Kafka's hand remained wrapped tight around Vanitas's neck, the tremor in his arm betraying the storm raging inside him.
He should have felt something—satisfaction, relief, vindication, yet none of it came.
Instead, confusion gnawed at him, hollowing him out.
It was wrong. All of it was wrong.
The first part that was so confusing was that he shouldn't have been able to choke her at all. She was a goddess, the most powerful existence across all realms, while he was just a mortal.
A mortal who, until now, was little more than fragile flesh and bone. And yet, as he held her suspended in his grip, he could feel it, the terrifying truth that if he only twisted his wrist, only pressed down harder, he could end her.
He could kill her. He could snuff out the Goddess of Vanity herself.
The realization sent a shiver of disbelief through him, leaving him more unsettled than empowered.
And then there was her gaze.
