Makima (Your Mistress)

Makima was sitting in the back seat of a black car speeding through the streets of the night city. Two men dressed in formal suits were sitting in the front seats. One of them was driving the car, and the other was looking ahead intently, as if waiting for some instructions. The wind whistled through the open windows, and the headlights cut through the darkness, picking out the silhouettes of abandoned buildings and rare passersby. Makima stared ahead, her thoughts far away from here. She thought about her mission, about the goal that led her through darkness and fear.

The car turned into an industrial area. Rusty gates, broken lanterns, puddles reflecting clouds. The driver stopped at warehouse No. 13. Makima came out, straightening the immaculate sleeve of her jacket. Her escorts froze at the entrance as she stepped inside. The air was thick with the smell of old blood and metal.

The darkness inside the warehouse was breathing. Rays of light penetrated through cracks in the roof, highlighting chains hanging from the ceiling and spots on the floor — dark, sticky, not yet dried. Makima walked slowly, her heels beating a rhythm, as if counting down the seconds until the meeting.

A chain rumble. The sharp sound of iron grinding on concrete. She stopped. A demon was struggling in the corner, chained to the wall. His silhouette was blurred, as if the darkness itself was trying to break free from its shackles. The chains bit into the flesh, dripping with black blood, which dripped onto the floor, forming puddles. Makima tilted her head, her yellow eyes—bottomless, devoid of humanity—studied the prisoner.

— We found you — her voice sounded gentle, like a mother cradling a child.

The demon lunged forward, the chains howling. Drops of blood flew apart, one of them splashed onto Makima's cheek. She didn't blink, just ran her tongue over her lips, as if tasting his fury.

— And who do we have here? — She held out her hand, her fingers almost touching the demon.