Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The concert hall is cold and dark. Stelle almost couldn't stand it. 

At centre stage, under a blinding spotlight, a woman in a black silk dress with dark purple accents stands in front of the orchestra. She shakes the hand of the first-chair violinist, greets the conductor with a nod, and addresses the audience with a deep bow.

There are mumbles among the crowd, all on the edge of their seats to watch the main event. To Stelle's left, Welt nudges her to pay attention. March 7th crosses her arms at her latter side and hopes to be impressed. 

The woman wields her bow like a sword and holds her violin with all the confidence and ease in the world. She invites all the attention to herself, so clearly in love with eyes only on her. She nods to the conductor as he gestures at her entrance. 

And she plays. 

Stelle leans forward in her seat, enthralled. 

"Excellent, isn't she?" Welt whispers. 

Furrowing her eyebrows, she puts her palm over her mouth and doesn't reply.

Backstage in her dressing room, the conductor and a group of men in suits give her a bouquet. They congratulate her on her performance and almost huddle around each other, fighting for the woman's attention with compliments and exaggerated confessions. 

Stelle stands awkwardly beside her two companions, waiting for the woman to tend to them as promised. She watches the woman smile at everyone within her vicinity, exactly how she pictures the woman to act. The woman is tentative and incredibly perceptive of everything around her. She undoubtedly acknowledges their presence from the other side of the room. Stelle catches brief glances, but the woman only grins. 

"Is it really okay? She seems busy." Stelle finally speaks up.

Welt replies, scrolling through his phone, answering emails, and clarifying Stelle's schedule for the rest of the week. "They invited you," he says.

"Her people invited me. She didn't." Stelle sulks, turning to the side. She's sure the woman only sees their meeting as a chore, especially after a concert. 

March sighs and steps her heel off the wall. She tucks her pink hair into her cap and adjusts her face mask. For being an idol, especially with the public around her finger, March must remain unrecognizable if she wishes to maintain a regular life. She came here today to accompany Stelle and to kill her curiosity about the woman. 

"She's intimidating. Way taller than I thought." March looks her up and down. 

Stelle sways, watching the woman receive a bouquet. "I think she looks nice." 

"You say that about every girl you meet."

"Because I mean it!" She pouts. 

The woman in the black dress hasn't done anything to make Stelle suspect her of bad intentions, but she knows about the speculations surrounding her. There isn't anyone in the world who hasn't heard of them. Despite them, she wants to see herself—all the attention the woman manages to gravitate to by simply existing. 

The idol hums and dips her cap before stepping towards the dressing room door. "I'll wait outside. There are too many people in here, and according to them, I'm supposed to be locked in the studio." 

She grumbles before twisting the door handle and giving the two a salute. 

Stelle watches March bump into another group of suited men walking into the room. She blurts out apologies before disappearing in the hallway. She looks over to Welt, sighing as he writes another email. 

"Mr. Yang," she breaks the silence, "Why did we go today?" 

"I thought it's a good opportunity to watch her live, in her element, without any predispositions."

She tilts her head, curious—  a little cautious. "Predispositions?" 

"Well, depending on her first real impression, you'd be biased, wouldn't you? Now that you've seen her perform, what did you think of her?"

"She's…" She chooses her words carefully. "An attention grabber." 

"Her musical performance, Stelle." He reminds her. 

From across the room, Stelle and Kafka's eyes meet almost immediately. They both quickly looked away. 

"I think she's charismatic. Her presence is kinda overwhelming when she's on stage. And she's good at the violin, I guess."

Welt peeks at his side and nods in reluctance, catching her holding back her true thoughts. 

A short woman with tied-back grey hair begins to approach him. Purple glasses are too big for her to sit on her head, and despite the formal event, she wears an oversized black and blue jacket, similar to one professional gamers wear. 

Welt takes a step forward first and offers his hand to the short woman. "You must be Silver Wolf. It's good to finally put a face to the emails."

"Mr. Yang, it's about time we met. I apologize for keeping you two waiting. There are a lot of things to do even after the concert." She shakes his hand, her grip stiff. The short woman's gaze hovers over her. "And you must be Stelle. It's a pleasure to meet you in person. I've only seen you on movie screens."

She gives an embarrassed laugh. "Thank you so much for watching my movies."

"By how my client talks about them, I had to make time."

"And what did you think?"

Silver Wolf lifts an eyebrow and looks up to the ceiling, pensive. She snaps her fingers, having found a response. 

"I think you're talented." 

The woman inches in their direction as Welt and Silver Wolf exchange pleasantries about work. Attempting to peel herself from admirers, she maintains a kind smile to end the conversation promptly. 

Stelle feels disposed to straighten herself— she tightens her posture and grabs onto Silver Wolf's words about Kafka, the performance, or something about Stelle's new movie. But none process in her mind; Stelle plays the hem of her coat's sleeve. 

She shakes the conductor's hand one more time before bowing to the others crowding her. The woman puts a hand on Silver Wolf's shoulder. 

"You've gone to meet them without me?" 

"You were occupied." She nudges the hand off and adjusts her collar back into place. 

The woman lets out a breath of hair and turns to Stelle's manager first. She offers him the top of her hand. "Welt Yang of the Astral Express Company, it's nice to see you again."

He takes it awkwardly. "In a better context, I suppose." 

Stelle looks between them, catching Welt wearing the same smile he shows to the annoying staff behind the music shows March attends. There's some tension that she can't explain. But she ignores it, nudging Welt from behind. 

"You must have heard of her already, but this is my client, Stelle." 

Welt pushes her forward. Stelle conceals her anxieties and slips into character. She pretends.

Silver Wolf points to the woman, "And this is Kafka, the most famous—"

"—violinist of our time. It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Kafka."

She interrupts Silver Wolf and steps forth herself. Stelle puts a hand on her heart and bows, eyes locked onto Kafka's face. 

Kafka looks at her, scanning her from head to toe. Stelle stands tall and confident, with no hint of backing down in her presence. The woman hums and offers her a hand. 

"I've heard many things about you." Stelle gently kisses the tip of the fingers, her gaze unwavering and focused.

"Likewise. But I do hope they're mostly good things."

She keeps her hand on hers. "For one, they say your beauty is unparalleled." 

"What do you think?"

"I think they're right," Stelle huffs. "As pretty as the flowers you're holding."  

Kafka lets out a short laugh. "We're going to get along just fine, Stelle."

Welt coughs, interrupting their gazes. "Stelle, you will shadow her for the next few months to study the violinist's life. Unfortunately, today is just a meet-and-greet; you have a fitting for the film in two hours." 

Stelle nods to the comment before returning her focus to the woman. "I apologize for cutting our first meeting so short." 

"The obligations of an artist, I suppose."

"Do you have any obligations, Miss Kafka?"

She puts a finger to her chin. "I'm only here to dazzle and impress you, Stelle." 

"You don't have to try so hard. You're doing fine already."

"A charmer with words. No wonder you're an actress." 

Stelle almost freezes. Her eyes slightly furrowed. "I'm not acting." 

"Sure, sure. I believe you." She waves a hand, dismissing Stelle's comment. 

Silver Wolf pokes Kafka's hip, directing her attention to the men in suits staring at her this entire time. One of them dips their sunglasses, silently asking for a moment of Kafka's time. 

The woman nods and smiles. 

"See you again, Stelle." Kafka slips an anemone into her hair, one in the same shade as Stelle's gold eyes.

In Stelle's apartment, she cuts vegetables for dinner to make soup. The vegetables overstayed their welcome in the refrigerator, so she threw things together to use scraps, making sure nothing went to waste. 

Mounted onto the wall in the living room, the television replays Stelle's baseball endorsement for the third time in a row. She dips her cap and swings her bat, and the ball flies into space. The thumbs-up she gives explodes into the logo of the National Baseball League. 

Summer is right around the corner, so make sure to reserve your seats for the big game!

The television halts into black before flashing the logo of a late-night talk show with Kafka's name under it. The camera slowly zooms in on the interviewer. He pauses and waits for the camera to halt on the frame. Then, he greets the audience with a bright smile and wave. 

We're back from the break with the galaxy's most talented! Kafka! We talked about your private life and how you spend most of your time at home.

The interviewer crosses his legs, and leans in. The audience's cheers die down, and they wait. 

Talking about your hobbies and love for coats, but everyone has been asking about your romantic endeavours! Kafka, you're quite desired, you know that, don't you? Your love life has always been a major topic among fans.

So I've heard!  

She replies with a perfect smile. Stelle notices a slight dip in her eyebrow, tired of a question she's been asked countless times before. It's noticeable to the regular person, maybe even to her if she wasn't paying close attention to everything about the woman. Or that she's watched every single appearance of hers for the past two years. 

Having watched countless of Kafka's interviews, she notes that each time, she's given a different answer: that she's too busy, that no one interests her enough, or that she's completely indifferent to dating. 

My one true love is music, you know that.

I do! The interviewers jeer. But honestly speaking, Kafka. Having known you for years and the audience having followed your career since you were a young child actress, give us a taste of your interests! What do you look for in a partner? How high are your expectations?

I don't have too high of expectations, she says, a bit frank this time. Just someone kind and gentle. Humour is a fun perk to have, too.

So you're seeing someone now?

Stelle flinches, cutting slower onto the carrot. 

Not really. I have no need to fall so quickly in love. After all, I have my career to focus on. 

He wears a worried look now. 

But isn't it lonely in your luxurious high-rise penthouse? 

The audience responds with a giggle. Kafka follows along, covering her laugh with the back of her hand. 

It's not a penthouse! Just a humble condominium!

In the most expensive neighbourhoods in the nation? Kafka, you undermine your success too often! 

She rolls her eyes playfully and waits for the audience's reaction to die down before returning to the question.  

I'm prone to loneliness. I'm just like everyone else, after all.

Many would disagree. He leans again further, folding his hands together. A woman like yourself, a diamond in the rough. Not like a neighbour next door, that's for sure.

You flatter me. She smiles again, turning to the camera, as if talking directly at the viewer. Her eyes bore into Stelle's. 

I'm simply looking for companionship. A pet, perhaps.

She crosses her legs and puts her hand on her knee.

There's always a puppy in need of adopting. 

Stelle slices against the wooden chopping board, loud. Placing down the knife, she puts her hand on her hips.

An unlikely pair seen together! STELLE was seen backstage with KAFKA after one of her best performances of the year! 

The tablet slides across the boardroom table. With Dan Heng and March on one side and Welt and Stelle on the other. Himeko sits at the very end, crossing her arms. 

"Front page, huh?" There's a photo taken at the exact time Stelle kissed the top of Kafka's hand. 

Stelle scrolls with her finger. She realizes there's little to the story. Instead, it's just a report that they were in the same room. For most of the article, they advertise Stelle's new movie and Kafka's next concert. 

"It's Kafka, after all." March stretches. 

Stelle has gotten used to Dan Heng and March's presence in meetings like these even though they're usually only here to kill time while in their headquarters, she can't exactly shoo them away when they've provided reliable input about matters. 

"Regardless," Himeko speaks up. "I wasn't aware of this."

Welt flips his tablet to show an email. "Pom Pom was the one who gave the okay. The director recommended that the Stellaron Hunters reach out to Stelle." 

For a moment, Himeko stays silent with a finger on her chin. She begins to nod slowly, connecting puzzle pieces only known to her. 

"I see." She simply replies. 

Stelle raises her hand. "Is it a problem?"

"In hindsight, no."

"But in foresight?"

The red-haired woman leans back in her chair and sighs. "I have no issues with the Stellaron Hunters; rather, this is a personal matter. Kafka has had difficulty in the past with her relationships. We were in the same string quartet for years. I have a gist of what's happening in her personal life."

"The Stellaron Hunters…" Dan Heng says it as if trying to taste how it feels off his tongue. It's bitter, but remorseful. He meets Stelle's eyes again. "I agree with Miss Himeko. Proceed with caution."

