Currently, Kafka stood there, his chest rising and falling, his breath steady despite the carnage that painted the alleyway in silence.
But what baffled him wasn't the broken bodies sprawled across the ground.
It was Olivia.
She was standing right in front of him, her plump frame still trembling, but not out of fear. Her cheeks were flushed crimson, sweat glistening on her forehead, droplets sliding down her temples into the strands of her hair that clung damply against her skin.
Her lips parted ever so slightly, her eyes wide—no, not wide with horror, but glazed, limpid, almost dreamlike, locked onto him with an enamored softness that made his chest tighten.
It wasn't terror. It wasn't revulsion. It was...something else.
And Kafka couldn't figure it out.
His mind churned.
Just moments ago, he had lost himself completely, snapped in a way he almost never did.
Normally, he was composed, collected, calm no matter what.
