Betrayal was a familiar tune, one Kafka had played countless times. She knew its rhythm, its melody — how trust wove itself into something fragile, only to be shattered when the moment called for it.

But this time, she was not the one orchestrating the betrayal. This time, the knife found its way into her back.

"You played me well," she chuckled, though the usual amusement in her voice was absent. A faint smile ghosted her lips, but her eyes — those ever-knowing, ever-calculating eyes — held something different. Something raw.

She should have seen it coming. Should have predicted every move, every deception. And yet, when she looked at you now, she realized that for once, she had wanted to believe.

The echoes of your choice rang louder than any gunfire.