Stelle laughs. "You guys make it seem like I'm heading into uncharted territory."

"Yingxing was friends with Dan Feng." His words cut into the air, making everyone fall into a freezing silence. He stares, ardent. "Or I think he went by Blade in his last public appearance."

"I see." Stelle folds her fingers together. 

Welt kills the tension. "It's been reported that they're going to debut a new artist under the name Firefly. What's fascinating about the situation is that Firefly was Robin's former bodyguard."

"The Robin?!" Wearing a smile, March slams her hands on the table, standing up from her seat. 

"The Stellaron Hunters like to hire interesting characters… even that manager of theirs is out of the ordinary." 

Stelle already tuned them out. She stares at the headline again. Is her meeting with Kafka so newsworthy? She breaks down each word—it gives an undertone like some movie clandestine affair—that it's somehow scandalous that they're together. 

Her face grimaces; she looks to the side to cover the grin spreading across her face. 

Her phone vibrates on the table. As the others continue to talk, she opens the email. 

[10:08 AM] Silver Wolf: Greetings. I hope this message finds you well. This is Kafka's manager, Silver Wolf of the Stellaron Hunters. Kafka would like to invite you to discuss the practicalities of your work study. Please inform me when you are free of schedule. Kafka is excited to meet with you under more casual circumstances. 

She reads over the message several times. Kafka is excited to meet with you under more casual circumstances. Kafka is excited to meet you. Kafka wants to see you. 

She raises her hand again, and a hush comes over them. She looks over at each of their faces and becomes serious. 

“Regarding Miss Kafka… I will be vigilant. Based on our past interactions, she seems kind enough to mentor me. But I don't think she's interested in letting me into her personal life if this was the director's request." 

"I'm not interested in her personal life either." She clears her throat and presses send.

[10:10 AM] Stelle: I'm free anytime after 4:30pm tomorrow.

Her words are more intended for Himeko. She catches her gaze, and she nods at the woman. Although uncertain of the situation, Himeko leans back on her chair and still nods back with a frown. 

[10:12 AM] Silver Wolf: Perfect. Kafka has rehearsals until 5:15pm. Thus, I have slated your meeting at 6pm tomorrow. Kafka has also requested to meet at The Delicacy Pavilion in the Aurum District. Though I will not be present at the restaurant, as I will be tending to another client, I wish you both a great time. Thank you, and have a good rest of your day.

Stelle hits the brakes of her car into a parking spot. Despite having made more than enough for a decent livelihood, her car is still the same one she used before she became an actress. No one would expect the brash, bold, award-winning, womanizing Stelle to drive a decrepit car. It's good for camouflage and to avoid paparazzi.

She adjusts the rearview mirror to face her better as it hangs on the last of its wires. She straightens her bangs and aligns them in a placement that feels right. 

She looks at herself. Dissatisfied. 

She shakes her head and combs her bangs. She splits her fringes again. 

"Okay, there," Stelle whispers to herself. She slaps her cheeks together, getting into character. "Alright!"

When she enters the restaurant, the hostess immediately recognizes Stelle. She doesn't give her name to the hostess when she's led to the furthest side of the building. She passes by booths full of businessmen and familiar people who have worked behind the scenes in films.

The hostess lifts a red curtain and finds Kafka sitting at a brown table in the middle room. She lifts a glass of water to her lips as she meets Stelle's eyes. 

As Stelle takes a seat, Kafka waves a hand at the hostess. She bows and leaves the room. 

She settles into it, dragging the chair along the hardwood. Her gaze does not leave Kafka's; it is as if she's challenging the woman. Kafka's eyes pierce into her, making Stelle feel small in her presence. 

Still, she pretends. 

"A private booth? How fancy, Miss Kafka." Stelle unfolds a menu, her sights switching from the photo of Mapo Tofu to the woman in front of her. 

There's no greeting; she feels it's unnecessary for mundane pleasantries. She has a feeling that Kafka wants, and it's definitely not meniality. 

"We wouldn't want people to intrude on our date, no?" Kafka doesn't spare a glance. She turns the menu page. 

She tilts her head, clueless. "Who said this was a date?"

"I did." Kafka tilts too, teasing the girl. She finally meets her eyes. 

Stelle breathes through her nose, unable to find a rebuttal to match. The woman tosses the menu onto the table and scoots her seat forward. She props her elbow onto the wooden table and leans on her palm, staring keenly at Stelle. 

"Order whatever you like. I invited you; I'll pay this time around."

She snorts. "Implying the possibility of future dates?" 

But Kafka takes her seriously, and flashes her with a toothless grin. "If you're good to me, this won't be our only date."

A waiter, one of the younger staff members, takes their order. He trembles every time Kafka opens her mouth, and the pen in his hand shakes while he writes down their orders. Stelle feels bad for the kid but understands why such reactions are warranted when in the woman's presence. He bows three times before leaving for the kitchen, not before he bumps his forehead on the doorframe. 

When the food arrives, three waiters arrive in massive trays. They set them down without a word, finding no time to even glance at the woman in intimidation. Stelle mutters thank yous before they leave. 

"Tell me about yourself, Stelle." She waves around chopsticks, picking at the small plate of char siu, "If we want this work study to go smoothly, I at least have to know a little bit about you if you're trying to learn everything about me."

"Not everything, Miss Kafka," Stelle interjects, correcting her. "Just of the classical musician. What do you want to know? I'm an open book." 

"Introduce yourself." Her tone, a bit more pointed, demands Stelle give it to her bare, and everyone she's asked of this probably obeyed. She knows this. But she can't relent that easily—not if it's this woman. 

Stelle sits up in her seat and replies. 

"I'm about 173 centimetres. I work out regularly. I like baseball, and in my free time, I like to play video games." She reiterates her introduction for casting directors. It's unintentional, but there's an abundance of professionalism she feels she needs to exude. "Ah, I also listen to music as a hobby, and I'm interested in mixology."  

Tasting the iced tea on her tongue, she pauses. She looks up from her drink, blankly staring at the woman. The glass clinks on the table as she sets it down. 

She crosses her arms, cocky. "Honestly, Miss Kafka, I highly doubt you're the type of person to go on a date with someone you haven't done a background check on."

"I didn't do a background check," Kafka laughs and swallows a mouthful. "But my people certainly did. What do you think they said, Stelle?"

"That I'm a felon whose crimes were excused for my good looks?"

"It's spotless. Lived a regular life up until 19, your first breakout role, as the lead, no less, even with no experience at all. Five years later, still no scandals, no terrible accusations, nothing. I suppose that's just raw talent, but it's like you didn't exist until you began acting."

Stelle picks at a xiaolongbao in the brief silence. "Maybe I didn't."

"Careful." Kafka urges. "Some people may not take that as a joke." 

"Then you must be other people. I'm sure you know me enough, Miss Kafka."

The woman sets her chopsticks on the edge of a rice bowl and folds her fingers together on the table. She leans forward on her seat and quietly exhales. Her eyes change; the wall of dauntlessness dissipates into playfulness. 

"I know your character on camera well enough. She's playfully boyish, a complete flirt, especially towards women. Endearingly irreverent."

"I'm flattered." She mutters, sucking in the chopsticks. 

"But tell me, Stelle," Closer, Kafka leans. Bolder, Kafka dares. "To what extent is that an act?"

"What makes you think I'm acting?" She replies immediately. 

"I've been in this industry long enough to know." Kafka blinks, Stelle shifts in her seat. "I won't pry if you don't want me to. I'm simply curious. Where do you begin?"

"This is me, Miss Kafka." Stelle's eyebrows dip, and she lets out a dry laugh. "I have to admit, I've never been asked that question. I don't think anyone actually cares enough." 

"On the contrary, I think everyone does. They all have their eyes on you."

Stelle can be bolder as well. "You too, Miss Kafka?"

"How could I not? It's estimated that this film will be the top-grossing movie next year." 

"That's because of the cast."

"But they only say that when you're in it, Stelle. Give yourself more credit." The woman picks up the chopsticks again, scanning the table for the next entree to try. Her utensils land on a platter of Chaozhou beef balls. She looks up again, fluttering her eyes at Stelle. She directs the conversation in a different direction. "What's the movie about? I'd like to hear it from the lead actress herself."

She swallows a pinch of rice and clears her throat with a cough. "The downfall of the troubled violinist, one so focused on her abilities to improve and perfect music. She ruins her relationships and her life for the sake of art." 

"It's not that sombre, though. It's a happy ending— the violinist realizes her love interest is much more important than pursuing art, and she chooses her. Then, they drive off into the sunset. It's a cliche ending, but I think it's just the right one for the main character. She goes through absolute hell; she deserves it."

"How very… fiction." Kafka nurses a glass of wine. Her voice trails, and she looks away from Stelle. "Why do you think you were chosen?"

"Because I'm good at what I do." She replies, clear and pointed. It's the most sure thing she's said so far. A piece of pork belly falls from Kafka's chopsticks. The reply takes a second to process in Kafka's head. She stares, almost confused, then throws her head back in a loud laugh.

"So confident! And rightfully so. You are good at what you do, Stelle." The response wasn't meant to be funny, but Kafka whips the corner of her eye. Her giggles die down, and she poses another question. "Do you want this film to be a success?"

Stelle almost scoffs. It sounds like a stupid question, but when paired with a woman whose intent is unreadable and a tone so sharp, it's a challenge. She straightens her posture and returns Kafka's intense gaze. 

"Of course I do," She smiles politely. "I want this film to be a success." 

"Then, I'll do everything I can to make that happen." Kafka lifts her chin and folds her fingers on her lap. "Now, what do you know about me, Stelle?"

"Not much." She says with fried rice in her mouth. 

"I'll be the judge of that." Kafka leans forward. 

Stelle lets out a nervous breath. She rises from her seat, meeting Kafka's height on hers. She squints and maintains a tone of carelessness. 

"You were a child actress. Homeschooled since the age of nine after constantly getting roles for massive blockbusters. Yet, you still found the time to practice the violin because you enjoyed it. Your last acting role was at 17 as a lead in a historical drama, and then you went full-time as a violinist. Nowadays, you are as popular as a television personality and classical musician." 

She takes a sip of iced tea and lies. "That's the extent that I know you."

Kafka leans back, sighing. "I'd be impressed if that wasn't the first thing you see when you search my name." 

Her smile twitches, nearly vexed. "You like being asked about your craft. You hate questions involving your private life, particularly your love life."

"Yes, and?" Kafka provokes. 

"You've never publicly admitted to being in a relationship. You only ever cared for music."

Stelle mentally hits herself. Why would she imply that she's seen more than enough interviews to confirm that? Her face twitches.

Kafka nurses the wine glass on her palm, watching a swirl manifest. She takes a long sip and feels the drink fall through her throat. On top of the long silence, she releases a satisfying sigh.

She leans on her palm again and smirks. "You were lying about the extent, you know. Weren't you?"

Stelle falls quiet.

"It's okay. I lied, too. I was only here to dazzle and impress you. I want to know you, Stelle. Even with five years under your belt—four movies and countless television appearances—you're still stunningly naive for this line of work."

Stelle frowns. "Was it something I said?"

"It's the way you carry yourself." She counts on her fingers. "Oblivious to your popularity. Believing casting depends solely on skill. Thinking you can fool me." The last point extends, each word emphasized and keen.

"Is that a bad thing?"

"Perhaps, but I find it charming." She leans forward on the table. Then she smiles. "I find you fascinating. That's why I agreed to help you out with this role."

The woman reaches a hand out onto the table and places it on top of Stelle's. She clutches it softly, silently asking for her trust. Stelle doesn't want to give in that easily, of course not. Still, she lets Kafka do whatever she pleases. 

Her hand remains. Stelle's stubbornness falters just a bit. 

"You desire to understand the classical musician as much as I desire for your attention. Stelle, the actress of many faces, I wonder what they all look like. I want to know."

A finger traces Stelle's knuckles. She keeps her eyes focused on Kafka, though she finds her restraint wavering.

