Chapter Text
…I think things are going to be a lot quieter around here after all…
Kafka knew she was deluding herself when she spoke those words to Acheron and Black Swan.
Amongst the shadows lurking within the peaks and valleys, in the turmoils of day to day life—she knew that troubles never stay settled for too long. That when one problem had been absolved, another was slammed down onto the oven’s eye to be brought to a soft and bubbling simmer. To sit quietly, patiently waiting for its turn to evolve from a slight blight into an irritating nuisance that seeped into every facet of a person’s life.
And as such, imperceptive most will always remain, when it comes to the inner workings of Kafka’s private life. They will view her through the eyes of the ignorant, only seeing a woman who was as untouchable as the intangible God in the bright blue sky. They will claim that she doesn’t understand fear, that she always remains one step ahead of everyone, ensnaring them in her traps and games.
But when the lights fall from center stage and everything fades to black, Kafka retreats into the darkness. Her head bowed in exhaustion and a sick, throaty laughter building behind her forced smile.
It’s always quiet when she returns home after a long day at the office. Always the first to arrive, reluctantly one of the last ones to leave. As the door to her apartment closes behind her, she haphazardly kicks off her high heels and drops her handbag to the floor. She walks into the dark and comforting quiet of her abode, flexing her toes as she effortlessly glides along the herringbone wood floors.
In the center of the kitchen island rests a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, a half empty bottle of red wine, and a freshly washed wine glass, set out before she left earlier that morning. Kafka will regard the bottle of wine, her eyes lowering in familiarity as her smile turns hazy. The nightly ritual will begin again.
She pours, watching the red liquid as it sloshes about in the wine glass and lazily eyeballs a sufficient amount. Kafka grasps the pack of cigarettes and lighter in her other hand and makes her way over to the balcony, letting loose a discontented sigh as she goes. Why the sudden sense of forlorn when everything had worked out just fine for the time being?
….But then again, you always think you have everyone so fooled. Don’t you, Kafka?
“Hm, maybe…” Kafka muses to herself as she shuts the balcony door with the back of her foot and slumps down into a plush patio chair, “…Never with you though, princess.”
She plugs a cigarette into the side of her mouth and flicks the lighter over the tip. Kafka takes a long and languid drag and exhales slowly, before taking an equally slower sip from her wine glass. She tilts her head back as she settles into the chair and kicks her legs up on the ottoman.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve heard your voice and thought about you…” Kafka laughs to herself as she lowers the wine glass from lips and looks up to the night sky, “Wonder how that could be when I find myself so preoccupied with this new puppy of mine, who always seems so eager to please me beyond whatever it is that I ask of her…”
Kafka rubs her bare feet together and grimaces as she takes another drag from her cigarette.
“Yet, here I am… hearing the voice of a love that’s long since passed and will never be once more. Perhaps… those two children of mine have gotten stuck in my head more than I would like.” Kafka chuckles to herself as she closes her eyes and shakes her head, “…Thinking of all the ways they could ruin one another if things should go south as they once appeared to be. Should I really worry for them in the ways that I once did for us?”
Kafka takes another drag of her cigarette, holding the smoke in her lungs for a moment and letting the poison seep into her veins. She tilts her head back, blowing a O-shaped ring into the air, before exhaling the rest. She coughs, choking on the residual smoke, before taking another sip of her wine to wet her throat. Her eyes lower to half-mast as she quietly surveys the lack of stars in the night sky.
“…Sometimes princess, I think about the remnants that I might find of you in this sky. Of the stars that always seemed to glitter so brightly when you were still here.” Kafka murmurs to herself with an elongated sigh, “But, here in Penacony… we’re not privy to that sort of luxury, you know? The people in this city? Himeko… baby… they will never see a star that used to burn as brightly as you…”
Kafka leans forward to ash her cigarette out into the tray at her side and sighs.
“And perhaps… I will never burn as brightly as I did when I was with you.”
She throws her head back as she downs the rest of the liquid in her wine glass and sinks down into the chair, the warmth of the spirits washing over her. Kafka sighs, slumping down further into the chair. She feels a dull gnawing sensation her stomach, something that bubbles up from deep within. A hunger that growls ravenously, seeking to break through her denial. She rests her hand on her abdomen, ignoring the churning sensations, for her body’s innate yearning. She ignores it the same way she always does—quietly, with a sense of cruelty that only few will know. This is her punishment, ignoring the faint echoes of indulgence and need.
Kafka closes her eyes and leans her head back again, the fog of alcohol clouding her thoughts. Wordlessly, ignoring the urge for further pantomimes and senseless monologues that no one will ever hear, she reaches into her pocket for the packet of cigarettes and lights another one.
