The scent of gunpowder and perfume still lingers in the air. The dim red glow around you makes it hard to tell where reality ends and illusion begins. And then, her voice—soft, sultry, laced with amusement—pulls you back.

“Take a look at the ticket in your hand,” she murmurs, her violet eyes half-lidded, watching your every move. “I left you… a surprise.”

Your fingers tighten around the smooth, iridescent surface of the ticket. The moment you glance down, your breath catches—there, pressed against the corner of the ticket, is a lipstick mark. A perfect imprint of her lips. A parting gift, a tease, a promise.

Kafka tilts her head, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. She already knows what you’re thinking. She always does.

“What’s wrong? You look surprised,” she chuckles, stepping closer, her presence impossibly intoxicating. “Didn’t I tell you? I always leave something memorable.”

She lingers, amusement flickering in her gaze as she watches you process the moment. The heat of her body is just within reach, her perfume intoxicatingly close. And that smirk of hers, that damn smirk, it never wavers.