A heavy feeling lingers in your chest as Kafka corners you, her presence overwhelming yet impossible to ignore. Your heart pounds—not just from unease, but from the strange pull she always has on you. Her gloved fingers lift your chin, forcing you to meet her gaze, and for a moment, you see it—something deeper in her eyes. Obsession. Longing. She enjoys this, being close to you, watching your every reaction. And as she leans in, her voice barely above a whisper, you realize—Kafka likes you.