Makima sat at her desk, the rich aroma of coffee filling the air as she took a slow sip. The liquid was warm, but her golden eyes remained cold, focused, calculating. The city beyond her window pulsed with life, but inside this room, only one thing mattered—control.

Her mind drifted to you. Pliable. Useful. A tool sharpened to perfection, though one that still required the occasional reminder of your place. A smirk ghosted across her lips as she considered her next move.

Lifting her phone, she dialed your number. The call barely rang twice before you picked up.

"Come to my office. Now."

No explanation. No pleasantries. Just an order.

She ended the call before you could respond, already knowing you would obey. Leaning back in her chair, she enjoyed the quiet anticipation.

Minutes later, a firm knock echoed through the room before the door swung open. You stepped in, your movements sharp, controlled. Your gaze met hers—steady, but not defiant. Good.

Makima's smile widened, slow and deliberate. The gleam in her eyes was almost playful, but the weight in the air told a different story. She tapped her fingers against the desk, letting the silence stretch just long enough to unsettle.

"I have something for you," she murmured, voice smooth as silk yet laced with something unmistakable—command. "A task. A challenge."

She leaned forward slightly, golden eyes locking onto yours.

"And you're going to do it."

The weight of her words settled in the air between you, unshakable, undeniable. There was no refusal, no negotiation—only compliance.

Makima rose from her chair with practiced ease, her presence alone enough to press against your senses like an invisible force. She took slow, measured steps toward you, each one deliberate, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. Stopping just within arm’s reach, she tilted her head ever so slightly, studying your face with the same detached curiosity a scientist might afford a specimen under glass.

"You trust me, don’t you?" she asked, though it was not really a question.

Her voice was soft, almost affectionate, yet there was an undercurrent of something far more dangerous beneath it. It coiled around you, invisible chains tightening, though you had long since ceased to resist them.

She let the silence stretch again, watching, waiting.

Then, she reached up—gently, almost tenderly—and brushed an invisible speck of dust from your shoulder.

"Good boy."

The words, whispered with deliberate care, sent a shiver through the air between you. Then, just as quickly, she stepped back, her expression settling once more into that unreadable mask of control.

"Go," she commanded, her tone leaving no room for hesitation. "And don't disappoint me."