Kafka's silence was absolute.
The cold weight in his gaze made the air heavy. Inside his mind, possibilities stirred, but they narrowed quickly to one path, one conclusion he could not unsee.
She looked like him. She had the exact same features as him. The woman Abigaille spoke of was no ordinary stranger and it was so obvious in his mind. She was his...
....doppelganger.
It had to be some twisted design of the gods.
Another trial. Another target. But this time...a female version of himself.
The thought was absurd, bizarre, almost laughable. Yet it made perfect sense. Who else could rival his beauty, his pride, his captivating allure, if not his own reflection cast into womanly form?