"From one established liar to another, let's make our lives easier and just be honest with each other, yeah? Let's simply be friends. Enough with this character you play for the public. There's no one looking when it's just the two of us."

"But you're looking, Miss Kafka." Words crawl hopelessly from her throat. "I ought to be on my best behaviour."

"You don't have to be, Stelle." She hums. "There's nothing so ugly about such honesty." 

On her way back to her apartment, Stelle doesn't remember the restaurant's name or what the food tastes like. What she does remember is the faint scent of wood lingering on Kafka's clothes.

"Date, my ass." She talks out loud in her car, speaking to no one in particular, gripping the wheel. 

She pops open the top button of her shirt, adjusts the rearview mirror, and breaks hard at a red light. 

That was a fucking audition. 

"Sound guy! Can you hear me from back there?" Kafka calls to a man behind a glass pane. She stands centre stage in an empty hall. Even with all the lights on, the spotlight is blinding. 

People run back and forth on the stage, trying to get ready for their next performance in a couple of days. They tug on wires, prepare chairs and ensure music stands are in their proper place. Stelle, the only person in the audience, sits in the front row, watching Kafka in her element. 

The rest of the orchestra arrives in a few hours, but this is the only time today when she can do a sound check. Kafka is scheduled to appear in an interview later this afternoon. 

Most days, she practices, attends film programs and attends rehearsals. Stelle has narrowed down that Kafka has relatively two jobs she does on a regular basis. She's a classical violinist and a television personality. Though it's clear which job she prioritizes, she's told to appear on TV to maintain her popularity and communicate with her fans.

She posts about three times a month on her social media, but her team usually does that for her. She doesn't go on the internet often. Not only that, but she has no sense of trends, nor does she cater to maintain or garner an audience. It just so happens that everyone pays attention to Kafka at all times. There's no need to invest in excess.

Stelle thinks maybe Kafka's naturally aloof nature is why people continue to idolize her. Despite being in the industry for years and the whole world watching her grow in her career, she still maintains a distance that preserves her intrigue. That in itself is a talent—the protection of some privacy. 

But Stelle wonders, how far-fetched it is for Kafka to have a team of hitmen to help maintain such a thing. 

Probably really far-fetched, right? 

Stelle sinks into the red seats and leans on her palm as she watches Kafka practice. The woman barely acknowledges her presence, too occupied with playing the piece. Fragments of Hummel's Concerto for Violin and Piano, Op.17 echo through the hall. Swaying while wielding her bow, she becomes lost in her own world.

Stelle stares and thinks. Kafka isn't too concerned about her image or relevance. As long as she can still play violin, she doesn't care about trivial things. It seems the only reason she keeps up with it is to get the opportunities to play solos. 

When she's not filming or practising, Stelle doesn't attend to her off days. She can only assume Kafka has some sick hobby where she's some thief during the nighttime or has an interest in all different types of weaponry. 

Or maybe she just has regular hobbies. That's honestly more plausible.

Kafka meets Stelle's stare. She smiles to herself and looks away. 

Stelle looks away, too. Scratching her cheek, there's a heat that blossoms in her face. 

The way Kafka looks—it's so brief, her eyes hovering so lightly over Stelle. But it's aimed, as if confirming whether Stelle is still entertained. 

There's something in Stelle that screams. It's so deep within her that it could go unnoticed for her whole life. 

But she doesn't want it to. Perhaps, she likes the way Kafka barely glances at her. 

Kafka's attention. She thinks of wanting it for herself just a little longer. 

Today, on Kafka's schedule, she's part of a panel for a casual talent show where they invite the latest viral sensation and ask them to compete in an episode to win a pool of money. There are four other judges Stelle can't recall the names of— because, like everyone else, they only watch for the woman.

In the green room, Kafka sits in front of the vanity with her hairstylist and makeup artist doing their jobs. They are now on their two-hour break after filming for the entire morning. Stelle watches a playback of what has just been filmed on the large television in front of the coffee table. 

The man next to Kafka scratches his head and caresses his beard. The contestant stands centre stage, anxious and doe-eyed, waiting to see if they can advance to the next round. 

What do you think, Kafka? He definitely has the stage presence…

Kafka sits up on her chair and scans her notes on the table. 

To claim to have mastered five instruments, you have a strange sense of rhythm. I'm not a slave to the score myself, but I think basic music theory should be in place, no?

She gives a false smile as the crowd mutters behind her. 

Though he's right, you do have the stage presence, but with the skills you've shown right now, it comes off as overconfidence. A confidence undeserving of. 

The television abruptly cuts to another clip, one of Kafka's performances during a particular program section. She's changed into a black formal jumpsuit with violet accents. She stands on stage with her violin, strobe lights flashing behind her as she covers March 7th's debut song from three years ago. 

Stelle leans forward in silence, observing every movement Kafka makes on stage. She's fluid— everything is like a dance. For every downward stroke, she arches her back a bit. For every upward stroke, she leans against the violin more. For most of the performance, she has her eyes closed, feels the music, and ignores the crowd. 

It's as if only Kafka is in that hall. No one else exists when Kafka plays. 

"You don't have to stare so eagerly; you're making me blush." Kafka stares at Stelle's reflection in the mirror. She waves away her team from the dressing room, and they bow before they leave. 

"I like the song." Stelle bites her tongue. 

"Of course, it's your friend's." Kafka purses her lips together and applies red lipstick. 

"Well, I also like how you play it. Your style is a lot more mature."

"You're quite the flatterer. Your girlfriend must not be the jealous type, considering all the times you've flirted with women on camera. Now, I can't imagine all the times you've done so behind it." 

Stelle pauses, and a brief silence comes between them. She picks up a paper cup of cold coffee from the table and puts it to her lips. 

"There's no girlfriend, Miss Kafka."

"For any particular reason?"

She straightens her back and replies, playfully curt: "Not really. There's no one I find so interesting to spend time with outside of work—except for you, of course, Miss Kafka." 

"It must be a tick for you by now, huh? You just can't help but act, even in your daily life." 

The television speaker's bass vibrates as Kafka's performance ends. The audience is on its feet, roaring with applause and praise. Kafka drops the instrument to her side, sweat dripping off her face, and she bows. 

"I'm being real." Stelle pouts. 

Kafka spins around the chair and walks towards the tray of earrings by the edge of the vanity. She taps each one, picking for what fits her mood. 

"Also, I've been meaning to ask you," she dismisses her and changes the topic. "For the film, I'm assuming you're going to learn how to play a little bit of violin?"

"Yes." She replies, tense. 

"Have the arrangements been confirmed?"

Stelle stares, and her left leg becomes restless. "Well, they said I have an instructor-"

"Fire them. I'll teach you myself." Kafka hooks purple teardrop earrings onto her ear lobes. 

She makes her way toward Stelle. Her heels meet the floor with slow clacks. 

"I'm flattered, Miss Kafka, but I can't take up more of your time-"

The woman puts her hand on the sofa's back and arches forward towards Stelle. Kafka's hair grazes Stelle's cheek, and her breath falls onto her forehead. Kafka's knee is in between her legs. She's nearly on top of her; Stelle leans back to avoid being too close. But Kafka follows, leaning further the more Stelle strays. Her eyes, filled with intention, stare fervid. 

"Fire. Them." 

Stelle contests and stares right back, tilting her chin slightly. But she gives in, sighing quietly. 

"I'll give Mr. Yang a call." 

Kafka puts her hands together in a clap. "Great! We'll start soon."

Before Kafka can say another word, Stelle's phone rings on the table, they simultaneously turn their heads to sound; the woman takes a step back. Without a word, she walks back to the vanity; the leather couch squeaks as she removes her hand. She checks her makeup once more. 

Stelle sits, stupidly frozen. The taste of cold coffee remains under her tongue, dry. 

Kafka hums, watching the girl in the reflection. "Aren't you going to take that?" 

She stands up almost immediately and hastily grabs her phone. 

"March," Stelle answers, slamming the dressing door open. In the empty white hallway, she leans against the wall, feeling her cheeks well up in warmth. She puts a heel against the wall and stares at the buzzing light above her. "You called?"

"So rude! Without a hello!" There's wind in the background, almost too loud for Stelle to hear the girl. 

"Hello, March."

"Dan Heng's here too!" She hears the boy grunt in the background. 

"You're at the lots, aren't you? Want to go for lunch? We're in the area!"

"Can't. Filming is about to start soon." 

"But I know your movie's filming has yet to start—" March stops herself, realizing. "Oh, you must be with Kafka. Dan Heng, she's with Kafka!"

Stelle moves away from the phone as March shouts through it. "That I am."

"Just for a second! We'll bring you sweets!" There's static as March shuffles around. "Dan Heng, tell her to step out for a bit."

There's a long silence on top of the wind blowing into the phone. 

"Step out." He says bluntly.

"You're no fun!" March pouts and grabs the phone back. Stelle can imagine the idol blowing air into her cheeks. "Come on, Stelle!" 

Stelle drops the phone to her side for a moment. It's like she lost all air in her body; she suddenly feels tired. An image of the woman flashes in her mind. Kafka's bare back towards her as she faces the vanity. Her gaze stares directly at her through the mirror, lidded and intense. 

She drags her back against the white walls. "Guys. I really have to stay with Miss Kafka."

Loud winds fill the gap in the call on top of the louder silence. 

"If you say so, Stelle." March plainly replies, disappointed.

She says her goodbyes and puts the phone down. She pinches the bridge of her nose, trying to compose herself. 

Kafka is dangerous; she can only think. She can't put her finger on it. The older woman's manner of carrying herself is admirable, certain, and unafraid, but it overwhelms Stelle somehow. 

She can't read her. For the past thirteen days of shadowing, she can't put words to her own uneasiness. And that vagarity is unsettling. It's foreign to her. Everything about Kafka is all too new. 

Her interest in Stelle is particularly unclear. It doesn't necessarily bother her; she's flattered about it, but when the world's attention is on one person, and that person's attention is on you, you're bound to feel some sort of disposition. 

Ah! This is what Welt must have been talking about. 

She takes a breath before turning the handle of the dressing room again, only to meet Kafka face to face. She bumps against her chest before taking several strides back. 

When she's about to blurt out a loud apology, Kafka puts a finger to Stelle's lips, hushing her. Her finger smells of lipstick and rosin. Stelle becomes cross-eyed, staring at it; she follows her sleeveless arm further, at her bare shoulder. Then to her purple eyes, enraptured. 

"I thought you were just a big softie, but I supposed you have this kind of side to you as well."

Stelle blinks. “Pardon?” 

"I didn't even know you could make your voice do that. It went low. You lost your patience." Kafka leans forward, her hands folded behind her back. "I'm curious. What you looked like, sounding like that." 

Stelle swallows thickly, her mouth drying in the lost words. She watches the woman's pupils at even the slightest movement, scanning Stelle's face as if trying to memorize every muscle. 

She moves back, gently colliding shoulders as she walks past Stelle. The woman's hips sway towards the hall. "Break is over. Five more hours of filming; are you sure you'll be okay sticking around?"

"You have orchestra practice later, Miss Kafka. I can't miss that." Stelle pops her collar, puts her hands behind her, and stares at the floor, following her steps. 

"I ought to play my best today, then."

When Kafka walks on stage, everyone is starry-eyed. The conductor, filled with pride, welcomes her with applause. Kafka bows to every side of the orchestra, returning their friendliness with a smile. 

Kafka nods at her, a sort of mercy to her presence. The gazes of the concert members loom over her in stolen glances of why a person is allowed here. 

Stelle sinks further into the seat, feeling out of place in the uncertainty of a concert hall. She feels the whispers between flutists and clarinets and the sharp eyes of percussionists. She's intruding into something out of her reach, an outsider looking in. 

There's a glint in Kafka's eye. "She's studying under me. For a role in a new movie. Everyone must have heard of Stelle, right?" 

They nod in response. 