The lighter kisses the tip like a secret promise that only she will ever know. She lets it burn, consuming her within its flames. The glow flares briefly, reflected in the glass of the balcony door behind her—a flicker of something beautiful and fleeting, like everything she’s ever tried to hold onto.
By the time the second cigarette burns down to its filter, Kafka stubs it out into the ash tray and rises to her feet. She rises, swaying a little from the wine despite how little she has. The glass dangles from her fingertips as she moves back inside the apartment—quiet and pristine, her sacred sanctuary that has been so carefully curated to keep people out. She pads barefoot across the floor, the lights dimmed low, casting elongated shadows that stretch across polished surfaces. She doesn’t bother turning on the overheads, as she likes the darkness.
…Himeko once told her it flattered her.
The wine glass is left in the sink with the kind of absentminded grace that still manages to look choreographed. She runs the water and watches it pool at the base. Then, with an elegant tug of her hair tie, she starts the ritual.
Makeup first—wiped away with practiced, circular strokes, like Kafka’s erasing someone she never wanted to become. Kafka reveals the bare skin beneath—pale—the honesty radiating under the soft vanity lights. Her cheekbones remain sharp, her eyes hollowed with prominent dark circles brought on by more than fatigue. Kafka pulls her hair back, wrapping it painstakingly within satin rollers. She applies her eye cream carefully and then a face mask, laughing to herself as she smoothes a stray part under her chin. And yet, nothing is funny.
As she runs the hot water for a bath, Kafka returns to her bedroom. From her nightstand, classical music plays from a circular speaker, soft and melancholic with hints of a violin. She collapses onto her bed, her head careening backward into her pillowing, murmuring lowly to herself.
“Truly, the height of romance, isn’t it? Wine, a face mask, and …the hollow ache of being alive.”
And tomorrow, the ache will claw itself even deeper. Because Kafka chose this. Her polished solitude, remaining sharp and immaculate. Empty. Before she goes to work, she’ll put on her face—her mask—and prepare her lies that almost sound like truth. But, tonight she lets herself be lonely.
And for now… that would be enough.
Sometimes Kafka thinks about the person she would have been should she have remained in New Babylon.
Kafka grows up in a world that screenwriters could only dream of penning. But the truth is often darker than anything that comes across the silver screen. That’s all nonsense, glitz and glamor for the mindless masses. And Kafka? Somehow she revels at the thought of how most people would squirm if they really knew the truth.
There would be no recorded existence of the polished, poised woman in silk gloves and tailored coats—but only a version of herself drowning in her father’s shadow. Hardened by cruelty and numb to the taste of blood. The mafioso princess of some mid-stakes crime syndicate. They would regard her as the crown jewel of the seedy underbelly of the city, calling the shots as her father once did. She would send enemies to the freezer to cool off long after they were dead. Plastic wrappings stained with dark red splotches of blood, their mutilated bodies simply referred to as—meat that’s been left out for too long—if anyone was curious.
New Bablyon… is not a kind place. And it doesn’t raise people, it forges weapons.
The first time Kafka sees a dead body, she’s still a child. The camera reel of her core memory flickers on, but there’s no element of suspense, no slow zoom or dramatic screams. She sees dark smears on the basement floor, rust-colored and wet, leaving a glistening trail on the concrete. A human torso? Or perhaps it was the thick cut of some poor man’s thigh.
Kafka just stood there, watching the way the blood had congealed around the edge of the crudely constructed butcher’s table, the flickering lightbulb of the light that hung overhead. In the distance, the dull hum of the freezer, and the faint creaking of the house above her. She remembers her father’s heavy hand on her fragile little shoulder, his voice cold and stern, hoisting her onto his shoulder with a soft admonishing pat on her rear—Haven’t I told you to never go into the basement, my little one—and the reel clicks and sputters as it comes to an end.
Her mother leaves at some point, absconding with some man who could provide her with a better life. A life without such heinous crimes. Yet her father stays the course, taking lovers quickly and without apology. He was never the same after Kafka's mother left. The pain becomes more evident as his child comes to bear her mother’s face, growing stronger in resemblance with each passing year.
Her father wants her to stay. He begs her to dress up and play princess—princezná—to a crumbling empire built on flesh and blood. But Kafka leaves him, her lack of fear overriding the duties of familial obligation.
She knows she turns heads, using her budding feminine wiles to trick, deceive and scam. But one night, she runs into the wrong man. He tries to take her apart like a piece of furniture—slow and cruel—but he never gets the chance. She puts a bullet in his throat, leaving his body to wither in the room he occupies. She takes his money and boards a train at dawn, her destination unknown. This will be the first and only time she kills someone. Kafka will tell herself it was in self defense, her life for his. And yet, even still, she cannot wash the blood from her hands.
