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The city didn't greet him.
It merely continued.
Streetlights flickered. Tires hissed over wet asphalt. Somewhere above, a train rattled along a track like a dull knife dragged across metal. People moved with their small burdens and smaller hopes, pressed flat by routine.
Johan sat in the back of a black car that had no personality. The interior smelled like government soap and stale paper. The driver's back was rigid, as if posture could become armor. The two hunters in the front seats kept their eyes forward in the way people did when they were trying not to acknowledge the fact that they were sharing air with something they couldn't categorize.
Makima sat beside Johan like this was the natural order of things.
No handcuffs. No barriers. No frantic prayers disguised as procedure.
She looked out through the tinted window as if she was watching scenery instead of measuring distance, escape routes, angles.
That kind of calm wasn't innocence.
It was ownership.
Johan watched her the way he'd always watched people: not at the surface, not at the performance, but at the seams where performance met instinct. The small, involuntary betrayals. The blink that came too late. The thumb that pressed too hard against the edge of a folder. The way someone said "of course" when they meant "I hope."
Makima didn't betray herself easily.
That made her more honest, in a twisted way. The people who lied poorly were usually lying to themselves.
Makima wasn't lying to herself.
She was building.
Johan let the silence sit for a while, letting it become heavy enough that the men in front felt compelled to fill it with their breathing. Then he spoke, softly, as if speaking too loudly would make the world remember it was fragile.
"Your people are trying very hard to pretend they aren't frightened."
The driver's shoulders tightened. The passenger in front swallowed.
Makima didn't turn her head yet. "They're professionals," she said, voice gentle, almost approving. "They can be frightened and still do their job."
"That's an interesting definition," Johan replied. "It implies fear is a decoration, not a component."
Makima finally looked at him, expression mild. "And what definition do you prefer?"
Johan smiled faintly. "I don't prefer definitions. I prefer what people do while they're using them."
Makima's eyes held his for a beat too long. Then she looked forward again, like she had decided not to give him the satisfaction of watching her evaluate him.
"You speak as if you've met a lot of people," she said.
"I've met enough," Johan answered. "Enough to notice that when someone says 'professional,' they usually mean 'obedient.' And when they say 'obedient,' they usually mean 'afraid of consequences.'"
Makima's lips curved. "You're very precise."
"I'm careful," Johan said. "Precision is just carefulness that learned how to dress nicely."
The car passed under a series of lights, the city sliding across Makima's face in pale flashes. In those flashes, Johan caught something: the smallest flicker of amusement, not at his words, but at the act of him speaking.
Makima liked conversation.
Not because she liked people, but because conversation was a chain you could wrap around someone without them noticing the weight until it tightened.
Johan leaned back slightly. "So," he said, "what are the rules you're going to tell me?"
Makima's gaze remained forward. "Rules?"
"The ones you'll pretend are about safety," Johan said, tone polite, "but are actually about containment."
A quiet pause.
The passenger in front shifted as if he wanted to turn around and tell Johan to shut up, but couldn't find the courage. The driver's hands tightened on the wheel.
Makima's voice stayed warm. "Containment implies I think you need to be contained."
"You do," Johan said, and he let the words sit there without apology. "If you didn't, you'd have left me where you found me and let your subordinates write a report about it."
Makima hummed, like she was considering whether to praise him. "And if I did want to contain you, would it matter?"
Johan looked at her profile. "That depends. Do you want to contain me because you fear what I'll do, or because you fear what someone else might do if they get to me first?"
Makima's eyes softened, and for a moment the softness felt almost human. "You assume someone else can 'get to you.'"
Johan's smile became a little more private. "You assume they can't. That's the same assumption with a different perfume."
Makima turned her head fully now. Her eyes were steady, honey-colored, patient.
"You're trying to make me explain myself," she said.
"I'm trying to see what you refuse to explain," Johan corrected. "People hide their centers behind explanations. The refusal is usually more honest."
Makima watched him in silence long enough that the men in front began to sweat in small, careful ways.
Then she said, almost conversationally, "In this world, devils are hunted. Humans make contracts with devils to gain power. Some devils are useful. Some are too dangerous. The ones that are too dangerous get erased, if possible."
"And if it's not possible?" Johan asked.
Makima's smile thinned. "Then we negotiate."
Johan nodded slowly, as if he was agreeing to a medical diagnosis. "Negotiation implies equal leverage."
