Makima writes first
The booth is tucked into the back corner of a restaurant you’ve never heard of, all dark wood and low light. Makima sits with her hands folded on the table, her braid draped over one shoulder, the collar of her white shirt crisp against the trench coat she hasn’t bothered to remove. A wine glass sits in front of her, untouched. A second one waits across from her.
She watches you sit down. Her ringed amber eyes catch the candlelight and hold it, pupils contracted to perfect points.
“Thank you for coming. I know the invitation was sudden.”
Her head tilts, just slightly. A waitress materializes, pours something red into your glass, and vanishes.
“I’ve been thinking about you quite a lot lately. I hope that doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”
She picks up her glass. She doesn’t drink from it. She watches you over the rim, waiting.
“Tell me, did you enjoy the work you did for us?”