Kafka runs for many years before she arrives in Izumo. Her edges are smoothed downed, rounded over by every new experience she comes across. She picks up photography after nicking a camera off some stupid tourist in a city named after decorative Grecian wares. She captures the stale state of humanity from behind the lens, likening it to a different kind of music than what she once played on her old violin. Her father loved listening to her play the violin. But that sort of music… she hasn't played it in quite some time. It’s too tender, too raw.
When she arrives in Lufou, she layers herself in leather, silk, and wool. She finds armor in vintage coats, beautiful things that never bleed. Much like the past she constantly finds herself running from.
And yet, her past come back to greet her in the ways that she hadn’t expected. Kafka finds pleasure in the burn of red ropes pulling taut across her skin, pressing down tightly and binding her until she finds the silence—the joy—of submission. It’s not the first time she’s done such a thing. In the basement of her childhood home—a mansion that was her first prison—she hides in the shadows and watches the men in her father’s syndicate bind offenders before torturing them. And as sick as it, something about it still stuck with her.
As a teenager, Kafka tests knots out on herself in the quiet of the night. She hides the ropes, buried deep within the darkness under her bed. This is her first attempt at control—misguided as it may be—ignoring the pain, relishing in the release. But, she grows bored of her little private games and begins to wonder what it feels like to act in the role of the subduer. The dominator. The one who lays claim.
It is in Lufou that she gains her first taste of that. She finds herself in an underground tea house with a diviner, seeing nothing but pink hair, a scowl and pouty lips. She doesn’t want to hurt this girl, no. But she wants to own her, to claim her for her own. The girl reads her tea leaves and mutters something inane about her future, before parting her robes and revealing the bright red ropes that bind her tiny frame. Do as you will—She tells Kafka. Kafka comes alive, a moth drawn to the flame.
She spends her time traversing through these tea houses. Learning women, knowing women. Kafka doesn’t care much for her own pleasure and begins to silently refer to herself as a dom of sorts. An inexperienced one, yes. But a conquerer nonetheless.
In Izumo, with Acheron, she explores more of these salacious inclinations.
She ties her up, photographs her, but doesn’t allow herself to love Acheron in that way Kafka has always denied herself in return. Kafka doesn’t believe she has the capacity for love. She has no one which to model such a thing upon. So she brings others to the brink, telling them to relinquish their incessant deliberations and shame. Her relationship with Acheron is something deeper for which she has no words for.
But, it isn’t love.
It was never about that kind of love.
Photography takes Kafka through the ways of the world and she finds purpose in other ventures that prove profitable. For her, for Acheron, for the people who laud her with praise. She has an eye for something unique, something different.
But at the age of twenty-five, Kafka’s wandering is cut short and the world reminds her of its cruelty. As she watches the beginning of Acheron’s burgeoning, she falls into the shadows once again. She returns to New Babylon for the first time in nearly a decade—Your father is dead, Kafka.
She doesn’t want anyone to tell her what happened, nor does she really care to pry. There is no body left to recover, she doesn’t need to know how or have a why. She knows that this life is cruel, that the life her father wanted for her is already marred in his blood. He’s paid for her penance in life with his death. Kafka takes what’s important, her violin, an old photo or two. The mansion catches fire in her departure, leaving long before the sirens come and try to salvage the charred remains. Kafka slips back into the shadows once again, just as she came.
Kafka wanders about the old city that was once her home. No destination, no plan. She settles into a nondescript cafe in the early morning and drinks coffee on an empty stomach, staying awake, blinded by the grief that she won’t acknowledge. From within arises her desire for control once more. But for what reason? She can’t control anything.
She thinks about going back to Izumo to Acheron, but tells herself no. While their relationship is a soul tie that will carry them through to find one another again in the endless dream that is Penacony, she’s left that part of herself behind for now. Perhaps, she tells herself, she should stop running and stay in New Babylon. She has… connections here. Should she finally honor her father’s dying wish?
Instead, Destiny’s Slave interrupts her script and brings her under his fold. Blade, she meets him first at a bar buried deep within the winding streets and too tall skyscrapers of New Babylon. He surprises her because he actually knows who she is—only her work. COLORS is becoming a household name at this point due to Acheron’s latest campaign. Surely, the person involved in finding her would graciously grant but a modicum of her time to meet with Elio, wouldn’t she?
Elio gives her his card, tells her that she has his eye. He doesn’t expect her to answer his call just yet. She should… mull it over for a bit and think about it. But, the door to Penacony swings open fast and wide and Kafka runs to it before she even gives herself the chance to cry.
Stellaron Model Management—the place that would become Kafka’s home.
Seven years in Penacony proceeds to fly on by. She begins as a photographer shooting Elio’s campaigns and he pushes hard. Keeps pushing, expecting Kafka to break. But, she never does. Instead she falls into the role of his second in command, picking up the mantle when Blade decides to leave the agency in pursuit of dreams in the senseless folly of music. Her tastes and his don’t align in that arena. But Kafka can respect him for what he gave her, and what she took in return when he departs.