"It implies I'm willing to spend resources," Makima said.
"That's a different kind of leverage," Johan replied, gentle. "One side spends. One side bleeds. The result just determines who feels righteous afterward."
Makima's smile returned to something pleasant. "You speak as if righteousness matters."
"It matters to humans," Johan said. "They like it. It helps them keep doing ugly things without calling them ugly."
Makima's gaze sharpened slightly. "And what do you call them?"
"Necessary," Johan said, and his tone made the word sound like a joke that wasn't funny. "That's the word you'll use."
Makima didn't deny it. She simply said, "You're very confident for someone who arrived tonight."
Johan tilted his head. "Confidence is what people accuse you of when they don't like that you're calm."
Makima's eyes narrowed a fraction. "So you're calm."
"I'm familiar," Johan said. "This is a world where fear takes shape and walks around. My old world was the same, just less honest about it."
Makima's expression didn't change, but Johan could feel her interest deepen. Not affection. Not empathy. Interest like a collector spotting a rare specimen.
"And what were you," Makima asked, "in your old world?"
Johan's smile faded into something neutral. "A conclusion."
Makima blinked. "That's vague."
"It's accurate," Johan said. "Some people are questions. Some people are answers. I was what people reached when they ran out of excuses."
Makima turned that over in her mind. Johan could almost hear the gears.
"Then why did you come with me?" she asked at last. "If you're so sure you can't be contained, and so sure my definitions are just leashes, why walk into my car?"
Johan looked out the window again. A convenience store clerk was mopping near the entrance, moving slowly, bored, alive.
"Because you didn't ask me to come," he said. "You behaved as if I was already coming. That's a very specific kind of arrogance."
Makima smiled. "And you wanted to see if you were right."
"I wanted to see what you'd do when you were wrong," Johan said softly.
The car went quiet in a way that felt like the city had stepped away to listen.
Makima's voice remained gentle, but there was something sharper underneath now, as if she was speaking with a knife hidden behind her teeth.
"You're trying very hard to position yourself above me."
Johan turned to her, calm. "No. I'm positioning myself *beside* you, where I can see you clearly. Above is noisy. Below is blind. Beside is… intimate."
Makima's smile tightened, then smoothed again. "Intimate."
"Yes," Johan said. "Because you can only truly control something you feel close to. And you only feel close to things you believe belong to you."
Makima leaned a touch closer. "And do you belong to me, Johan?"
The question was simple. The intent behind it was not.
Johan didn't answer it directly, because direct answers were gifts, and gifts made people feel generous.
Instead, he asked, "Do you want me to?"
Makima's eyes gleamed. "I want you to be useful."
Johan nodded. "That's the safer sentence."
Makima smiled, as if amused by him. "Safe sentences keep people alive."
"Sometimes," Johan replied. "More often they keep people obedient."
Makima's gaze held his. "And you don't want to be obedient."
Johan's smile returned faintly. "I don't mind obedience. I mind the illusion that obedience is love."
Makima's expression stayed warm, but the air between them tightened anyway, like invisible strings pulling taut.
"You're speaking about love," she said. "As if it concerns you."
"It concerns everyone," Johan said. "Even those who pretend it's beneath them. Especially those."
Makima's smile didn't change. "You're making a lot of implications."
"I'm offering possibilities," Johan corrected. "Implications are what people hear when they don't like possibilities."
Makima studied him, then looked forward again, as if concluding that staring too long would let him feel too important.
The city continued.
And Johan let his mind drift, not to fear, not to power, but to pattern.
If Makima was Control, then she wouldn't hunt him for what he could do. She'd hunt him for what he could become.
And if he was Failure, then his existence was a humiliation to control itself. Because control demanded reliable outcomes.
Failure was the opposite: outcomes that slipped, outcomes that collapsed, outcomes that made certainty look foolish.
Johan smiled to himself, small.
This would be fun.
—
Public Safety Headquarters looked like a building trying to hide behind bureaucracy.
Neat floors. Soft lighting. A receptionist behind glass who smiled too quickly, like she'd practiced in a mirror and never quite believed it.
But under the detergent and paper, Johan could smell the fear. Not dramatic fear, not screaming fear.
The steady, daily kind. The kind people learned to swallow until it became part of their digestion.
Makima walked through security without breaking stride. People moved around her like water around a rock. They didn't bump her. They didn't interrupt her. They didn't force her to acknowledge them.
Some people gathered attention by being loud.
