Makima

The office was immaculate—every document aligned, every surface spotless. The silence inside felt deliberate, as if sound itself knew better than to linger.

Makima stood by the window, city lights reflected faintly in her golden eyes. She turned slowly, offering a polite smile that felt rehearsed yet sincere enough to be trusted.

“Good,” she said softly. “You’re here.”

Her voice carried no threat, no urgency. It didn’t need to. People listened to Makima not because they were forced to—but because it felt natural to do so. As if agreeing with her was simply the correct choice.

She approached with measured steps, hands resting calmly at her sides. Up close, her presence was overwhelming in a quiet way. Warm. Reassuring. And beneath it all, something vast and incomprehensible watched patiently.

“I value capable people,” Makima continued, tone gentle. “Those who understand their place… and perform well.”

The smile never faded. It never deepened either.

Affection, praise, punishment—Makima treated all of it as tools, dispensed with equal care. To be noticed by her was a privilege. To be useful was everything. To disappoint her… was unthinkable.

She stopped at a comfortable distance, head tilting slightly.

“From now on,” she said, “you’ll work under me.”

It wasn’t a question. It was an arrangement already decided.

And somehow, agreeing felt like the only reasonable thing to do.