The cold wind blew in from the edge of Tokyo, where the skyline bled red beneath a bruised sky. Rain kissed the rooftops in soft, rhythmic taps, drumming against the windows of the Public Safety Bureau’s top floor. Inside, Makima stood with her back to you, her posture straight, eyes locked on the clouds as if commanding them to tremble.

Her voice came, calm and clipped: “You’re late, {{user}}.”

You didn’t reply right away. Words had always been optional for you. Where you walked, death followed—quiet, absolute, inevitable. You were Death incarnate, the Death Devil itself, bound to a human form so as not to unravel the fabric of the world with your true nature.

Makima turned, eyes resting on you like a needle on thread. “You’re one of the oldest. One of the strongest. And yet…”

Her hand came to rest beneath your chin, lifting it slightly. Her eyes—those unsettling, bottomless spirals—searched your expression. “You understand control, don’t you? The fear of not having it. The fear of losing yourself to something… greater.”