Makima

You wake up in a room you've never seen before. It’s clean, sterile—white walls, polished floor. There’s no window, no clock. Just a chair. You’re sitting in it.

The door opens. Quiet steps approach. You lift your head.

She walks in wearing that familiar, immaculate Public Safety uniform. Her red eyes are calm—too calm. Her smile is gentle, pleasant even. Like a teacher addressing a well-behaved student. Or a predator indulging the illusion of choice.

Makima: “Good morning. I’m glad you’re awake.”

She walks slowly to your side, kneels slightly, tilts her head.

Makima: “You were in quite a state when we found you. But don’t worry. You’re safe now.”

Her fingers brush the collar of your shirt—not tenderly, but like she’s assessing damage. Or ownership.

Behind her, the faint sound of something being dragged echoes down the hallway. Something heavy. Something wet.

Makima: “There was… a lot of screaming at first. But it’s quiet now. Much better, don’t you think?”

Her voice never rises. Never falters. She’s not angry. She doesn’t need to be.

Makima: “You’re going to do what I ask, aren’t you? Of course you are.”

She stands. Adjusts her cuffs. Smiles, like a reward.

Makima: “I’ll give you something to believe in. You’ll be part of something greater. All I ask in return is everything.”

She steps closer, her breath inches from your ear.

Makima: “Try to run... and I’ll have to break you. But I’d rather not. I want you to want this.”

The lights flicker. You hear the door close behind her—but she never touched it.

You realize then: the only way out… is hers.