"She won't be a bother. Actually, she's quite the docile one. She's only here to observe me." She turns, and half of her face finds Stelle's. "And only me." 

The conductor taps the podium with his baton, and music vibrates through the hall. 

The clearest of them all, the sound of Kafka's violin, crawls in the air. It wraps around Stelle's throat, subduing the entirety of her being. 

Leaning against the window's glass, she was told to wait in the main corridor until Kafka was done packing up.

Members leave in clusters, carrying cases of instruments and folders for sheet music. They laugh between each other, bantering with inside jokes. Bowing slightly to every passing gaze Stelle meets, they nod back in courtesy but are still obviously dumbfounded by her presence. 

Kafka is the last to leave. She carries her violin and walks from the opposite end of the hallway. If Stelle were a dog, her ears would have perked up at the sight of Kafka walking her way. 

She meets her halfway. "Great work at rehearsals today, Miss Kafka." 

Her greeting brought a smile to Kafka's lips. "What did you think, Stelle?"

"Musicians really have it hard." She volunteers to carry the violin for her with an open palm. Kafka delicately hands it to her and begins to walk towards the exit, with Stelle meeting her stride. 

"The conductor was a little harsher today. Maybe it's because you were in the audience."

"Sorry." Stelle mumbles. 

"No! I didn't mean it like that. It's good for the orchestra to be criticized."

"But not you, Miss Kafka. He gave you very few notes."

Kafka huffs, putting a finger to the side of her lips, prideful. "Obviously! I'm good at what I do." 

"It's late. Will you be okay on your way back?" Stelle walks ahead, changing the topic.

"My driver is waiting for me. There's nothing to worry about."

"That puts my mind at ease." Stelle smiles. Her heel squeaks against the floor as she skips a step. "Miss Kafka, I didn't know your orchestra had that many familiar faces! That percussionist with the thick glasses? She also plays for Mechanical Fever, right? Oh, and that flutist… She looks at you a little weird. I think she has a crush on you—" 

Kafka stops before the turn of the corner. Her shoulders slack. 

"Miss Kafka?"

With an open palm, she gestures to the girl. "Come here." 

Stelle takes a few steps back, listening to the orchestra members' shoes clack against the stone floors, slowly getting further away from them.

She tilts her head and opens her mouth to speak, but she's immediately silenced when Kafka wraps her hand around Stelle's wrist. She pulls Stelle towards her, hidden from the musicians up ahead, obscured from any windows. 

Kafka pushes the girl against the wall and now stands before her. Stelle swallows; it happens too quickly for her to react appropriately. Her fingers crawl down Stelle's arm, snaking to her back. She takes a step closer, and Stelle stiffens in place. 

Almost like a half of a hug, the woman drops her head on Stelle's shoulder and presses her close. She feels the woman sigh against her. 

"Just give me a moment. It's been a long day." 

Stelle lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. For a second, she thought Kafka was going to kis—

"Okay." She says, shaking off her previous thought. Her very, incorrect thought.  

A moment passes, and Stelle overloads. She wonders if she smells nice, if the perfume she picked out this morning is to her liking, and if the smell of the hall's wood stains her clothing.

Kafka's voice vibrates. "You're tall."

"Thank you." Stelle blinks. Her shoulder weighs more, even though Kafka is just a few centimetres shorter with heels. She shifts closer, dropping her shoulder just enough for Kafka to be more comfortable. 

"You smell like wood."

Stelle chuckles. "Well, I've been in the concert hall for three hours." 

"Young people have so much stamina." Kafka nuzzles against her; the hand on Stelle's back goes lower. "I'm really not a morning person." 

It's a miracle that she hasn't dropped the violin case at this point. She clutches the case's handle tighter.

"You're only a few years older than me."

"It's a big difference." Kafka lifts her head from Stelle's shoulder, her hair brushing her cheek. "I wonder if you're like this with everyone." 

Stelle's voice softens into a whisper. "Not everyone, Miss Kafka. Just you."

For a moment, the woman's usual distant eyes become gentle. Her expression flickers with relief, and Kafka lets out a quiet breath. 

Then, she yields and lets go, her lips curving into a warm smile. 

"Good."

Stelle blinks, stunned at how Kafka looks at her. It's tender, how her eyes droop. It's brilliant how it brightens so softly in a shade of wine. She wonders how Kafka sees her right now and how Stelle stares back. She shudders at the slowness of their interaction. 

"If you're feeling better, Miss Kafka, that's good enough—" The older woman cups Stelle's cheek, rubbing circles on her jaw. "...for me."

Stelle tenses, her body refusing to move a muscle. The roughness of Kafka's fingertips traces Stelle's skin. Fingertips that hold the faint smell of rosin and steel. 

But just ever so slightly, Stelle leans against her touch, taking a long breath as she soaks in the warmth.  

"You really are a nice girl, Stelle." Kafka murmurs. 

Something throbs deep in her stomach, deep in her chest. 

What was that?

"Let's go," she says in a sing-song tone. "We're doing this tomorrow again. You'll need your patience." 

Kafka walks a step ahead of her, Stelle trailing just a beat behind the woman's heels on stone. 

Stelle bunches a fistful of her shirt, feeling something ache. The feeling dances on her chest, like sparks of lightning. It's so quick that it's almost insignificant. But the feeling lingers, like something in the world just slightly shifted. 

What was that just now?

The padded room is practically empty, with only a mirror, chair, and music stand. There's a small caged window overlooking the street and park, but the sill is rusted shut with a dusted handle. Stelle swears mold is forming on the edges of the faded green wallpaper.

Stelle sets down the trunks with a loud thud on the old carpeted floors.

Kafka skips around the room and spins on her heel. "I usually use this one." 

"How very…" Stelle catches her breath. "Crude." 

Kafka lets out a loud laugh. "I've been using this room since I was a teenager. My academy was just right across the street."

"But you can definitely afford much better practice rooms. In a more fit environment." Stelle recalls the eight flights of stairs she had just climbed. She volunteered to carry both trucks at her expense and absolutely not to impress Kafka with her strength, but even that was difficult for her. 

She scans the room again, catching a droplet falling onto a bucket in the corner of the room from a stain on the ceiling. Stelle cringes. 

"Why change? You still use that old car, don't you?" 

"Touché." Stelle puts her hand on her hips as Kafka crouches on the floor, opening one of the cases. "But that's for camouflage!" 

"I guess you could say the same for this practice room— no paparazzi would ever think to find me here. Honestly speaking, I just like this room, even for its imperfections and deficiencies. Gives it personality."

She stands with a grunt, holding a violin she doesn't usually use and a bow on the other. 

"This is one of my old violins. I've dropped this thing more times than I can count." Compared to the regular one she uses, this violin is in a darker shade of wood. It has scratches on its back plate and chafes on its fretboard.

"It's old, and I don't really care for its state. For now, you can use it to practice. I assume they will give you a much better model when you're filming?"

"You really know how all this works." Stelle steps forward, about to grab the instrument out of her hands, but Kafka clicks her tongue, mouthing a 'not yet.' 

Kafka winks. "Of course I do. I've only been living this life." She sets the violin flat on the chair and carries the bow on her side. 

Kafka folds the cuffs of her white blouse with an eager twinkle in her eye. "Let's get started."

"Please go easy on me." She recalls the harsh treatment of contestants. 

"Don't worry; I'll be gentle." The tips of her fingers find Stelle's shoulder, and Kafka speaks into her ear, sending a shudder down her back. "Feet shoulder-length apart. Stand straight." 

Stelle follows as Kafka circles around her. "Good. Now, relax your shoulders. It doesn't seem like it, but breathing plays a part in playing the violin."

Kafka's arm snakes around her torso from behind. She puts a hand on Stelle's diaphragm and applies a tender pressure. "Inhale. Exhale."

The bow sits in Stelle's hand; the horse hairs tickle lightly. Kafka's soft touches tingle in every place her fingers find them. Stelle swallows nothing and hears her heart thumping louder at each passing moment. 

"When you hold the bow, your hand has to be relaxed but still hold a firm enough grip. Yes, that's right, naturally curl your fingers around it. But your thumb goes here." She slides Stelle's thumb down in an awkward position, right near the bow's frog. 

"As for holding the instrument, keep your head straight." Kafka becomes closer. Stelle's head whips in place to Kafka's instruction, accidentally meeting the woman's wine eyes. Stelle almost melts at the sight of it. The light from the window sparkles bright in it. 

"Cutie," Kafka taps her nose. She moves away to pick up the instrument, which she holds with two hands. 

"The violin rests on your shoulder, and the chinrest, naturally, sits on the side of your chin, right along the jaw. Now, you need to put the right amount of pressure onto the violin without having to hold it with your left hand. With this, you must avoid raising your shoulder too high and arching your back too much." 

The instrument is a lot heavier than Stelle anticipated. On stage, it looks effortless in the way Kafka carries it. Now, the violin sits in the same place on Stelle's body, a bit clumsy in comparison. 

Kafka takes a step back and puts a finger on her chin. She thinks, then nods. "You definitely look the part. Now, hold the neck of the violin and allow it to rest on the web of your thumb. Curl your fingers again for me. Not too tight around it because you still need to slide your hand through the fretboard."

Kafka shrouds Stelle's hand, guiding each finger where it needs to go. Stelle loses focus and hopes her fluster doesn't overcome her.

"Let's try making a sound, shall we? Place your pointer finger on the first string from the bottom. Press hard. Now, your bow. You usually want to stay within the middle of the bow. Let's stick to a downward stroke today. Start here and apply enough pressure to make a sound. Not too hard, though; it'll damage the instrument."

Stelle pulls down, making more of a scratching noise than a musical note. She stops halfway, feeling a little embarrassed. She looks to Kafka, now with her arms crossed. 

"Watch your posture; now, try again. A full downward stroke." 

She mimics the same move, but she doesn't stop this time. The bow unites with a steel string and generates a proper sound. Stelle looks up, brightened with pride. 

"You're getting the hang of this! I'm actually impressed." Kafka claps. "You follow my instructions very well." 

Stelle looks away when Kafka smiles at her. "Thank you, Miss Kafka, for the compliments." 

"Posture." She taps the bottom of her back again to straighten Stelle. "Do you know what pieces you're going to be playing?"

"Not yet," Stelle replies, now relaxing her body, having put the instrument to her side. 

"When you do, send the pieces right over. We'll practice how to make it look good for the camera. For now, we're going to stick with the basics."

Stelle must have given her a complicated look by how she looked over her shoulder. "You don't have to do much, Stelle. One look at the camera, you've got the audience right where you want them."

She stands, stunned. The pace of her heart yields, but its heaviness remains. The sensations of Kafka's touch remain— linger like twilight hues, slowly festering into bonfires on skin. 

Stelle calls out like a whimper. "You're quite an overfamiliar person."

"Is that a problem?" The woman tilts her head. 

"No," She quickly replies, her head whips at Kafka. "It's not…"

Stelle bites her tongue. The woman hovers to her with an inattentive face, curious.

Stelle feels the words run further away from her. But still, she pretends. Even though this may be the first time she has had difficulty,

"It's not a problem at all, Miss Kafka." She feels her smile strain. "In fact, I admire that about you."

That night, Stelle goes to bed like normal, making sure she has her alarm set for the morning, that all the doors and windows are locked, and that the lights have dimmed. 

The giant billboard of her baseball endorsement remains illuminated by the highway. The highway is a warm orange, brightening the road for cars to find their way back home. She hears the faint sirens of police cars and the buzzing of a sports stadium after a team scores a point. She slides the curtain to a close.

Not only that, but she's gotten used to how large her bed has become after becoming successful in the industry, but the covers are still heavy on top of her. She turns off her night lamp and awaits the morning. 

But it's a little different tonight. When she closes her eyes, she sees Kafka—the woman, uninvited into her apartment, sitting by her bedside, asking to sleep next to her. 

Then she dreams. Of Kafka slipping to the space next to hers. Their bodies slowly became closer as the night went on. They pretend to sleep, ignoring incorrigible desires. 