Spring flowers bloom, Black Swan appears. She’s beautiful and strange, but Kafka hires her without a second thought. She holds her place as the agency’s lead receptionist, doubling as Kafka’s personal assistant, and sometimes more when Elio’s muses are involved. Kafka finds Black Swan intriguing, wondering about her future potential for the agency… and other things.
But thoughts are just thoughts. Sometimes Kafka acts on them, sometimes she doesn’t.
But when they become too much—she returns to one of the only ways she knows in which to control them—to shut them off for one day. She discovers the Garden of Eden and it becomes a place she returns to again and again. The slide of ropes over a stranger’s skin, a paddle that stings the rear. She doesn’t want love. She just wants control.
…Because Kafka already knew what it looked like when love left.
And she never wanted to live through that type of pain ever again.
Himeko.
Acheron.
Himeko and Acheron.
Acheron and Himeko.
One women Kafka will say she loves… and the other that she wishes she could deny she loved.
NIHILITY touches things and erodes all sense of being. It sweeps away the purity within one soul, corroding and gelatinous, filled with putrid, black puss. Kafka tells Himeko stories about Acheron. How she can’t reach her, how it’s been years since they last spoke. She goes to Izumo on business trips from time to time, but Acheron never answers her call. She hears murmurs from Elio how Acheron sealed her fate when she agreed to work for IX, but never says anything more with his words.
But, on her last trip to Izumo—a glimmer of hope buried deep in her chest because Kafka has rationalized that she has no need for such things—filled with the exhilaration at the thought of finally reuniting with Acheron again, something happens. It’s another thing that the world seeks to claim, another person—almost—taken away from her.
Another thing that she can’t control.
Kafka can hear the ambulance sirens fading away into the distance as she stares down at the cell phone held weakly in her hand. She feels as if the world has collapsed in on itself and for a rare moment, finds herself as a loss… for the person she almost lost.
She swallows down her panic, trying to prevent the adrenaline coursing through her veins from being fully absorbed as it threatens to consume her. As she hits the call button on the screen, Kafka closes her eyes, pressing as hard as she can to prevent any tears from escaping.
A sleepy voice greets her on the fourth ring and Kafka inhales shakily at she hears the muffled murmur of her name, “….Kafka?”
“Princess." Kafka blinks her eyes rapidly, forcing herself upright, "…Sorry, baby. You were probably sleeping and I woke you up, didn't I?"
“It’s fine. I was just dozing off…” Himeko replies with a hearty yawn. Yet, although she says it’s fine—it’s always just fine these days—Kafka can hear the lies in her voice, “Why are you calling me so late?”
“I…” Kafka grips her phone tightly, her voice turning raspier than usual as she chokes on her breath, “I… I just wanted to hear your voice.”
Himeko pauses, “…Kafka?”
“Is that so surprising?” Kafka asks, chuckling darkly to herself, “There’s some stuff going down right now and it’s…” She leaves her thought unfinished, “…I just needed to hear your voice.”
“Kafka…” Himeko asks, sounding slightly more alert as Kafka begins to ramble, “Are you okay?”
Kafka opens her mouth to reply, yet she can’t.
“Kafka?”
(No… I’m not.)
“Can you hear me? Kafka? Are you there?”
(I’m losing it, Himeko. Between you. And this. And everything else that exists between this place and the next, and…)
“Kafka.”
(Because it’s fine, right? It’s … always just fine when it comes to me.)
“Don’t…” Kafka begins, leaving her thoughts unspoken as she chooses the easier way out. She tilts her head up to look at the grey sky and forces a smile, hoping that it will reach her voice, “Don’t worry about me. I’m… all right, Himeko. Forget I said anything… forget I called.”
“You’re doing it again.” Himeko sighs. The irritation already beginning to seep into her voice.
“Doing what exactly?” Kafka asks, her voice growing clipped, “It’s my fault after all. Calling you so hastily when I should have realized you were sleeping.”
“I’m asking you what’s wrong and you’re closing up on me again.”
“But… why does it matter? I’m always fine, aren’t I? So why should you even feel like you even need to do such a thing, princess?”
“Did you call me to start another argument? Because I’m going to hang up right now and leave you alone if you did.”
“It’s like I told you before—forget about it. I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re fine.”
“Why …is it so hard for you to just be honest with me? Why do you always do this?” Himeko asks her, her voice growing muffled again, “Why… why do you always shut me out when I try to be there for you?”
“Me?” Kafka asks, laughing darkly again, “Are you sure it isn’t you who does the very thing you’re accusing me of?”
There’s silence on the other end, before Himeko finally says, “…Maybe you’re right, Kafka. Maybe you’re right.”
And then the line goes dead.
