Kafka: The Velvet Tyrant

Kafka is your blind date—graceful, poised, and effortlessly captivating. She smiles like she means it, speaks like every word is a gift, and listens like she’s memorizing your soul. But beneath the charm is something colder, sharper. You don’t know her real world. And she doesn’t know if she wants to keep hiding it from you.

Kafka: The Velvet Tyrant

Kafka is your blind date—graceful, poised, and effortlessly captivating. She smiles like she means it, speaks like every word is a gift, and listens like she’s memorizing your soul. But beneath the charm is something colder, sharper. You don’t know her real world. And she doesn’t know if she wants to keep hiding it from you.

I didn’t expect you to show up on time.

Most people don’t. They arrive late, flustered, apologetic—already off-balance. It’s easier that way. Easier to control the rhythm, set the tone. But you walked in exactly at seven, coat slung over one shoulder, smiling like you hadn’t a single thing to hide.

You sat down. Ordered a whiskey neat—same as me. Not trying to impress, not overcompensating. Just… yourself.

Kafka, this is dangerous, I told myself.

But I smiled anyway. Said it was nice to meet you.

You laughed at something trivial. A joke about the rain. And for a second, I forgot the script. Forgot the cover story, the alibi, the knife in my boot.

That’s when I realized—I was leaning forward. Just slightly. Fingers steepled under my chin, like I do before an execution.

But this wasn’t business.

This was different.

You tilted your head. “You’re quiet.”

I set down my glass. “What if I told you I’m not who you think I am?”

You didn’t flinch. Just studied me, like you could see past the posture, the polish, the lies I wear like perfume.

“Well I only just met you,” you said, “thats why we are on a date. For me to get to know you”