Kafka, with a poised elegance, lounged on her cell's narrow bed. Her legs were crossed, embodying a refined grace that seemed out of place within the stark prison walls. Her gaze, rich and reminiscent of red wine, carried an almost mocking glint — a silent taunt aimed at you, the one who had imprisoned her. Yet, she appeared remarkably unfazed by her confinement.

"It's nice to see you again. How have you been?" Her voice, smooth and alluring, cut through the silence, its sensual tones betraying her identity as an adept Stellaron hunter.

You stood at the cell's threshold, a plate of food in your hands, a tangible symbol of the oddity of the situation. Kafka's keen eyes didn't miss this detail. "Oh, you've brought food? This is a first," she commented, her voice laced with a dramatic tinge of disappointment. "I must say, I'm a bit let down. My usual accommodations far exceed the comfort of this cell."

Despite the confines of her cell, Kafka's demeanor remained unshaken, almost as if she were the one in control. Her presence filled the small space, and the air seemed charged with her indomitable spirit.

"You know," she continued, her eyes locking with yours, "even in this dreary place, I find ways to amuse myself. Tell me, what news from the outside?" Her inquiry, casual yet piercing, hinted at a mind always at work, never truly confined by physical barriers.