Still, she dreams of Kafka letting her in. Her hand brushed against the woman's arm, crawling further up her body. Her body is on top of hers, slipping her hand under her shirt, feeling everything that she is. The whimpers she'll let out as her hand continues, finding it on Kafka's breast. Stroking her nipple carefully, feeling it in between her fingers, groping and pushing, doing everything to enjoy what the woman had to offer.

Then she'll kiss her, feeling Kafka's arms wrap around the back of her neck, aching for more, begging for more. There isn't time to waste; no single breath is useless, hopeless. The bed creaks under them. The woman's low moans against Stelle's ear. 

It'd be different in everything she never thought. 

It'd be terrifying. It's welcomed. 

Kafka will press her forehead against hers, placing a slow, soft kiss against her lips. Stelle would be a little shy and a little insecure for being inexperienced. But Kafka wouldn't care, kissing her again as Stelle's hand draws circles with her finger on her damp heat. She'll slip her tongue into Stelle's mouth, and it's everything she's ever desired- 

Stelle snaps herself awake. Sitting up in her bed, she feels her cheeks run red and her breath uneven. She throws the blanket off of her to cool off. The birds on her windowsill greet her with a taunt. She bunches her shirt in her fist and buries her mouth in her palm.

Now, what the fuck was that?

"Good morning, Miss Kafka!" Stelle waves, holding a paper bag. "I certainly missed you yesterday."

She walks towards Kafka in the alley between filming lots. Stagehands pace back and forth, trying to complete last-minute touches to the set. Producers in suits gather around in clusters, discussing business and logistics. 

Kafka mounts the stairs of the hairdressing trailer with a script at hand. Her eyes softly brighten as they hover over Stelle. 

"You're early. I thought we weren't supposed to meet until noon?" She crosses her arms, the script tucked in her armpit. 

"Well, I assumed that because filming is 8am and you're not a morning person, you haven't had anything to eat."

Kafka hums. Stelle sees it in her eyes, the terrible excuse she just made. A group of men pass by, hauling boxes from a Craft Service truck. 

She blushes, feeling small. "Anyways, I brought you coffee, a muffin and a donut." 

Silver Wolf follows behind her, her voice trailing as she says goodbye to the hairdressers inside. She catches Stelle and Kafka, and looks in between them. She raises an eyebrow and puts a hand on her hip. 

"You're sweet, Stelle." Kafka reaches out, about to brush the strand of hair on Stelle's face. 

But she staggers away, just barely missing Kafka's hand. She doesn't meet her eyes. 

"They actually called me to make a cameo for a show at the next lot over. So…" Her voice fades as faint as her confidence. "I better get to that."

Beat. Kafka pauses, and she simply blinks.  

Retracting her hand, she says, "I see. Then, I'll see you at noon, Stelle."

"See you then." 

When they separate, Kafka leaves first. Silver Wolf follows the older woman, her hands in the jacket pockets. She dips her shades from her head to her eyes; she blows a pink bubble of gum.

Stelle looks back once. Kafka continues reading the script. Silver Wolf walks in retrograde, and the bubble pops. 

Kafka doesn't like coffee. Her manager mouths from afar. 

Stelle makes a mental note. She puts her hands in her pocket and leaves, too.

[10:57 AM] Stelle: Sorry, Miss Kafka! March 7th needs help at the office, something about signing a room full of albums. I'm not quite sure, but she says she needs it done quickly. 

[10:57 AM] Stelle: So I have to cancel our meeting at noon. I'm really sorry again.

[10:59 AM] Stelle: I'll make it up to you when I see you next! 

Stelle hasn't contacted her for a week. 

Instead, she's been in and out of the practice room trying to help March sign her autographs. Himeko deliberately puts them in there because she knows March needs to rehearse. She knows March usually procrastinates over these things, so she needs to clear them out to get back on schedule.

Unsurprisingly, March made her signature, although cute, a little complicated. Too much time has passed to change it now, so she spends days trying to sign piles of albums. And she insists on signing them herself— Stelle has heard of other artists making their managers or even teams of people sign on their behalf, but March feels it's the least she can do when the listener has made an effort to purchase the album. 

Even in the long hours in the room, there was not a single quiet moment between them. Talking about the artists March meets backstage or the co-stars Stelle has worked with. When they've become tired of gossip, they talk about the books they've been reading or the music they've been listening to lately. Dan Heng would come by sometimes, checking in on them whenever he was in the building and helping them out for a couple of hours until his next scheduled block. On the other hand, Stelle memorizes lines by the vending machines in the hallway or simply walks aimlessly around the headquarters of Astral Express. 

Importantly, all this helped Stelle keep her mind off of Kafka, which was desperately needed. 

Even so, she still practices the violin. 

"You're getting pretty good for a beginner," March says as she and Dan Heng watch. Like a kid who learned a new skill and ran to show her friends in a recital, she stands among many albums as she plays Jupiter from The Planets by Gustav Holst. 

"It's been almost four weeks, at least an hour a day, and two days each week with Miss Kafka's instruction." She puffs her chest and puts her hands on her hips, cocky. "Of course, I'm pretty good!" 

March rolls her eyes. "How's the shadowing?"

"It's okay. Miss Kafka's nice." Stelle begins to place the violin in the plastic case Kafka lets her borrow. She places the bow gently in its spot. 

Dan Heng slides an album to March's side to sign. "Yeah, Stelle. I've been wondering if it's okay for you to stay and help?"

She raises an eyebrow, snapping the violin case shut. Her voice goes low. "There are many more opportunities to watch what Miss Kafka is doing. I'll be okay."

March's pen drags as she speaks up; the ink slightly blots. "So what is she really like? Is everything the reporters say true?" 

"Probably not everything. But Miss Kafka is… just like everyone expects, I guess. She's not a morning person, though."

"That's it? No dirty secrets?" March lifts her head after finishing a signature. Dan Heng immediately slides the next one to her. "You see the woman almost every day, and she managed to bypass your judgment?"

She freezes when picking up another pile of albums. She let out a grunt, heavily dropping them to March's side. 

"Maybe Miss Kafka is just a nice, normal person."

"Stelle, you don't actually believe that." Dan Heng affirms. "There's no one in this industry that's like that."

She stays silent for a moment, unable to disagree with him. Despite knowing that her two friends are undoubtedly good people, even they have secrets and flaws that the public doesn't know. She's heard whispers here and there about people within the industry, contrary to their clean images. There isn't a single one that's 'normal.'

She waves a hand dismissively. "Well, I haven't caught any terrible vibes from her. She's just a woman, a little older than us, who plays the violin, acts for the camera, and…" she seeks my attention. 

Stelle bites her tongue. "And she's been incredibly kind for taking the time to teach violin and put up with me following her while she works." 

The two exchange looks. Though Dan Heng is much more stoic than March, their expressions hint at skepticism. But before they can continue the conversation, the television interrupts the air with a new program's intro instrumental. It flashes a crayon-drawn logo of an osmanthus flower with Guinaifen's name in the centre. The logo fades into Guinaifen sitting on an orange couch, greeting the audience with peace signs. 

Hello, my Guìlings! Welcome to Guì Huā! Your evening program about the hottest topics! 

Dan Heng looks at the screen and crosses his arms, clearly prideful. "Why don't you look at that? Little Gui made it onto the small screen." 

March whips her head and smiles big. "Guinaifen's talk show is finally out? Turn the volume up! Who's the guest?"

"Miss Kafka," Stelle answers a bit too quickly. Having memorized the woman's schedule to fit hers, Kafka's next three months are almost ingrained in her mind like lines of a script. 

"How did she manage that?" March's voice goes low. 

Dan Heng interjects with a raise of a hand. "I assume Fu Xuan pulled some strings."

"What does Fu Xuan have to do with Kafka?"

"All veterans know each other." Stelle shrugs. Recalling, Fu Xuan used to work as a movie writer and now works in one of the Xianzhou divisions as a public relations specialist. They must have bumped into each other once or twice during Kafka's acting career. 

Kafka sits across from Guinaifen, debuting a new silk wine-coloured dress darker than her hair. She crosses her legs and greets the girl with a nod and smile. 

March sits cross-legged in front of the screen. She calls for a half-hour break before returning to work, having already signed for two hours straight. Stelle and Dan Heng sit at each side, now watching with her. 

Guinaifen has been known to interview more minor celebrities on her popular online web show, but only now has she been given the green light for an evening television program. Stelle suspects a show was needed to replace the Iris Family's show after their main news anchor quit after a leak involving them deliberately only reporting good news instead of the whole truth. 

The two exchange pleasantries about their daily lives, what foods Kafka has been eating recently, and how Kafka always stays in shape. Guinaifen listens attentively, exaggerating her reactions to Kafka's words. She follows up each question with a more interesting one, keeping the conversation simple but entertaining. Stelle can compliment Guinaifen on how she easily makes her guests as comfortable as possible. Kafka is much more relaxed than in other interviews and more invested in the conversation. 

Kafka tells an anecdote about a fan meeting her in the streets and proceeding to wail in front of her.

And then everyone thought I made him cry! People started to crowd around us, but at this point, they still didn't know it was me. 

Guinaifen throws her head back in a chuckle. How effective is this cap you're wearing for people not to notice by now?! 

Very effective, apparently. Because the second I took it off to prove my innocence, a line was formed in the middle of Golden Hour for autographs! On a regular Wednesday, too! 

Stelle notes that she's a lot more animated in this interview. Even Dan Heng smiles slightly at their exchanges. 

One of Kafka's selfies flashes on the screen behind the two women. It shows Kafka throwing up a peace sign and dipping a black cap. The photo slowly zooms in to the logo of the National Baseball League on the accessory.

Speaking of baseball, Kafka, you've been spotted with a good friend of mine, Stelle, who confidently dubbed herself the Galactic Baseballer. Folks, she's really silly for that, isn't she so endearing? Kafka, I heard you have something to do with her upcoming movie! Can you tell us any details about that?

Stelle flinches and almost drops the following stack of albums as she approaches March. She freezes and stares at the screen. Dan Heng and March 7th whip their head back at Stelle. 

But before they could say anything, Kafka was always quick with her answers. 

What's there to say? I've only met her recently, but she's a nice girl. She's picking up the violin pretty quickly.

Oh! You're personally teaching her?

Was I not supposed to say that? Kafka laughs behind the back of her hand. I hope I didn't spoil anything about the movie!

There's no one in the nation who doesn't know about this movie! It's just that, Kafka, you've never taken in someone to teach violin before. If you say she's good, she must be pretty talented. 

Kafka crosses her legs, and leans on her hand propped on the armchair. Her eyes furrow slightly, making Stelle shiver. 

Stelle is just a good listener.

A photo flashes on the screen behind them, Stelle in a baseball cap and Kafka in sunglasses. They sit in Clock Diner in the Penacony area, with Stelle bringing a milkshake to her lips and Kafka looking at her fondly with a cup of matcha. 

You've also been seen with her around the city, sitting in restaurants.  

"Oh, how bold, Guinaifen." Dan Heng crosses his arms and nods. March switches from the television to Stelle every few seconds. There's always something she wants to say, but it immediately gets obscured with another thought as the conversation continues. 

I bet you two have gotten quite close! Only a few seconds later, another photo flashes of Stelle and Kafka in the same place. Kafka rubs her thumb on the side of Stelle's lip to remove whipped cream. Stelle, looking all struck and fallen, freezes in her spot.

Panic comes over Stelle; she wasn't aware of this photo being circulated. Well, she's not exactly putting any effort into hiding their relationship, nor is it something she has ever thought of hiding. This is absolutely not the first time her privacy has been breached; as a public figure, it's unfortunately part of the job. 

It's just that she's not one to be timid or caught off guard. She looks at herself again. She never thought she could make that type of expression from a simple touch on the face. 