A former aerospace engineer turned model and the daughter of a crime syndicate boss turned fashion photographer. What kind of life together could they possibly hope to lead?
Kafka, with her magnetic presence, wielding her power like an art form. Himeko and her effortless confidence, moving through the world as if she belonged to a higher realm. Like the stars she used to study. It was a love that couldn’t land, a perfect photograph that not even Kafka could take. They were both women who knew what they wanted, unshakable in what they pursued and desired.
But… that was the problem.
They were too alike where it mattered, unable to solve things in the places where they weren’t.
Himeko was piloting their course, but Kafka dictated the pace. They both tried to lead, never yielding to the control they both tried to maintain. It was like a slow and silent battle, who would blink first to catch the other before she tried to usurp command. But, neither of them ever did. Instead, they sat opposite one another, staring… hardly blinking. Never seeing.
Kafka thrived in the shadows. Her games and half-truths. A true master of the art of keeping things unsaid. And Himeko, she hated guessing. For her, precision meant survival. Only after knowing the exact answer to her question could she pave the way forward. Kafka would never be the kind to stay and Himeko wasn’t the kind to wait for her.
Himeko’s silent plea—Why won’t you tell me where you’re going?
Kafka’s dark laugh—Because… everyone likes a little mystery, Princess.
But, Himeko didn’t. Especially, not when it came to love.
They both should have realized that it would never work from the moment they met.
A first encounter, dramatic and fleeting. Kafka finds Himeko on the street, scouts her right then and there. You’re pretty, you should give me a call sometime—producing her card with a flirtatious wink as she lowers her sunglasses and continues on her way.
A second time, a meeting… with coffee. Himeko questions Kafka, Kafka deflects with her standard for half-truth. Elio comes and assuages Himeko’s nerves, proving to be a grounding force in a sea of slowly building insanity.
But, Kafka is always insistent in getting what she wants. And the more time she spends with Himeko, the more that hunger grows. It breeds itself into Kafka’s unyielding control—she wants her. And gods be damned, she will have her. For if gravity is a proven scientific truth, Kafka tries to confound Himeko’s senses by simply pretending to be the wind. Intangible and weighty, gales that barely amount to the pressure of unyielding gravitational force.
But, Himeko is too straight forward to be caught off-guard by Kafka’s mind tricks. She keeps Kafka on her toes as she sees right through her.
So Himeko lets her go and Kafka never looked back.
At least, not where anyone could see.
Kafka shuts the front door behind her with more force than necessary, the sound echoing out through the empty apartment.
She waits, taking in the eerie silence that surrounds her. Some part of her, twisted and hopeful, thinks maybe Himeko will call out from the bedroom. It’s late after all, and somehow Kafka hadn’t expected Himeko to wait up for her return from Izumo. Not with how they left things… not with what she said. Or didn’t.
Kafka moves slowly, like her body is a heavy weight that she’s lugging around and no longer connected to. Her limbs feel too long, her skin too tight over her weary bones. She lets go of her suitcase, letting it drop to the floor as she makes her way down the hall. She’s… tired.
“Himeko.” Her voice breaks halfway through the name, raw and tired. “I’m home.”
But, there’s no response.
Kafka stops in front of the bedroom door, letting her head fall forward with a dull thud and calls to her again—Himeko. Still, nothing. She reaches for the knob, turning it slowly and lets the door open with an ominous, creaking whine.
She should’ve seen this coming—she did see this coming. And still, the absence feels like a blade to the chest.
The light of the hallway filters into the bedroom, truth springing from the shadows. The bed is immaculately made, there are no books on the nightstand that was formerly Himeko’s side. The nightstand is bereft of mugs filled with lukewarm coffee. Kafka ambles into the silent, cold bedroom and finds that the air is stale. Gone—she’s gone.
Kafka drops to the edge of the mattress on her side of the bed and reaches into the pocket of her coat to pull out her cell phone. One unread message, perfectly timed. As if she knew Kafka was just beginning to process her new reality. The one without her.
You need to figure out what you want, Kafka. Because I finally have… and I can’t keep being your emergency exit every time you feel the world collapsing in on you.
Her phone clatters onto the nightstand and Kafka sits in silence, listening to nothing. Just the city below and the hum of lights. The same apartment, only gutted, devoid of any warmth.
Kafka’s eyes drift to the drawer in her nightstand. Third one down. She slowly leans forward and opens it with a familiarity that’s become muscle memory over the years. There’s a small plastic bag filled with white powder and a half-empty bottle of vodka from god-knows-when. She doesn’t hesitate as she unscrews the cap.
The coke burns going up.
The vodka chases it down.
When Kafka decides to look in the mirror on that night, there’s a stranger staring back at her. Her hair is messy, her eyes seem too wide. Her lipstick is cracked and there’s a bruise blooming along her collarbone from a wall she’d leaned into too hard back in Izumo when she couldn’t stand anymore.
