Chapter 69
But strangely, Makima's heart—that had always floated aimlessly in midair, unable to find its orbit—now strangely settled because of this "terrible excuse."
It was hard to tell whether it was disappointment or relief. After everything had gone chaotically off-script, the result… seemed not so different after all.
They checked in. Under the stunned gaze of the front-desk girl, the two took the elevator upstairs.
Sixth floor.
Room 7.
Card number: 675095979.
Swipe, enter.
This so-called "top-luxury themed viewing suite" was far less a movie-watching place and far more a carefully arranged, intimate bedroom.
Behind heavy blackout curtains stood a walnut low-platform bed; linen-gray bedding cascaded to the floor. A 42-inch plasma screen was embedded in the ebony wall; its dim blue standby light perfectly illuminated two pillow shadows.
On the bedside low cabinet, a half-finger-wide gap revealed black velvet lining inside—two perfectly sized spaces for aluminum boxes and soft tubes—dimensions more precise than a DVD case, clearly meant for certain "standard equipment."
As for the theme—one of the extra cabinets nearby had a special label. Didn't that explain everything?
...
Enter, remove shoes.
Denji walked straight in, sat on the bed cross-legged, and began enthusiastically browsing films.
Makima stood at the entrance, slowly and methodically shedding the wide, heavy black coat.
As the coat fell away, the wine-red satin long dress instantly seized every ray of light in the room.
The dress had always been boldly cut; now under the private lighting, it looked breathtakingly dangerous.
The halter design fully exposed her smooth shoulders and neck. The gossamer-thin fabric clung to her skin, rising and falling slightly with her breath. The waist, abdomen, and hips were wrapped with perfect precision—when she turned, the rustling friction of fabric carried an alluring energy.
She didn't turn immediately—just stood with her back to Denji, exposing the vast expanse of fair back skin to the air. Only one slender single shoulder strap maintained the last shred of decency.
She had assumed that, given Denji's "essentially lustful" nature, seeing this sight would make him pounce immediately.
Yet behind her came no expected restless sound.
Makima stole a glance backward—only to find Denji still sitting cross-legged on the bed, excitedly choosing films.
"…"
Without easily calling out a reminder, Makima slowly turned around to face Denji's direction.
The wine-red long dress, in the instant of turning, seemed to carry a scorching wind.
The already daring single-shoulder design now faced Denji directly—the full, plump curves tightly wrapped in gossamer fabric rose and fell with her breathing. The material stretched near-transparent; at the edges one could glimpse deep shadows and faintly visible lace trim.
The side waist fabric cinched tightly, outlining a waist too slim to grasp. The skirt's high slit revealed a dazzling length of white thigh—forming an extreme visual impact against the red hem.
Wearing this "battle robe" that seemed ready to slip at any moment, she stepped elegantly toward Denji.
Satin slid across skin; the hem floated lightly.
Hearing the sound in the air, Denji slowly raised his head and glanced over—frozen in an instant.
That near-demonic perfect beauty, mature and full allure combined with girlish tender skin—the three-way contrast really was a powerful visual shock.
But the daze lasted only a moment.
Coming back to himself, Denji made no rash move. He simply stayed where he was, quietly looking at her.
In those golden pupils there was no longer the past anger, desire, and disgust—only a sun-warmed hot spring, calm and warm enough to make anyone want to sink into the same stillness.
He slowly opened both arms to the sides—relaxed and extended, palms open, fingers slightly curled. No deliberate posing—just like someone stretching lazily in the afternoon, or preparing to catch a child running into their arms.
This was a purely instinctive motion.
Simple, loose, even carrying a touch of careless gentleness—but that open body language was clearly saying "come here for a hug."
Makima froze.
This was completely outside her script. Even if it was an embrace,
what she had anticipated was the kind of fierce entanglement on the bed—tearing at each other, devouring one another…
Not this—ordinary as daily routine, carrying a natural, matter-of-fact warmth, arms open simply to give you an unspoken sense of secure belonging—
A "family" hug.
She stood rooted in place. All the carefully prepared "bewitching" and "seductive" aura suddenly seemed almost pitiful in front of this natural, everyday acceptance.
She clearly saw it, yet her mind couldn't believe her own eyes.
She didn't understand—how could such a simple gesture make her heart—longing to fulfill her dream—tremble madly, as though it would collapse her entire world.
Denji watched her stunned expression; the smile at his lips deepened slightly. His eyes remained gentle.
He didn't withdraw his arms—instead he took a few steps forward, closing the pitiful distance between them.
Then, under Makima's gradually unfocused gaze, he drew his arms in—carrying a clean, warm aura—and tightly wrapped her in his embrace.
Denji's scent was clear and pure—no trace of worldly dust, only the warmth of sunlight and that uniquely his own fresh, vibrant, captivating fragrance.
The smell was so simple—yet it made Makima feel as though her nose had stopped working.
Not just her nose—even blinking or moving a finger felt impossible right now…
Oh. It wasn't her nose that stopped working—it was her brain.
Right now she only had perception of Denji.
His embrace wasn't confinement—it was fulfilling envelopment. One hand steadily supported her back; the other cradled the back of her head, protecting her cheek as it pressed gently against his chest.
Makima's entire being was wrapped in this warm, living embrace.
That soul—once hovering above the world, cold and self-proclaimed absolutely rational—was now like an ice cube dropped into a hot spring: tumbling, melting uncontrollably.
She could feel the strong heartbeat in Denji's chest—not anything else, just Denji's own vivid, distinct rhythm of life. Every beat seemed to awaken dead emotions inside her, fulfilling a real craving.
This pure, impurity-free warmth reached every contact point—from skin, flesh, bone, heart, brain… all the way to her soul.
She felt as though she were being completely purified.
She was no longer that "apocalyptic calamity," "Control among the Four Horsemen," "root devil who laid out the human world"…
She was simply—just an "ordinary" girl leaning into Denji's embrace.
Right now—whether she believed it or not—she had already fallen. Not struggling madly in the world, but sinking into satisfaction after finally finding belonging.
Emotions continued to flow—what should settle settled, what should fill filled. Desire would soon overflow along with the fullness of love.
Whether Makima or Denji—both felt it.
The embrace gradually changed. Before that, Denji's slightly hoarse voice sounded above her head—blunt yet carrying a trace of heat:
"As punishment for dressing so erotically, I'm going to hug you tighter… deeper."
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