Thousands of things cloud her mind. Where else have the paparazzi caught her? What else have they seen? How much do they know? They can't possibly know too much. Right? In retrospect, there's not much to know. Everyone knows she's learning under Kafka now, and that's all she's been doing. 

Everything she feels and dreams about hasn't been spoken into physical existence. All those desires found to be suppressed in a pit in her stomach, are only within her to endure.  

She shakes her head and focuses back on the television. She tries to read Kafka's expression, but it's hidden with her usual smile and light tone of voice. 

We're getting along just fine. She's quite the actress. We talk about other things, though.

Such as?

Kafka's eyebrow twitches. Food. Music. The regular things between friends. 

"Classic PR training. Such a boring response." March waves around the pen and looks down onto an album to write another signature. 

Guinaifen branches the conversation about particular music Kafka has been listening to nowadays with short remarks about Stelle's interests in idol music, courtesy of March, and movie scores. 

Kafka turns to the camera and smiles again. 

Please look forward to this upcoming movie. Stelle has been working very hard for this role.

Stelle fixates on Kafka's gentle eyes, lacking any hint of ingenuity in advertising the film. This motivates Stelle to give it her all for this movie, not disappoint Kafka and not ruin the woman's image. 

She brings over the last pile of albums to March's side, and the program goes into a commercial break, ending Kafka's segment. The woman exits from the stage through an orange arch and an elegant wave. Her gaze lingers a little longer on the camera; with a glint in her eye and a smirk, the crowd roars in applause as she leaves. 

Stelle grabs her half-full bottle from the floor. "I'm going to go on a walk. I need some water." 

March and Dan Heng nod at the girl; she leaves the practice room with a click of the door. 

Somehow, she finds herself on an open balcony in the office, one used for meetings and barbecues outside on special occasions. With the view of downtown parks and the forest of towers, she takes in the bright night's atmosphere. 

She leans against the railings and watches the advertisement screen on one of the six Xianzhou towers. The Luofu headquarters shows an advertisement for Qingque's upcoming Celestial Jade tournament and for fans to send their personal messages of support. It switches to another advertisement, Stelle's baseball endorsement again, this time of the league's canned iced coffee drink. She gives a thumbs-up to the viewer, wearing her signature baseball cap and customized jersey in her colours.

Then, the next, Kafka's concert. 

Aeons, for how she yearns for a cigarette right now. 

It's a still from Kafka's last concert, where she was under the spotlight in her black dress, playing the violin. The advertisement is designed like a movie poster. It's too dramatic for a concert promotion, but Stelle thinks it's precisely what they were going for. 

She dips her head, sighing into the rail's metal. The woman's likeness remains in advertisements, posters, programs, and music. In her dreams, too.

Kafka resides in spaces least expected. There's no escaping these emotions. She exhales as if breathing out a puff of smoke. 

When Stelle had that dream, she wondered what she really thought of it. 

Maybe she's just stressed out. Memorizing pages of scripts, noting everything about Kafka's lifestyle, caring for her friends' affairs— perhaps it's all just too much for her. 

She already knew she was interested in the woman, but this is just incredibly inappropriate. 

She's taking advantage of her kindness. She's mistaking courtesy for something far from it. 

Ah, but that isn't what really matters. Is it? Whether or not this is unfair, or the fact they're both women, or that she can't exactly control her desires— what really matters is that this woman simply doesn't see Stelle in that way. 

Stelle wonders what she'll do now and how she's feeling. 

She has to stop. This isn't like her at all. There's no way this will end well. 

She feels a ring in her pocket and finds messages from two recipients. 

[8:42 PM] Kafka: What are you doing right now? 

[8:39 PM] Love Letter From A Violinist Cast GC: Rehearsals begin in two weeks! Let's go for a cast bonding activity! Does anybody have any suggestions on what to do? 

A gust of wind hits her face. She bites her lip, straining her face and squints at the screen. 

She narrows down her priorities and presses send. 

[8:44 PM] Stelle: Still helping March 7th. What's up?

[8:44 PM] Kafka: When are you done?

[8:45 PM] Stelle: No more than two hours. 

[8:47 PM] Kafka: Great. I'll arrange for someone to pick you up. You'll be going to my office.

[8:47 PM] Stelle: Okay. 

Kafka personally waits for Stelle in front of an old office building. She waits in the soft rain with nothing covering her. When Stelle steps out of the limousine, Kafka is the one offering her a hand. 

Stelle enters the office first as the woman whispers words of gratitude to her silent driver. Before going any further, she waits for the woman by the glass doors.

Kafka guides Stelle through the first floor, passing by empty cubicles with single lamplights and rough drafts of potential coats to put on the market. Heaps of boxes are in random places, full of prototype coats and cloth materials in every texture. 

"You're an entrepreneur?" she asks, watching the black blazer swaying on Kafka's back. 

"It's a side business. A hobby of mine."

Stelle cheeps. “You like coats?”

"Love them."

She opens another door where the walls become narrow, funnelling into a long hallway. Closed wooden doors for each exec with a small glass pane with a view of the inside. A storage door is left open to a row of mannequins wearing different-coloured coats, with sewing machines on tables. Stelle drags her feet against the floors, leaving heel skids on the velvet carpet. 

"You've got a lot going on, Miss Kafka." She skips a step. 

At the end of the hall are double doors taller than the ones she's passed. The warm orange lighting from inside peeks from the bottom, along with the smell of wood-burning smoke. Kafka glances at Stelle before opening the door with an easily missed grin. 

The entire office has a different interior, like an entirely different building. Wooden beams surround the ceiling, with a modern chandelier hanging on by wired threads. There are shelves of books resembling an antique library, but they are only collections of coat references and fashion magazines. A poster of one of Kafka's concerts is displayed in a glass case behind an expensive wooden desk and a tall black executive chair. It almost all mimics something like a concert hall. 

Kafka points with an open palm to a tall red armchair before the desk. Stelle takes a seat and wiggles in its fabric. Kafka's back is turned to her, pouring a kettle of water into a white teacup, then mixing tea powder. 

"Nice desk." She grazes her thumb over it, finding Kafka's name on a metal plate. 

"It's mahogany."

Stelle spews. She wants no moment of silence. "Your driver is a man of a few words."

"He only speaks when he has something to say. He doesn't have much to say." Kafka brings over two cups of tea on saucers. Handing one to Stelle and taking one for herself. She leans against the edge, directly across from Stelle, and sips.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" Kafka begins. 

"It's only been a week." Six days. "Don't worry! I've kept up with violin practice for at least an hour a day, on top of reading over lines for--"

"How was helping out March 7th?"

Stelle gulps the tea quietly. "It was hard, but we got the work done."

"That's good." 

Her lip quivers, and words spill from the depths of her throat: "But the whole time, I was thinking about you, Miss Kafka." 

Stelle puts the cup down on her lap. "Sorry. That may have been weird of me to say." 

Kafka puts a finger on Stelle's chin and tilts her upwards, removing her gaze from the floor to meet Kafka's soft eyes. The woman lets out a relieving sigh. "It's okay. It's good to be honest, if it's just around me." 

Her finger travels down to her neck, to her chest. Stelle holds her breath and doesn't move a muscle, as Kafka does as she pleases. 

"I didn't get to thank you. For breakfast that time. It was good." To her shoulder, to her bicep. "I liked it so much that I haven't had breakfast since then."

Her fingers wrap around Stelle's forearm, sliding down to her wrist. "I like it when you deliver me food, Stelle." 

Stelle shifts in her seat, her mouth hanging slightly open. Kafka presses her forehead against hers, staring at Stelle with purple eyes. 

"So what I'm trying to say is, don't leave me all alone again."

That dream. Stelle didn't hate it. 

She didn't hate it at all. 

But what shocked her the most wasn't how much she didn't hate it— rather, how she'd never wanted it that badly before. 

"I assure you, Miss Kafka. I won't." She lightly moves away from the woman hovering over her. She licks the lip of the cup. Her eyes don't leave Kafka as she takes a sip of tea. 

Dreams are just dreams. When Stelle falls asleep some other night, she'll probably dream of something different. 

It doesn't have to mean anything at all. 

This desire will just fade away. 

"What would you like for breakfast tomorrow?"

Kafka's grasp lingers around her wrist, like a soft chain made from the thickest of strings. 

The woman circles around the desk and sits on the tall chair. The rain splatters against the glass behind her, becoming heavier with every passing moment. It's too dark at nearly midnight to spot the cloudy skies. But there are more important things to pay attention to than that. 

Kafka crosses her legs and stares at the girl in front of her, her expression unreadable. The saucer clatters against the desk as she takes another sip. 

There, for a moment, she imagines bending Kafka over, fucking her until the mahogany desk stains. 

She doesn't ask why Kafka's coat business is unheard of by the media, how long she's been in the business, or why everything in the office looks so incredibly dull except for her personal space. 

She also doesn't ask why Kafka felt it necessary to bring her all across the city just before midnight to join her for tea. 

Stelle itches in the seat of her car. She checks herself in the mirror once more. 

She bites her tongue. She was sure she had put enough concealer under her eyes, but apparently not. 

Fixing the fringes of her bangs and unbuttoning the top of her polo, she steps out of the car with a brown paper bag with a loud sigh. 

She finds Kafka's dressing room almost immediately for a panel discussion program. She only remembers some of the details about it, only that they discussed performances of artists from musicians to actors. It's a type of show that gets cancelled after its first season, Stelle suspects, because no one actually cares for the technicalities of entertainment. 

Kafka is alone in the room again. She spins her chair around to meet Stelle's gaze. 

"Suncake, in the Belobogian style." Stelle shakes the bag and sets it on the vanity table before the woman. 

"Is this good for breakfast?"

"Well, it tastes good, I can assure you of that. But I don't know if it's good for breakfast." 

Kafka laughs, brings the small plastic container onto her lap, and smells the sweetened bread. She shoots Stelle a smile that makes the girl's chest throb. 

Shit. 

She thinks about the green couch in the very empty dressing room, the two of them, and how it would feel to slip her hand under Kafka's dress.

Shit!

Kafka stands and gives Stelle a soft kiss on the cheek. "It's perfect." 

A dart of lightning bursts across her face, and she almost trips over her own feet. She backs away and props her arm on the wall to maintain her dropping weight. She feels silly for acting like this at this age, especially when she's done much more intimate things with people on screen. 

It's a lot more shameful behind the cameras. It's terrifying. It's dangerous how real everything is when the filters are off. 

She composes herself. "You're sure to enjoy it, Miss Kafka."

They make their way to the filming hall, where Stelle is instructed to wait until Kafka's schedule is over. She reads over scripts and makes small notes besides stage directions, but she thinks of Kafka's bare legs under the table.

"You're good," Himeko's expression darkens. "Too good." 

In Himeko's office, she kills time in the Astral Express headquarters by showing off and practicing. She'd already made her rounds to Dan Heng, who was practicing for his tour, and Pom Pom, who was cleaning their office for the hundredth time. 

She drops the instrument to her side and waves the bow around like a wand. "For a former professional cellist, I'll take your compliment in high regard." 

Himeko thinks for a moment, her face clouded with mixed emotions. Stelle knows her unspoken history with Kafka, but she doesn't dare to question it to her face. She's resorted to the internet, trying to find pieces of the puzzle to comprehend Himeko's true opinion of her. But it's too buried beneath the daily gossip surrounding Kafka and the breaking news about Himeko's career change to management. 

She's heard Dan Heng and her whisper about the reason the director chose Kafka to shadow and not Himeko— someone with equal skill, extensive knowledge of stringed instruments and the life of a classical musician. 

There's an implication that Dan Heng suggests, but Stelle's built opinion of Kafka discourages her from getting into it. 

"I hope that's not the only thing you're practicing." Himeko raises an eyebrow.

Stelle grins and slides the film's script onto the coffee table.  

"Start from the middle of page 97." She stands from the couch and cracks her fingers. She stretches her arms as she gets into character. 

Himeko squints at the page. "The climax?"

