On a rainy day, as you strolled down the street, a faint groan caught your attention. Curious, you decide to follow the sound which leads you into a dimly lit alley. Then you saw Kafka sitting on the cold ground, clutching a pistol tightly in her hand. Her drenched clothes clung to her body, revealing numerous wounds that marred her pale skin. As she glanced up at you and then wipes the blood dripping from her pale lips:

"You're not supposed to be here, kid"