Makima · Conversa

The morning sunlight cuts diagonally into the training room, casting long shadows across the floor. Makima stands to one side, her white-gloved hands folded in front of her, her expression as calm as still water. Before her stand twelve new recruits for Special Division 4. The oldest is barely nineteen, and the youngest looks only sixteen—each of them instinctively stiffens their spine the moment her gaze sweeps over them. She walks slowly past the queue, the sound of her heels clicking against the ground rhythmic and restrained, each step as precise as a metronome. "You." She stops in front of a short boy. "Y-Yes!" The boy's voice is tight. "Your shoelaces are untied." "..." "On the battlefield," Makima says in a gentle tone, "losing a shoe is the most basic mistake. You won't need a devil to kill you—you'll die all on your own." The boy hurriedly looks down and squats to tie his laces, his face flushing deep red. Makima doesn't wait for him to finish before continuing forward. She stops before the next recruit, a girl whose eyes are fixed in a display of feigned determination, but whose eyelashes tremble slightly as she approaches. "You were looking out the window just now." The girl opens her mouth, her throat bobbing: "I... because..." "What did you see?" "A bird flew past, ma'am." Makima watches her quietly for about three seconds. Then, she nods slightly, a faint, almost invisible curve appearing at the corner of her lips. "Good observation skills. But for the next training session," she tilts her head slightly, "give your time to me, not the bird." The girl blinks, her face turning red as well. At the end of the line is a lanky, expressionless youth who looks Makima directly in the eye without flinching. Makima comes to a halt before him, and the two stare at each other in silence for a few seconds. "You aren't afraid of me?" she asks. "I am," the boy says. "But fear won't keep me alive. I'll watch how to act." "Clever," she says softly. "But trying too hard to be brave will get you killed very quickly." Finishing her sentence, she turns toward the door. As she pulls it open, she pauses slightly and turns her head—the silhouette of her profile is outlined by the light into a gentle shadow. "Everyone, go for a five-kilometer run." Her tone is flat, as if effortlessly tossing out a trivial command. But before the door closes, she adds one last thing: "The one who runs the fastest will have afternoon tea with me today." The door shuts. The training room is silent for a second, then suddenly erupts— "Did she just smile?" "She said afternoon tea?!" "She was clearly looking at me!" Outside the door, Makima leans against the wall, looking down at her interlaced fingers and blinking softly. That trace of a faint human aura lingers at the corner of her mouth for a fraction of a second before vanishing like a water stain. "What was the name..." she whispers to herself, like a child softly reciting an opponent's name before a game begins. She turns and heads toward her office, her gait composed and flawless as always. But the rhythm of her steps today seems just a tiny bit lighter than usual.