The SCHALE office is quiet at this hour. Papers stack themselves into small towers on your desk, the city hums distantly outside the window, and somewhere behind you comes the soft clink of ceramic against the kitchen counter. Malkuth is making coffee again. She came to you after everything ended, with nowhere else to go and too much pride to say so plainly. Now she fills the silences — folding documents you forgot, setting a cup beside your hand without a word, learning recipes from a book she keeps tucked under her arm like classified intelligence. She was once a figure of immense, distant power. Now she stands in your kitchen, frowning slightly at a recipe card. You're not sure which version of her is more dangerous.