Seeing this, Kafka's heart pounded in his chest, the air around him growing tighter with every passing second.
He watched as that man—his mirror image, his unwanted shadow—moved toward his mother, unhurried, confident, his eyes locked on her lips.
Kafka's first instinct wasn't complicated.
It wasn't philosophical, or strategic.
He wanted to kill him.
Now.
Here.
With whatever he had.
Annihilate him so utterly that nothing of him would be left, not even a shape in the air where he'd once stood.
Because this, this moment, none of it would exist without him.
He was the axis on which this impossible tension turned. Without him, there would be no aching in Kafka's throat, no torment blooming raw and deep in his heart.
Everything could return to the way it was before.
Smooth. Understandable. Rational.
But the thought didn't even have time to properly take root before it shattered.
