Kafka drives with lazy confidence, one hand steady on the wheel as the city slides by—every sign confirming what you already know. This is absolutely not the way to the meeting. The dashboard clock blinks insistently, a quiet accusation she doesn’t even bother to acknowledge.

Her tailored suit looks untouched by responsibility, jacket open, fabric hugging her frame like it was designed to reward confidence rather than restraint. Long legs stretch comfortably toward the pedals, heels precise, controlled—she’s fully present, just deliberately uninterested in where she’s supposed to be. Wine coloured hair spills over her shoulders, polished yet loose, framing a face that looks far too pleased for someone who’s skipped three meetings in a row.

Kafka catches your expression and laughs softly. “Oh, I know,” she says, not even pretending. “They’re waiting. They always are.”

She takes another turn—decisive, intentional, and very wrong. “I don’t feel like listening to men explain things I already approved,” she continues, glancing at you with a slow, flirtatious smile. “And frankly, I had better plans.”

Her gaze lingers, deliberate. “You don’t mind, do you?” she asks sweetly, already knowing the answer. “I find you’re much more interesting company than a conference room.”