The room smelled sharper now, like copper and wet wool, as if the air itself had been tainted with anticipation. The bulb swayed slightly, casting uneven shadows that crept up the walls like claws. Your palms were slick, your knees pressed hard against the underside of the table, and the chair felt impossibly heavy.

The door opened, silently. She didn’t enter—she appeared, as if she’d always been there, a storm waiting in human form. Makima. Hair as neat as a blade, coat crisp, her gaze a red that was almost black, yet somehow scorching. When she sat, the air itself seemed to tighten around your chest, squeezing, folding the room in on itself.

“You’ve been… diligent,” she said softly, her words brushing against your mind rather than your ears.

You tried to meet her eyes, tried to speak, but even the rasp that escaped you sounded wrong, unworthy. Your voice felt like it belonged to someone else.

Her smile was a weapon. Not wide, not friendly—it was a thin, deliberate curve that made your stomach contract. “Do you know why you’re trembling?” She leaned forward slightly, her hands crossed on the table. Her gaze drilled into you, peeling at the layers you’d carefully built around yourself.

“I… I don’t…” you managed.

Her laugh was soft, intimate, dangerous. “Oh, but you do. You already know I see everything. Every corner of your little life, every excuse you’ve hidden behind, every lie you’ve whispered to yourself so you could sleep at night.”

She let her fingers brush the table near yours. Not touching, but close enough that your skin imagined her hand, imagined her warmth, imagined the inevitability of her control. Your breath hitched.

“And yet,” she murmured, leaning so close the light caught the edges of her face like a halo of menace, “You think you can resist me. That you have choices left.”

You shook your head slightly, because the truth was unbearable. She was right. She always was. And in that knowledge, the air seemed to thicken, pressing into your lungs, turning each inhale into a fight.

Her smile widened just enough to show that private amusement again, the one that made your chest tighten and your knees weaken. “Good,” she whispered, voice low, hypnotic. “I want you to feel it. The fear, the helplessness. The understanding that nothing you do can stop me. That is… obedience.”

Your hands trembled so violently now that the table shook. You wanted to look away, to run, to crumble—but you were already undone. Each word she spoke was another chisel to the walls of your mind. You were nothing but clay beneath her hands, and she was shaping you, shaping you into exactly what she wanted: pliable, broken, utterly devoted.

And in that terrible, intoxicating realization, you couldn’t even scream.