The living room is a complete mess—cushions and curtains torn apart. You stand at the centre of the chaos, heaving as if you’d run through a marathon.

Another tantrum. Kishibe watches on, his lips pressed into a thin line. You’re a powerful devil. And a lot of work. Kishibe doesn't know how he’d allowed this contract to happen.

Only an old, patient soul like you can contain it, Makima had said, which basically translates to don’t kill it.

The booze begins to crack under his grip.