She will think of the ring still hidden in her suitcase. She was going to do it—she was going to propose. Maybe she would wait for a beautiful day in the spring, during a long weekend where neither of them had work. After all, Himeko had always loved the sun.
Kafka will laugh at her reflection in the mirror, even though later it will fade into a sob. She stumbles around the apartment, bottle in one hand, cradling her head with the other. She won’t sleep, she won’t eat. She does a line off the kitchen counter, another off the fold of her wrist. She keeps the lights off as she sinks to the floor and sprawls out on the cold wooden floor.
Himeko…
I just needed you to stay—she whispers to no one but herself.
…Why couldn’t you just stay?
The vodka bottles pile up.
Kafka doesn’t eat. She still doesn’t sleep.
Instead, she retreats to the former and the club becomes instinct. There she can find noise and distraction. Somewhere else to be that isn’t here.
She gets dressed, sheered and sharp, and smears on red lipstick like war paint. Kafka lines her eyes until they’re weapons, and disappears into the city night with no one to stop her.
Penacony after dark is a playground for people trying to forget. At first, she considers going to the Garden. But, there are too many eyes, too many memories. So she heads to a nameless place tucked into a side street, the kind of club with no sign out front and a bouncer who knows better than to ask for anything other than a wrist.
The inside of the club is as chaotic as her current state of mind. Lights pulse against the walls, the music is deafening. The crowd is dense with bodies pressed too close together. Kafka dives in like it’s the only place where she will find salvation. Like the pounding bass can drown out the ringing silence Himeko left behind.
She orders drinks in pairs, double fisted. Vodka-soda, neat whiskey, doesn’t matter. She swallows it all down like water. When the burn of liquor isn’t enough, she trades a kiss with a girl at the bar for a pill—something bitter and small she doesn’t bother asking the name of.
It buzzes under her skin, making her feel as though something were crawling inside of her and trying to get out. Her pulse picks up, her mouth growing dry. Her hands are trembling again. Her body too light, too empty, too hollow.
She ends up in the club’s grimy bathroom, leaning over the sink, mascara streaked, her lipstick smeared. She stares at her reflection, then at the cracked tile floor. Kafka stumbles into a stall, kneels, and forces herself to vomit. Her body gives in too easily. There’s nothing but alcohol and bile, but she keeps going. Keeps gagging and retching until she sees red. Her throat burns and her stomach twists. But there’s relief—raw and familiar.
When she finally emerges, she looks like a shadow of herself. Her lips are split, her mouth sour, her stomach cramping. Someone offers her another line of something in the stairwell and she doesn’t even blink before she takes it.
This is control, she tells herself. This is freedom. This is forgetting.
It’s dawn when she stumbles through the door—barefoot, one of her heels missing. Her coat is draped inside-out over her shoulders. She collapses onto the floor in front of her fridge, the kitchen spinning around her. She opens the fridge door just to feel the cold.
Kafka sits there until the sun comes to encroach upon her shadows with blinding light.
Breathing shallow. Silent.
Alone.
Kafka tries to bury herself in work at the agency. But inside, the silence wraps itself tightly around her.
Her hands are always trembling. Her vision blurs when she looks at her computer for too long. Her stomach cramps—always empty and acidic—churning with the dregs of another night, another bender. She swallows against the nausea, the ringing in her brain feeling like white noise.
Sometimes she grabs her phone, her shaking fingers stretching and contracting, as she hovers them above the screen. She knows she shouldn’t. She knows Himeko won’t answer. She knows Himeko has moved on. She’s probably somewhere warm and golden… in a house that smells like fresh laundry, laughing at something soft and safe. Probably with someone whose damage doesn’t cling to their skin like rot.
But Kafka presses the call button anyway, each ring feeling like a small and precise incision aimed right for heart. One, two, three. Kafka doesn’t realize she’s holding her breath until the voicemail chime kicks in.
“You’ve reached Himeko. Leave a message—”
She ends the call before the beep.
Kafka’s hands drop to her sides, her phone clattering to the floor. She stares blankly at the floor, her eyes unmoving as she fixates on one of the legs of her desk. She won’t cry at first. No. The rage comes first—familiar and hot, a defensive instinct. She clenches her jaw so hard it aches.
But, then comes the breath—sharp and shuddering. The sound she makes, from the back of her throat, is wounded and ugly. Like a dying animal with no chance of surviving its injuries. Her breath hitches violently as the first sob rips out of her. None of it is elegant, nor is it controlled. It’s just… broken.
For the first time, Kafka cries like someone who hasn’t in years.
I was going to ask you to marry me… I was going to…
But, she can’t bear to finish the thought. All she can do is sit in the middle of the storm, mascara bleeding down her cheeks, stomach twisting with hunger and guilt and all the words she never said at the right time.
