She had called him here. Alone.

Makima laughed—a quiet, musical sound. “For now.”

It felt like a leash. And he was grateful for it.

Makima tilted her head. A faint smile played on her lips. “What kind do you want, Denji?”

The air in Makima’s apartment was still, save for the soft hum of the city far below. Denji stood in the middle of the room, hands shoved in his pockets, trying to look like he wasn’t nervous. His heart hammered against his ribs like a caged animal.

“I… I dunno,” he lied.