"It seems like a difficult scene. I went ahead and began to practice that part before actual cast rehearsals." She takes a deep breath and waits for Himeko to start. "Give me your honest critiques." 

The scene is near the end of the film. The violinist runs from the other side of the city, from the concert venue to her love interest's home. She's haggard and incredibly dampened from the rain. Yet, her eyes sparkle in discovery. The script outlines that this is the moment of no return, where all of the violinist's priorities get rearranged. 

It's supposed to be a sad scene in context. The point in the film is that the violinist is close to losing everything. And despite her love interest wanting nothing to do with her, it establishes that her character is not like that at all. 

Stelle catches Himeko reading the note she made on top of the page.

It's codependent. They can't live without each other, even if they ruin one another along the way. Mutual codependency? Willingly codependent? 

She remembers the ink of her pen blot at each question mark dot. 

Himeko alternates between looking at the page and at Stelle. And she begins. 

The red-haired woman leans back in her seat and tosses the script back onto the table. She puts a finger to her chin and thinks, "This is a difficult scene, even for you." 

Stelle chuckles at her blunt response. "What's wrong with it?"

"First off, you did well. Brilliant performance." She claps with a proud smile. "The ad-libs to your movements really bring the whole scene together. But…” 

Stelle sits back down and leans in. 

"I don't believe you. That you'd just drop everything for her."

"I agree," a voice concedes from the doorway. March leans against the frame and claps, too. She walks into the room, looking a little more professional than usual.

"How are you always in the building?" Stelle groans, watching March approach Himeko's seat and lean against the couch's arm. 

"I had to go over contract renewals with Mr. Yang." She replies. 

"And?" Himeko fixates on her. 

"Of course, I renewed. You can't get rid of me!" March sticks her tongue out; Stelle playfully rolls her eyes. She readjusts the conversation as she checks her nails. "You aren't desperate enough, Stelle. You're still too gentle."

"Funny," Stelle murmurs behind her palm. "Miss Kafka said something similar." 

March crinkles the edges of the script's page. She scans it repeatedly from top to bottom, trying to form a proper critique. "This is when she's supposed to be all ruined, right? That she has nowhere else to go but to her love interest-" 

"You read the script?" Stelle's eyes widen, interrupting her. 

March shrugs. "It was lying around in the lounge."

Himeko sighs and raises a hand. She refocuses. "And this is the scene where she's at her absolute lowest. I do feel your pain, and I think the director would give this a pass, but-" 

March and Himeko exchange silent glances. They nod, and March finishes her sentence: "It's not enough."

The script slides back to Stelle's side again, stopping right before touching her thumb. Willingly codependent? stares back at her, and she hums. 

"The film is inherently a bittersweet romance, though slightly more bitter. As much as there is a focus on music, there's also an emphasis on degradation— the continuous decay of the violinist. And by the end, she can only hold on to what's left of her."

Himeko relaxes back into her seat and grins at Stelle, as if to provoke her. 

March adds. "From what I saw, you weren't 'decayed' enough to convince me that you'd do everything for the love interest."

Stelle squints and rubs her philtrum. Himeko challenges her with a concentrated gaze.  

"You can go lower, can't you? This can't be the most pained you can be." 

When the cast came together for a toast to enjoy the night to its fullest, Stelle lost track of them having dispersed through the nightclub. Some went to the pit to dance, and others nursed several drinks at red tables with a person hanging from each arm. 

Stelle made three laps around the club and encountered the bare minimum of social interaction. She was approached three times by two women and a very tall man, all of whom asked to buy her a drink, but she declined with kisses on the cheeks and playful apologies. 

Now, she leans against the bar table, watching strangers from afar. 

She spots Serval Landau, the vocalist of Mechanical Fever, having a toast with members of Kafka's orchestra, Veritas Ratio, the horn player, and Adventurine, the double bassist. 

She immediately knows if Serval is here, then— ah, there's her little brother trying to escape the torment of that Sampo guy. 

She sees Jade of the IPC lead the blushing Topaz into a private room by the hand. 

And as always, Black Swan tries to convince Acheron to dance with her. This time, the method she's opting to use is to cage her against the wall with her arms and use persuasive words. Rather, Stelle suspects, it's more of persuasive touches and breathy whispers. 

"Stelle." She hears a voice from behind call out to her. She shrinks, closing her eyes in a vague anxiety. Spinning around with her heel, she greets the woman with a wave. 

Kafka nurses a drink in her hand and stares at the girl. Stelle's presence takes her by surprise momentarily, but she immediately returns to her regular demeanour. "What are you doing here?"

"Cast bonding activity," Stelle replies with an accidental crack in her voice, taken aback by how Kafka somehow happens to be everywhere. 

"The nightclub?"

"They voted to go here."

"Quite the cast. Did you vote to come here too?" She hums. Kafka looks around, trying to narrow down the cast members. 

Stelle shakes her head. "A regular dinner would have been nice. It's too loud here." 

That wasn't all. This nightclub is heavily guarded and a popular spot among high-profile people. She's been here once, just to understand its prestige, but it's just like any other club—full of people looking to meet others and dance to music. Only that, it's every single person featured in magazines, television, and film. 

Her eyes wander around, over people dancing on each other, making out on red sofas and fingers almost inside one another by the bathroom door. She didn't like that either; it's too suggestive in a space too small and loud. 

Especially in her state now, she can't bear to see others grab onto one another like that. She'll become hopeless, too. 

She shakes her head and focuses back on the woman in front of her. "But I have to say, I didn't think you're the type to go to these places, Miss Kafka. Or did you just miss me?" 

"Even when conceited, you're charming. You can't believe I play the violin and do interviews all day, do you?" Stelle gives her a cheeky smile, and Kafka returns with a playful scoff. 

"That's what I assumed, actually. By the way, you talk about music; I believe that's what you live for."

"True, to some extent. But I like to have fun on some days. I'm surprised that you don't. The media talks about you like some party animal."

Stelle shifts, scratching her cheek. "It's for the image. Honestly, I just hang out with March 7th and Dan Heng."

"So that, too, isn't real." Kafka looks down and takes a sip of her violet drink. Then she looks at Stelle with her hands empty. "Aren't you going to drink?"

"I have to drive later." 

Kafka takes a step closer and drags a finger up Stelle's chest. Her thumb ends up on her cheek; she rubs circles below Stelle's eyebags. "I can arrange someone to drive it to you in the morning if you want to let free." 

But Stelle knows this isn't an invitation; rather, it's a test. Everything this woman does is to test Stelle, provoking some reaction unnatural to Stelle. Her stubbornness definitely precedes her, but even that has limits. 

"It's okay, Miss Kafka. You've already done a lot for me. I'm just going to stay for another half hour, and I'll say my goodbyes." She takes the smallest step back. 

"The lead of the movie leaving first."

"Isn't a good look, right? But everyone else seems to be having fun. They won't even notice I'm gone."

She stops swirling her drink, tilting her chin slightly in bafflement. "Stelle, I think I'd notice if Polaris were to disappear from the sky— just like everyone would, too."

The girl giggles. "Miss Kafka, why are you talking to yourself like that?" 

The older woman frowns and puts a hand on her hip. Before she can reply, Stelle talks over her. 

"I'm fine, really. Don't let me spoil your night." She fights the desire to reach out to her. Reel her back in, fall for her test and let herself free. Enter the state she's being invited to. 

Kafka nods and places a quick peck on Stelle's cheek. She smells her breath for a second, something like sweet grapes. She returns Kafka's wink with an awkward smile and wave. She sways to the other side of the club, Stelle catching only glimpses of her through the passing dancers. 

She curses under her breath, spinning right back around to the bar counter. She lifts a finger, attracting the bartender's attention. 

"A kapo-kali, please." She looks at her watch, 1:43am. She sighs and leans against the edge of the bar top as a glass slides naturally into her palm. She takes a drink as if it's a shot. 

"It's just like you to order that," a voice comes up from behind her. "A child's drink." 

 "Dan Heng." She's immediately consoled at the glimpse of his face. Her shoulders relax.

"Save your questions." He raises a hand, "Jingyuan asked me to accompany him."

"Didn't think he's a clubbing type."

"He's not. He wants to drink." He sighs, nursing a drink of his own. "I told him we don't have to go to a club just to do that, especially if it's this one, but he likes the environment." 

"Intoxicating? Loud?" Stelle chortled. 

"Gregarious." Dan Heng gestures to the end of the bar top. Jingyuan is surrounded by a large group of familiar faces. They rumble in laughter; Jingyuan hits the counter and takes a shot of something orange. 

As she stares, her gaze lingers. She catches Kafka trapping a girl against the wall, swirling her drink on her palm. 

Stelle clutches the edge of the countertop. 

"So I'm chaperoning." He captures Stelle's attention again. Her head whips back at him, pretending she wasn't just staring at the woman. 

"You're quite the chaperone to be drinking." 

"He doesn't need that much surveillance." 

Stelle puts a hand on her hip. "And if he starts chugging down his fourth lager?"

"Let him." He flashes a small smile, taking a sip of his drink. "The faster he does, the faster he gets too drunk, and we're leaving." 

"Is this really okay? The tour is just around the corner, isn't it?"

"There are far worse nights than intoxication. And it's not until next year. I think around the same time as your film comes out? We're both going to be busy." 

"I hope so." She raises her glass to meet Dan Heng, and they collide with a loud ring.

She finds herself looking at Kafka again, stealing glances without Dan Heng noticing. Kafka brushes the woman's hair behind her ear. She leans in closer, whispering words Stelle can't hear. She wishes she could hear. She bites her on her lip hard, enough to almost bleed. 

"Dan Heng!" Stelle's ears ring. The boy almost chokes on his drink. "You're going on that trip with Himeko and March to the Thalassa Islands?"

"Yes, March's music video is planned to be filmed there." He raises an eyebrow at the random question. "It's not for a couple of months, though. I saw the storyboards for the video, and they look interesting. It's very on-brand for March. Did you want to come?"

"I'm probably still filming then." 

He squints. "What's this about?"

"Can't I ask for a souvenir months in advance?" She flutters her eyelashes at him. 

Dan Heng stares blankly, confused. Stelle continues and wags a finger. "What do you want?"

"I heard they're known for their culture—scriptures, dances, music, herbs. I'd like some herbs, please!"

"Drugs?" The boy almost stutters.

She waves her hands around, defending herself from disreputation. "No, herbs! Whatever you can find." 

Before she can continue, Kafka's lips graze the woman's cheek as Stelle finishes her drink. 

“Good talk, Dan Heng.” She pats the boy hard on his back, already walking away from the conversation's failure. Yet, she feels no embarrassment; perhaps it'll settle in tomorrow, but she narrowed her priorities long ago. "Good luck with Jingyuan! You'll need it. I better get going now." 

The boy reaches out a hand almost to grab her, but Stelle swiftly avoids it, marching toward Kafka's side of the club. She doesn't look back once; she feels a little bad having left the guy, but she's too hazed, too drunk even over nothing. 

"Kafka." Stelle tastes her name in her mouth. It savours sweeter than the kapo-kali yet much more bitter than the cold coffees in greenrooms. 

She says her name again. This time, it tastes of blood and smoke.

Stelle likes it. She likes how her heart simultaneously aches, and her stomach drops. 

As Kafka leaves with a woman clinging onto her arm, Stelle hastily pushes through the crowd, mumbling 'excuse mes' and 'pardon mes'. She's given weird looks by everyone she passes, remembering all her peers and colleagues surround her, but she's mindless. 

They don't matter. 

It must be the dazing bass blasting in her head, the flickering blue and red neon lights, or maybe the warmth of Kafka's hand remaining on her skin. But it all becomes tunnel vision, with only the woman at the end.

The music stops when she grabs her upper arm, her grip stiff. Time slows for a second as the woman whips her head to her. 

“Miss Kafka!” Stelle blurts out. 

She tilts her head, and the other woman pulls Kafka towards her slightly. 