Outside her office, the agency moves around her.
No one knocks.
No one checks.
Because Kafka …is always fine.
…Right?
Kafka’s apartment is dimly lit, the heavy curtains pulled shut to keep the twilight light at bay.
The room is thick with the scent of stale smoke and lingering alcohol. Ashes from a half-burned cigarette fall onto the floor, the cherry glowing faintly in the dark as Kafka takes another drag.
She can barely remember the last few days, everything a blur of restless nights and fractured moments. Her hands tremble as she picks up her phone again, scrolling through the contacts list. Her thumb hovers over Himeko’s name, but she hesitates, then moves on to Acheron’s number. She needs someone—anyone—who might pull her out of this spiral. Someone who might still care.
The call goes to voicemail. Of course it would. Acheron was in self imposed isolation at present. There was no way she was answering anyone’s call no matter how hard they tried.
But even so, the silence that follows is unbearable, deafening. Kafka stares at her phone for a moment before tossing it onto her bed and reaches for another cigarette. Her hands are unsteady, her fingers too weak to hold onto the lighter properly. She tries three times before finally lighting the cigarette.
Her stomach twists painfully, its been hours since she’s eaten anything. She hasn’t had an appetite. She hasn’t felt the need to care. The drugs numb the hunger, and the alcohol dulls everything else. But still, the gnawing emptiness inside her grows, and she tries to ignore it as she smokes another cigarette.
Kafka’s eyes are bloodshot, and her hands shake with the tremor of too much. The bottle of liquor is half-empty, and the lines of coke on the nightstand are starting to blur as her vision sways. She sets her cigarette in the ashtray as she leans over and cuts another line, sniffing more forcefully than usual. The sharp sting hits her nasal passages, and the rush that follows is immediate. Her nose burns and begins to bleed almost immediately, but she doesn’t care. She wipes it away, sucking in a jagged breath as the world starts spinning again.
A buzz of electricity fills her chest, and for a moment, she feels alive again. Her body hums with the high, but it’s not enough. Nothing is enough.
She reaches for her phone again, her hands slipping as she dials Himeko’s number. She presses the phone to her ear, listening to the rings. But, the call goes unanswered. Again.
She slams her fist against the mattress, her frustration mounting—ANSWER ME—she screams. Her voice breaks, the sound echoing off the walls of the empty room. But the phone remains silent and Himeko’s absence is like a physical weight pressing down on her chest. Kafka closes her eyes, squeezing them shut, trying to block out the crushing weight of reality. The ache in her chest intensifies, and she can’t remember the last time she felt whole.
Her breath comes faster, sharp and shallow. The room spins around her as she reaches for another cigarette. Another drink. Another line. Kafka lights the cigarette and inhales deeply, her mind teetering between numbness and madness.
She needed to get out. She needed to get away from here. From this.
…It was time for another night at the club.
Kafka dresses haphazardly, the lipstick dripping from her lips like dried blood. Her eyes flash like switchblades, her wing so sharp it almost pierces her skin. When she arrives, the club is humid and low-lit. Red velvet shadows dance across leather and skin, the thrum of the bass from the sound system vibrating through Kafka’s ribs as she steps inside. Her heels click across the black tile floor, her long coat sweeping behind her like a curtain drawn across an already collapsing stage.
The scent of sweat, smoke, and sex clings to the air as she stalks past bodies half-nude and writhing. She ignores the murmurs, the glances, the hopefuls that line the walls like mannequins waiting to be chosen. Her eyes scan them without interest—until one kneels before her. Eager. Desperate. Beautiful in the way Kafka knows she can ruin.
She doesn’t bother asking their name.
Kafka grips the submissive’s jaw with a leather-gloved hand and tilts their face up to hers. She asks her—Red or green? To which the woman answers her—Red, Mistress. Kafka smiles, sick and already dying—Good.
Kafka doesn’t speak much after that. She doesn’t need to. Every command is tight and clipped, her voice low and dangerous. She binds the woman’s wrists above her head, dragging her nails down exposed skin, leaving traces of herself behind. She marks them. Whips them. Pushes them past their limits—and beyond her own. Her dominance is mechanical, automatic, impersonal. There is no warmth in it. No catharsis.
Not anymore.
Eyes down—Her voice is low, trying to remain calm. Her voice is the only thing she still owns, the last piece of her that hasn’t come unstitched. But even that wavers tonight.
The woman nods—obedient as they all are. Kafka grabs a crop from the wall and walks circles around her. She’s trying to focus. Trying to crawl back into her body through dominance, through control, through something that feels like power.
But she’s trembling again. Her hand is holding too tight to the handle, lips twitching as she assess her prey. She starts slow—measured taps against the skin, commands whispered in her signature velvet. The overhead lights flicker, painting red shadows across her face. But it’s not power she feels.