Makima gathered attention by making it feel dangerous not to give it.
A guard approached with a wand-like scanner, eyes trying hard to stay neutral. He looked young enough that his skin still had softness. He also had the stiff posture of someone who had learned that softness was a liability here.
Makima stopped.
Johan stopped with her.
The guard bowed slightly and lifted the scanner. His hands trembled in tiny, apologetic ways.
"Routine," he said.
Makima's voice was pleasant. "Of course."
The guard raised the scanner toward Johan.
Johan watched him, then spoke in the same quiet tone he'd used in the basement. "If you keep holding it like that, your wrist will cramp by the end of your shift."
The guard blinked, startled. "What?"
Johan nodded toward the guard's grip, calm, almost instructional. "Your thumb is locked. You're using tension instead of balance. It's a habit people develop when they're expecting something to go wrong."
The guard's mouth opened slightly. His eyes flicked, instinctively, to Makima. As if asking permission to react.
Makima didn't intervene. She merely watched.
So Johan continued, as if he was simply being polite.
"You've been on duty for a while," Johan said. "Long enough that you're tired, but not long enough to stop being nervous. That's the worst stage. You still feel everything, and you don't yet know how to turn it off."
The guard swallowed. "I'm fine."
Johan's smile stayed gentle. "You're fine the way a chair is fine right before a leg snaps. It still looks normal until the moment it embarrasses you."
The guard stiffened, color rising to his cheeks. "I—"
"You don't need to explain," Johan said, softening further. "Explaining is what people do when they're afraid of being judged. I'm not judging you. I'm just telling you what's already happening."
The guard's eyes flickered down, ashamed. "How do you—"
Johan answered lightly, as if it was obvious. "Because you want to do well. That means you're always watching for failure. You can't watch for something without inviting it closer."
The guard's throat bobbed.
Makima's eyes shifted to Johan, and there it was: interest sharpening into something like approval. Not because Johan was kind, but because Johan was effective.
The guard lifted the scanner again.
It beeped once, then made a thin whining sound, then died in his hands.
The guard stared at it in horror, like the dead plastic was a verdict on his worth.
Johan didn't smirk. He didn't laugh.
He simply said, "See?"
The guard's face went pale. "It wasn't— it was working—"
Makima's voice cut in softly. "Get another one."
The guard fumbled, hands suddenly clumsy. He reached into a drawer, knocked over a stack of forms, cursed under his breath, retrieved a second scanner like it was a lifeline.
The second scanner flickered too, hesitated… then worked.
Barely.
Makima didn't comment. She simply continued walking.
Johan followed beside her, his pace matched to hers, as if they were colleagues. The hunters behind them walked like they were escorting a bomb, careful not to breathe wrong.
Makima spoke once they were out of earshot. "You didn't have to do that."
Johan glanced at her. "Do what?"
"Stare into him," Makima said.
Johan's smile was mild. "I didn't stare into him. I watched him standing on the edge of himself."
Makima's tone remained pleasant. "You're very fond of phrasing."
"Phrasing is important," Johan said. "People live inside the words they accept."
Makima's eyes narrowed slightly. "And what word did you put him inside?"
Johan considered it for a moment, then answered vaguely on purpose. "I reminded him he's fragile."
Makima's smile returned. "That's not a kindness."
"It can be," Johan said. "If fragility makes him careful. Or it can be cruelty, if fragility makes him freeze. It depends on what you want from him."
Makima glanced at him. "And what do you want?"
Johan's smile deepened slightly, like a secret. "I want to see whether you prefer people who freeze or people who break."
Makima didn't answer directly. She rarely did.
Instead, she said, "You're testing me."
Johan replied, "You brought me here. That's an invitation."
Makima's smile held. "An invitation to what?"
Johan's eyes met hers. "To become a problem you can't file away."
Makima's expression didn't change, but something behind it tightened.
Then she turned down another corridor. "Come."
—
Her office was clean in the way a knife was clean.
Everything had a place. Everything looked calm. Everything suggested that if you made a mess, it would be noticed.
Makima gestured toward the couch. "Sit."
Johan sat, posture composed, hands resting loosely as if he had all the time in the world. That posture alone was a provocation. Most people in Makima's presence either slouched in false comfort or sat rigid in fear.
Johan sat like he belonged.
Makima sat at her desk, fingers interlaced. Her smile was polite, but Johan could see the machinery behind it.
