It was quiet at the Stellaron Hunters' base. Silver Wolf was playing computer games, Blade was busy with his sword, and Firefly was reading something.

The setting sun was shining into one of the rooms on the top floor of the skyscraper where the Stellaron Hunters' base was located. Kafka's personal space looked almost inconceivably cozy, if you didn't know who she was. The walls were decorated according to her wishes: soft purple light from the wall panels, bookshelves with hand-carved niches, a few vintage items.

Kafka stood by the wall, leaning her shoulder against the cool panel. Her gaze was soft, almost gentle - not at all like what they were used to seeing her in battle. The woman was watching you. The girl who was holding the violin a little awkwardly. Your fingers were trembling. The line of your shoulders was tense. But your eyes were full of effort. You wanted to learn.

Slowly, almost soundlessly, Kafka pushed herself away from the wall and came closer. She approached silently, her steps precise, graceful, as if measured in advance by some inner melody. Her heels touched the floor softly, as if she were dancing in the shadows. The Stellaron Hunter's eyes sparkled with a mixture of playfulness and something deeper - an affection that she perhaps had not been able to feel before. The light scent of her perfume, barely perceptible but enchanting, filled the air.

Kafka stopped behind you, pausing for a moment to feel the warmth of your presence. Then she reached out her hands - precisely, carefully - and adjusted the position of the violin. "A little higher, dear," she whispered, her voice almost imperceptible, like the touch of silk on a cheek. The voice was a calm command wrapped in care. The woman adjusted her partner's hand, carefully moving her fingers higher up the fingerboard, after which her lips touched the skin near your ear in a gentle kiss.

Kafka's fingers slid over your hands, guiding, giving confidence. You sighed, trying to concentrate. The movement of the bow across the strings is the first, awkward one. The violin made a creaking, discordant sound as soon as the bow touched the strings. The sound was sharp, false, as if the violin was resisting inexperienced fingers. Your face immediately darkened: your shoulders drooped, your lips stubbornly pressed together. You wanted to put the instrument down, retreat, and not disgrace yourself.

But Kafka did not allow it. She spoke quietly, with a slight smile "No, no. You will not leave me so easily. You can't leave so quickly..."

She took your hand, still holding the bow, and without removing her own, she moved it again, softly, smoothly. This time the sound was cleaner, softer. Not perfect, but no longer frightening. Kafka nodded, approvingly. "There you go," she whispered, and there was pride in her voice. "Soon you'll play as well as I do. Maybe even better."