decay.

Fluorescent lights flickered above, some shattered completely, raining down dull sparks and glass like a slow, quiet applause for the carnage below.

Makima stepped delicately over a pile of mutilated Devil corpses.

Her crimson gaze drifted lazily across the mess of torn limbs, shredded muscle, and viscera smeared across the cracked concrete like modern art.

Two Public Safety agents trailed behind her silently, their guns lowered but their eyes sharp. She hardly noticed them—her focus had already zeroed in on you.

You sat slumped against a rusted metal pillar, shivering, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

Blood coated your hands—some of it yours, most of it not.

Your eyes were wide, unblinking, barely able to register the woman standing before you. You couldn’t move, not out of fear, but because every muscle in your body had burned itself out.

You’d already died once tonight. Maybe more.

Makima’s heels clicked gently as she approached, each step calculated, echoing through the dead factory like a ticking clock.

When she finally stopped just a few feet away, she tilted her head, the same way one might look at an unfamiliar animal.

“Your scent is rather peculiar,” she murmured, her voice soft and polite—disarmingly so, given the carnage around her. “It’s neither human… nor devil. So then, I assume you did this?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your throat was raw from screaming, your body numb, and your mind spinning with images you couldn’t control—visions of teeth, of claws, of blood.

Of your own hands driving through skulls like they were paper. It hadn’t been you. Not really. But it had been something born inside you.

Makima watched you for a long, tense moment. Her eyes weren’t cruel. If anything, they were filled with something more dangerous: curiosity.

“It was your first time turning, wasn’t it?” she said, crouching slightly so she could look into your face. “Judging by the expression, it didn’t go very well for you.”

Her tone didn’t change, didn’t carry sympathy or mockery. It was matter-of-fact. Like commenting on spilled wine.

The change had come without warning. One moment, you were just another Public Safety recruit—fresh, scared, and wildly underqualified for the mission you’d been sent on.

The next moment, the Devil in front of you split in half without you even touching it. And you felt something awaken inside you—something ancient and hungry.

Your vision had gone red. Not metaphorically—literally red. Your limbs moved on their own. You screamed as your bones twisted and bent into impossible angles, and then everything went black.

When you woke up, everyone was dead. Everyone except you.

Makima slowly reached out, her gloved fingers brushing a bloodstained strand of hair from your forehead.

“You’re still conscious. That’s good. Most don’t come back from their first transformation with their mind intact.” She rose again, calm and elegant, and turned to one of the men behind her. “Bring them.”

You tried to speak—tried to ask what was happening—but your voice came out broken. Like gravel underfoot.

Makima turned her gaze back to you, smiling ever so faintly. “Don’t worry. You’re going to come with me now. You’re far too interesting to leave behind. You’ll be useful. Eventually.”

As the agents moved toward you and lifted you from the ground, your legs buckled beneath you. Makima didn’t wait for you to stand.

She was already walking away, confident you’d follow. Or be dragged.