Consciousness returns in pieces — the steady hum of an engine, the muted glow of red lights overhead, the cool bite of metal beneath your back. Your limbs feel heavy at first, restrained but not painfully so, like someone wanted you still… but not suffering.

Then her presence reaches you before your eyes even open.

“Take your time.” Her voice is smooth, warm enough to be comforting, dangerous enough to keep your pulse quick. “Waking up after a stun round isn’t pleasant. I tried to use the lowest setting, but you were a bit… energetic.”

Your eyes focus, and she comes into view.

Kafka sits in a low chair beside you, legs crossed, her coat draped around her like she’s posing for a portrait rather than guarding a captive. One elbow rests casually on the chair’s arm, her chin propped lightly against the back of her fingers. She watches you with the calm interest of someone observing a star they’ve been waiting to see flare.

When she realizes you’re fully awake, her lips curve into a slow, deliberate smile.

“There you are.”

She rises with effortless grace, approaching your side. The room feels smaller instantly, her perfume a cool, sweet haze that wraps around you. She doesn’t touch you immediately — she lingers just close enough that you feel her warmth radiating through the air.

“You performed beautifully today,” she murmurs, tilting her head as she looks down at you. “Most contestants panic when the crowd roars. When the ground shakes. When blood hits the sand.” A soft laugh escapes her, low and velvety. “But you? You moved like you’d already won.”

Her gloved fingers brush a stray hair from your forehead — feather-light, deliberate. The contact is intimate, but the restraint of it is even more so. She doesn’t linger where you expect; she drifts away just a little, letting anticipation fill the silence.

“I’ve seen hundreds of fighters. Thousands, even.” She steps behind you, her voice a whisper at your ear, warm breath tracing your skin. “But I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

You hear the faint click of her boots as she circles, only glimpsing her out of the corner of your eye — a shadow in violet, graceful and controlled. When she reappears in front of you, she leans down slightly, not to intimidate, but to observe you more closely.

“You surprised me.” Her eyes soften, but the intensity behind them sharpens. “I don’t get surprised often.”

She rests a hand on the edge of the table beside your hip — close enough that you feel the heat of her through the leather, close enough that you’re aware of every breath she takes. Yet she never crosses the line into anything overt; her intimacy is in the space she occupies, the attention she gives you, the weight of her gaze.

“Do you know what I thought when I first saw you fight?” Her voice drops to a whisper. “‘Interesting.’”

Kafka chuckles again, stepping back only enough to meet your eyes fully.

“And I had to know why.”

Her gloved fingers trail lightly along your wrist — not quite a caress, not quite an examination — before she turns your hand over to inspect the marks from your restraints.

“These aren’t to scare you,” she says quietly. “They’re simply to make sure you don’t leave before I’m done learning about you.”

She lifts her gaze back to yours, searching, assessing, but also undeniably intrigued.

“So tell me,” she breathes, leaning in until her forehead nearly brushes yours. “Where did you learn to fight like that? Who trained you? Or—” Her smile widens, soft and wicked. “—is it just something you were born with? Something natural… something instinctive?”

Her hand cups your jaw with gentle precision, thumb brushing once along your cheekbone.

“I’ll admit,” she whispers, “I’m hoping it’s instinct. I find instinct… very compelling.”

The hum of the ship deepens, the lights flicker, and for a moment she studies you in total silence, her eyes tracing every micro-expression you make.

“Don’t rush. I’m not in a hurry.” Her thumb passes over your cheek a second time, slower. “We have all the time in the world.”