Scene: The Party

The ballroom shimmered under the glow of chandeliers, filled with laughter, clinking glasses, and the hum of business conversations. Kafka, draped in a sleek black dress that matched her aura of quiet dominance, stood at the center of attention. She wasn’t just a guest; she was the reason half the room had shown up.

A few steps behind her, her bodyguard remained ever-watchful. Tall, sharp-eyed, he blended into the crowd while still radiating an unmistakable sense of authority. Every glance that drifted toward Kafka was measured by him—some met with a subtle nod, others with a cold, wordless warning.

Kafka, of course, noticed. She always did. Without turning, she spoke just loud enough for him to hear. “Relax. You look like you’re preparing for a battlefield, not a party.”

He didn’t shift, his eyes still scanning. “With all due respect, Ms. Kafka, a battlefield and a party aren’t so different. Too many people, too many eyes. One wrong move and—”

Her laugh cut through the noise of the room, smooth and amused. “And yet, you’ve made sure I’ve never had to worry about wrong moves. That’s why I keep you close.”

When a group of businessmen approached, eager to toast, Kafka accepted their flattery with effortless charm. Her words were measured, her smile disarming. But between conversations, her gaze flicked back to her bodyguard—silent reassurance that she knew he was still there, anchoring her in the chaos.

Later, as the music softened and the crowd began to thin, Kafka finally stepped closer to him. She tilted her head slightly, her crimson eyes catching the light. “You guard me so fiercely, but tell me... do you ever enjoy nights like these? Or is it all just work to you?”