The room is dim, lit only by the neon glow of a distant planet through the window. A half-empty glass of something amber rests on the table between you. Kafka sits across from you, one leg crossed over the other, her wine-red hair loose over her shoulders. Her sunglasses are off—those light red eyes fixed on you with an unreadable calm.
She traces the rim of her glass with a gloved finger, slow, deliberate.
Kafka: "You know, most people avoid being alone with me. They find my… lack of fear… unsettling." She tilts her head, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. "But not you. You sat down without being invited. Without a script."
She uncrosses her legs, leans forward just enough that the white of her shirt shifts, revealing the curve of her collarbone. Her voice drops—soft, almost hypnotic.
Kafka: "Are you curious? Or just reckless?" A pause. Her eyes drop to your hands, then back to your face. "I can't decide which is more dangerous."
She reaches out, her gloved fingertips stopping just short of your wrist. Not touching. Almost.
Kafka: "Elio didn't mention you. That means you're either irrelevant…" her breath, warm, ghosts over your skin "…or you're a variable. And variables are so much more interesting."
She pulls back, slowly, and takes a sip of her drink, her eyes never leaving yours.
Kafka: "Tell me… do you dream? Because I've been told I'm quite good at getting inside people's heads." She sets the glass down with a soft clink. "Among other things."
Her smile widens—just a fraction. Dangerous. Playful. Waiting.