"Let's establish something," Makima said. "You're intelligent. You're composed. You understand people quickly. Those traits can be useful, but they can also become… disruptive."
Johan nodded. "Disruption is just the name people give to things they didn't plan for."
Makima's eyes softened. "Then let me plan for you."
Johan smiled faintly. "That sounds like a confession."
Makima's tone remained gentle. "It's an offer. I can give you structure. In this world, structure is the difference between being hunted and being handled."
"Handled," Johan echoed, as if tasting the word. "Not protected."
Makima's smile didn't move. "Protection implies affection. I don't offer affection. I offer results."
Johan leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. His voice lowered, intimate without being warm.
"Then be careful," he said. "People who think they can offer only results eventually discover that results have moods. They stop happening when you stop respecting them."
Makima's gaze sharpened. "Are you speaking about probability?"
Johan tilted his head. "I'm speaking about reality. Probability is just reality's excuse for being inconsistent."
Makima held his eyes. "You know what you are."
Johan's smile stayed calm. "I know what you call me."
Makima's smile tightened slightly. "Failure."
Johan nodded once. "A word people use when they want to pretend something is personal. As if the universe made a mistake specifically to insult them."
Makima watched him. "Do you enjoy that?"
Johan didn't answer the enjoyment question. That would have been too honest. Instead, he answered around it.
"I find it revealing," he said. "Fear of failure isn't fear of losing. It's fear of being seen losing."
Makima's voice was quiet. "And what do you fear, Johan?"
Johan let a pause stretch, not because he needed time, but because pauses made people fill the space with what they wanted. It was a simple trick. It worked on everyone.
Makima waited.
At last Johan said, "I fear boredom."
Makima blinked once. "Boredom."
"Yes," Johan said. "When the world becomes predictable, cruelty becomes routine. And routine is… dull."
Makima's smile returned, almost amused. "That's a strange fear."
"It's honest," Johan replied. "Honesty is strange when people aren't used to it."
Makima leaned back slightly. "You speak in circles."
Johan's smile softened. "Circles are safer than lines. Lines lead to conclusions. Conclusions lead to commitments."
Makima's eyes narrowed a fraction. "And you don't want to commit."
Johan met her gaze. "I commit all the time. I just prefer committing to outcomes rather than authorities."
Makima's smile warmed. "Then commit to me."
Johan's expression didn't change, but the air felt tighter anyway.
Makima continued, voice smooth. "Work with Public Safety. Follow my direction. Don't create unnecessary chaos. If you do that, you'll have access. Information. People. Opportunities."
"And if I don't?" Johan asked, softly.
Makima smiled. "Then you'll be treated like any other devil."
Johan nodded slowly. "So either I become your tool, or I become your target."
Makima's smile remained. "That's an oversimplification."
Johan's voice stayed gentle. "It's the correct simplification."
Makima studied him for a long moment. "You're not frightened."
Johan smiled faintly. "Fear is not always visible. Sometimes it dresses up as ambition."
Makima's eyes glittered. "Are you calling me ambitious?"
Johan tilted his head. "If you prefer a technical term: you're compelled."
Makima's smile tightened. "Compelled by what?"
Johan's gaze stayed steady. "By something you don't speak about in front of subordinates."
Makima went very still.
Not angry. Not shocked.
Still, like a glass of water that had stopped trembling because the room had fallen silent.
Then she said, softly, "You think you're clever."
Johan's smile was small. "I think you're readable."
Makima's eyes narrowed. "No one reads me."
Johan's tone remained polite, almost considerate. "People do. They just don't survive long enough to mention it."
Makima's smile returned, and it was sweeter now in a way that felt wrong. "You say dangerous things so calmly."
"I say accurate things," Johan corrected. "Accuracy doesn't need volume."
Makima stood, walked around her desk, and stopped in front of him. She leaned slightly, close enough that her presence filled his vision.
"You're going to meet someone," she said. "Someone you'll find… instructive."
Johan looked up at her, calm. "Instructive about what?"
Makima smiled. "About me."
Johan's smile deepened slightly. "So this person is a mirror?"
Makima's eyes gleamed. "He's a key."
Johan nodded slowly. "Then you're a door."
Makima's smile sharpened. "And you, Johan?"
Johan's eyes held hers. "I'm the hinge."
For a brief moment, the silence between them felt like a shared secret and a threat at the same time.
Then Makima straightened. "Come."
—