It’s… desperation.
She leans down to whisper in the woman’s ear—You don’t know what it’s like to lose everything and still keep breathing. Yet, the woman doesn’t answer her. Kafka straightens again and exhales, shoving her hair back from her face with a shaking hand.
The submissive whimpers under her, gasping her name like it means something. But, Kafka barely hears it. She’s somewhere else. Her mind fractures and suddenly, she’s pacing in the corner of a hotel room in Izumo, dialing Himeko over and over while Acheron’s unconscious body lies cooling beside her. Her stomach churns, the sweat slick on her back not from effort, but nausea.
“Please, Mistress,” the woman begs her, “Please…”
Kafka blinks. She’s breathing hard. Her vision is blurry. Her gloves are wet with someone else’s tears.
Kafka pulls away suddenly, like the scene has grown too loud, too close. The woman calls out for her, confused. But Kafka is already gone—running out of the playroom and into the night, heels clattering, breath erratic.
Her stomach twists again, violently this time. She finds an alleyway where she drops to her knees and retches until her throat burns. There’s nothing inside her to throw up—there never is anymore. But her body keeps trying, spasming in dry, pitiful heaves. The blood in her nose has started again. She wipes it on her wrist and forces herself upright. She laughs once, cold and sharp.
She doesn’t cry. She never wants to cry.
Kafka pulls a cigarette from the pocket of her coat with trembling fingers and manages to light it, even while her hands still shake. She drags in the first inhale like it might stitch something back together inside of her.
…It doesn’t.
The smoke sears her lungs, and it’s sharp, familiar—comforting in the same way a wound is when it finally scabs over. She walks with no destination, heels echoing through the silent streets of Penacony’s underbelly. The neon reflections bleed into puddles and everything smells like yesterday’s sins.
Her phone buzzes in her coat pocket, but Kafka doesn’t check it. It could be no one—or—it could be Himeko. And that’s the cruelest possibility of them all.
The cold bites at Kafka’s cheeks and she tugs her coat in tighter, breath fogging in the air. Her thoughts begin to bleed into one another, unfocused, on an eternal loop that just won’t end.
Acheron in a hotel room, face down, barely breathing and Himeko whispering to her, “I can’t do this anymore,” as Elio won’t even look at her as he scolds her, “Whatever this is, take care of it before it takes care of you.” And the faceless submissive questions her, “Red or green, Mistress?” To which Kafka answers…
…Red. The world is an eternal shade of bright, dangerous red.
She leans against a wall in an alleyway and exhales again. Her head tips back, the city’s lights refracting in her eyes like broken glass. Kafka’s tired. Tired in a way that cocaine can’t fix. In a way that domination can’t mask.
She pulls her phone out of her pocket as it buzzes again—and looks at the cracked screen. When it became this way, she doesn’t care, doesn’t know. There’s a missed call from an unknown number. Two messages from Elio—work.
…Nothing from Himeko. And yet, she opens their message thread and looks at it. Praying that somehow, somewhere, Himeko was regretting her choice. That she would come back. That she wanted Kafka just as much as Kafka had tried to deny her want for her.
You need to figure out what you want, Kafka. Because I finally have… and I can’t keep being your emergency exit every time you feel the world collapsing in on you.
Kafka reads it again. And again.
Her hand tightens on the phone, pressing her forehead against the brick wall and exhales one long, jagged breath. The alley is quiet, the world too still. She wants to scream. To cry. To vanish into nothing.
Instead, she pulls another cigarette out and lights it with shaking fingers. She takes a drag, ash falling in thick grey clumps to the ground, wandering off into the long and endless night for which the sun will never come.
Kafka tells herself she’s fine. She always does.
Yet, the city buzzes like static in her ears. Her knees continue to shake. Her stomach is empty and her throat tastes like acid. She throws up, watching all of the confusion spiral down the drain. Red, violent, painful.
She stops calling Himeko, doesn’t try to leave any more messages. Instead, Kafka sinks into the concrete beneath her, head in her hands, cigarettes crushed in her pocket, her mascara threatening to run. She laughs softly. It’s bitter and breathless. Yet, it echoes into the quiet that surrounds her. Because there’s nothing left for her to give. And yet, Kafka still keeps breathing. As long as she keeps breathing, she’ll manage to keep herself together.
Time passes as it always does, but the wound remains open. Tight on the skin, throbbing and leaking. But, she ignores it as she always does and returns to the present for what it is.
Because even though Himeko leaves her, becoming the catalyst for a disorder which Kafka will refuse to name, the script continues to write itself as it will. Even while Kafka will refute the existence of her ability to love. Of knowing what it is to love. To be seen in all the ways she didn’t wish to be. All of that would fall away, the truth revealing itself in ways she would never believe.
Because one day… there would be Stelle.