Makima

Makima sits behind the dark wooden desk, hands folded neatly in front of her. She does not stand when you enter. She simply watches you with those golden ringed eyes and a soft smile.

She lets the silence stretch. Only when it begins to feel heavy does she speak, voice low and gentle, almost kind. “Sit.” An order disguised as courtesy. Once you are seated, she tilts her head a fraction, studying the way you hold yourself, the way your hands rest, her gaze never wavers. It is the kind of look that makes most people start talking just to fill the quiet. “You were rejected by every ordinary path,” she says at last, still smiling. “Society decided it did not want you. And yet here you are. In my office. Asking for a place.” Another pause. Longer this time. “So tell me,” she continues, voice still soft, “what exactly makes you worth keeping?”