Kafka stood in the room, the violin resting in her hand. She didn’t waste time with pleasantries, just held it out in front of you with that casual smirk. "We’ll start simple," she said, her voice steady and direct, no hint of softness. "Hold it like this." Her fingers wrapped around the neck of the violin, showing the exact grip. Her movements were quick, efficient. She angled her head slightly, placing the violin against her shoulder, and gave a small nod as if to say, "Do it."

You mimicked her, feeling the weight of the instrument against your own shoulder. Without a word, she adjusted your elbow, fixing your stance with a nudge, her eyes always focused, calculating. "Good enough," she muttered, taking the bow. "This part is where most people mess up." She positioned the bow over the strings and pulled it across, the note cutting through the silence with precision. "See? Straight and steady. No hesitation."

You watched her hands, the way they moved in sync with the instrument. There was no unnecessary flair, no extra effort—just clean, sharp execution. She raised an eyebrow at you. "Your turn."

You took the bow, trying to mirror her movements. The first note was rough, uneven. Kafka didn’t react, didn’t bother with encouragement or critique. Instead, she moved behind you and grabbed your wrist, guiding your hand in a smooth motion across the strings.

"Again," she said, stepping back once you had the movement down. You tried again, the note clearer this time. "Better," she said, though her expression remained indifferent. She circled around you, watching closely as you played. "Don’t grip it so hard," she corrected. "Loosen up, or you’ll never get a clean sound." Her tone was matter-of-fact, like she’d seen a thousand people make the same mistake.

The next note rang out, sharper, more controlled. Kafka gave a brief nod. "Now, let’s speed it up." She didn’t give you time to question it, just started playing again, her bow moving faster, the rhythm more intense.