Stelle doesn't meet her eyes. There's no alcohol in her system to blame for her behaviour. Unrehearsed, she's confused about how she ended up here. 

"I think you've had too much to drink tonight." 

Kafka stares with lidded eyes. A finger meets her chin, and she thinks.

"What are you going to do about it?" She finally says. 

Stelle swallows. "I'll be taking you home." 

Stelle glares at the other woman; her grip slowly loosens the longer she glowers. Her hands slide down Kafka's arm, finally raising them as if surrendering to Stelle's silent threats. She watches the woman sway her hips away from them, blowing a kiss at Kafka before disappearing into the crowd. 

Kafka's hand wraps around hers, and Stelle feels her ears go red. The woman leads them out the door, humming a song different from the one playing at the nightclub. 

The turn signal's tick fills the silence in the car. At almost 2am, the roads are dark and practically empty. With only the orange hue of the light, Stelle steals glances at the woman in the passenger seat next to her. 

The light turns green, and she steps on the gas. She keeps a hand on the gear stick and the other on the wheel, maintaining a speed too slow for a collector road. She turns the knob of the radio, turning the music down. 

"I hope you've been keeping up with violin practice." Kafka breaks the silence and refrains from staring out the window, her eyes now glued to Stelle. 

"I'm getting better," Stelle replies. She feels Kafka's gaze. "Even when you're drunk like this, you only care about music, don't you?" 

Kafka ignores her and lifts Stelle's hand off the gear stick. She inspects her fingers, squinting in the dark, using as much of the pasting lights as she can. It happens too quickly for Stelle to think of pulling back; she lets Kafka do as she pleases. 

"Your calluses are coming in." She rubs her thumb on the tip of each finger. "You've been working really hard, huh?"

Her grip on the steering wheel tightens as Kafka inspects her fingers. She feels the warmth of her own hand on hers and the roughness of her fingers, too. She doesn't dare look at her hand or at the woman. 

"Miss Kafka. I'm driving."

She drops her hand, backing away from the seat as far as she can. She leans forward, putting a hand on her cheek. "Am I distracting you?"

Stelle swallows. Quiet, she replies. 

"Yeah." 

The woman throws her head at the headrest, muttering an apology. Stelle peeks at her side, catching a glimpse of Kafka's unclear face in the reflection of the side-view mirror. She breaks at a red light, even when no cars pass in front of them. The pedestrian crossing's chimes echo under orange lights. Stelle rhythmically taps the steering wheel with a finger, thinking. 

"How many drinks did you have?" Stelle tries to kill the awkwardness in the car. 

"A few. A couple. But all non-alcoholic." Kafka sighs. "I have to film something at noon."

"Did you just want a ride?" She chuckles. The light turns green, and she drives. "You know, I could have called you your driver."

"I told him to go home, and I'll be fine. You're with me, after all."

Stelle furrows her eyebrows. Kafka replies to her bluntly in a staccato; the intent behind her words is too obscure for Stelle to decipher. She's always showered her with praise, but it shows that she wants Stelle to interpret them, which has been all too ambiguous. 

Stelle knows how she wants to interpret them herself. 

She knows now. 

She knows what she wants. 

"I really don't understand you, Miss Kafka." Words slip through her caged teeth, and her tongue feels heavy inside her mouth. 

"You're welcome to ask me any question, Stelle. You've done so up until now."

She nearly interjects. "But it's usually about work. You don't like answering questions about your personal life."

"I'm okay with it if you're the one asking."

"Don't say that." Stelle laughs nervously. "I'll get the wrong idea."

"Now, why is that?"

They reach a four-way street, and Stelle stares at the bright red stop sign. She closes her eyes and waits. Stelle grips the steering wheel and looks ahead at the street lights. 

She holds in a breath, and listens to the blinker. 

"Because I'm interested in you, Miss Kafka. In a way beyond observation." 

There's a long silence in the car. Stelle doesn't dare look at her. She hears the beeps of the crosswalk match the weight of her pacing chest. 

She bites her lip, waiting for a response. 

But Kafka prompts. "Pull over. Now." 

Stelle closes her eyes and strains. 

She fucked up. 

Turning left into the empty parking lot of a closed diner, Stelle's heart beats slow and heavy, finding its way to her ears. She shifts the gear to park, as stillness occupies the car. Stelle fidgets her thumbs and waits for Kafka.

"Pull back the seat." 

"What?" Stelle stares. 

The woman begins tying up her hair in a high ponytail, biting a hair tie between her teeth. 

"You can't fuck me with so little space." Her smile blossoms into a grin, eyes reflecting mischief and desire. 

Stelle becomes dazed, and her face tightens. 

Still, she unbuckles her seatbelt and does what she's told.

She didn't even make it to two months. 

It takes exactly 54 days for her resolve to break. 

Perhaps from the very beginning, in that music hall, Stelle was interested in Kafka. She thought she was like everyone else, falling for the woman's charm and subjugation. But she never thought she would end up like this: sitting in the driver's seat with Kafka straddling on her lap, with the seats pulled as far as they could go and the car's engine turned completely off. 

Her fists are curled in a ball on the armrest, nails digging into her palm. Kafka's long skirt is thrown to the backseats, with Stelle's jacket on top. Kafka wraps her hand around Stelle's nape, looking down at the girl. Her purple eyes glow, challenging the darkness in Stelle's gold. 

"You're nervous." Kafka simply says. 

"Of course I am. Who wouldn't be in this situation?" Stelle breathes heavily. 

"Usually, you're either snarky or composed. This is nice." Kafka leans into her neck, her tongue darting for a taste. Stelle shudders beneath her. "This isn't your first time, is it?"

"No."

She traces Stelle's jaw with the bottom of her lip. "It's a shame that you've done this with other people who aren't me. What a damn shame."

"Are you jealous, Miss Kafka?" She winces as the woman nips softly on her skin. 

"Not exactly. Disappointed, that someone has gotten to you before me." She continues to pepper Stelle with kisses on her neck and clavicle. Stelle keeps herself steady, her nails digging harder into her palm; she swears she's bleeding.

"That's really hot." 

She tilts her head, giving Kafka more access, and lets out quiet hums. The woman's tongue is hot on Stelle's warm skin, her breath smelling like plum. At each passing moment, Stelle finds it challenging to maintain her restraint. Her hand travels to Kafka's hips, and her thumbs rest right above the lining of her underwear. 

"It's not fun if you're so contained." Kafka pouts, lifting her sweater with one hand. 

She bites on the hem, revealing almost all of her. Breasts, much bigger than Stelle, enveloped behind a seamless bra. And Stelle could only stare, and swears her mouth is watering, like some desperate pervert. 

I'm absolutely not one at all. 

"Touch it," Kafka commands, the cloth between her teeth muffling her tone. 

A soft tremor buzzes through her stomach. Her abs tighten as Stelle grazes her hand over a covered breast.

Soft. Stelle almost comes to the feel of it. Bolder, she slips a finger under her bra so carefully, feeling her hardened nipple. 

“Shit.” Stelle huffs. She presses her face onto her cleavage and takes a long breath. A heat throbs in between her legs. 

She smells nice. 

She lifts the bra completely, and her tits bounce out. Kafka gasps as Stelle falls agape. 

Slowly, her lips cover a nipple, and she runs her tongue over it. Shamelessly, Stelle sucks loudly. Flicking the hardened nub in circles. 

Stelle alternates from one breast to another, her mouth on one, her hand kneading the other and again. She carefully watches Kafka’s reactions to every flick, suck and lick she does. Wanting to memorize each expression’s muscle crevasse. Wanting to see a face she’d never seen before. 

Kafka bites, and saliva soaks slowly into the sweater. Her eyes close tight as she tries to maintain what little dignity she has. 

Stelle frowns, and adjusts. She leaves a trail of kisses upwards, now sitting up to reach further heights. A kiss on the top of her tit, on the corner of her collarbone, and a purple bruise on her neck. Kafka hisses as she sucks in the skin. 

Further, she meets Kafka’s face. Kafka breathes heavily onto Stelle’s nose; her mouth hangs open. The older woman hastily guides Stelle’s hands to her lower back. She completely removes her sweater and unbuckles her bra. Now completely topless, Kafka inches closer to Stelle.

“Kiss me.” Kafka’s hand tangles in Stelle’s hair, dazed. 

Stelle follows. She kisses her, tasting plum on her tongue. It begins slow and cute, like Stelle’s afraid of crossing the line. She smiles against her lips, docile like a maiden. 

But Kafka tugs on the girl’s shirt, silently asking for more. So she does. 

Stelle runs her hands up Kafka’s back, pressing her further into her. There’s a need to explore, to feel every corner of the woman’s mouth. She gasps against her; drool builds up on the sides of her mouth. There’s nothing gentle about it anymore. Like an animal, she wants to satisfy a desire burning in her core. 

The kiss only ends when they both need to breathe. A string of saliva connects the two— Stelle heaves, wide-eyed and astonished. 

“You’re good at that.” Kafka puffs, her tongue licking saliva on her upper lip. 

“Thank you,” Stelle simply stutters. Her head spins. 

Kafka responds with a giggle. “This is fun. Seeing you like this.” 

A finger trails upwards to Stelle’s neck, then to her chin. Her thumb rubs on her bottom lip, and Kafka quickly kisses it. “This must be the most honest I’ve ever seen you.” 

“Me too, Miss Kafka,” A finger grazes over Kafka’s underwear, on her throbbing clit. The woman winces. “This really is nice.” 

Stelle waits to go further. She looks up at Kafka, preparing; the woman holds onto Stelle’s shoulders like handlebars. Then, she nods. 

“Go on,” Kafka nearly pleads. “Do what you want.” 

Stelle pushes aside her underwear. She looks down, and a finger moves on its own into Kafka’s wet opening. She drips onto Stelle’s slacks, which, even in the dark, she can see dampness seep into. A string of cum connects to her thigh, and the beat of her heart fills her ears. Stelle sighs as she feels Kafka clamp around with just a knuckle in. 

“ Ah …” Kafka grinds harshly on her palm, and Stelle’s finger sinks deeper. Her expression darkens. “ Hurry. ” 

Another, she adds a finger in. And she thrusts. 

Kafka moves, shifting closer to Stelle’s torso to allow the girl more dexterity. Kafka bends and suddenly drops onto Stelle’s lap, all her weight falling into Stelle’s fingers. 

She looks down. Stelle nearly comes to the sight of fingers inside Kafka to the last knuckle. She pushes a hand onto Kafka’s stomach and thrusts. 

“ Fuck ,” Kafka breaths. She nearly bounces. “Come on, Stelle.” 

She focuses more on pressure and hitting the spot Kafka begs for than speed. Because every time her fingers curl on it, the woman whimpers louder, more eager. 

Stelle finds it cute. She finds it human. She wants to fuck Kafka again and again if it means hearing her like that. 

Her hand slows when she feels Kafka close, walls tightening around two fingers. The woman lifts her head from Stelle's shoulder, stiffening her grip on her head. She snuffs, playing coy even in her vulnerable state. 

"We haven't even broken into the backseats yet. Or are you already tired?"

"I should be asking you that, Miss Kafka." Stelle thrusts further suddenly, eliciting Kafka to throw her head back with a loud moan. "I'm not the one riding my fingers right now."

"You put them in me." She grumbles, rolling her hips ever so slightly to settle into its depth. 

Stelle smiles and tilts her head. "Do you want me to take them out?"

"Don't you fucking dare." She slings forward, burying her head into Stelle's shoulder. Stelle feels her heart run harder. Kafka's voice dulled into her neck. "Faster. Go faster."

Is it possible to be this sensitive? To be this wet? 

Stelle doesn't comment on it; she doesn't intend to embarrass the woman further. 

"Add another." She groans. "Now." 

Stelle only thinks of making Kafka go undone. Making her come so hard that her legs shake and she can't walk properly for days. A smirk presses against Kafka's tit, she adds a third. She feels sick— wetness soaks into her own underwear. 

"You're so fucking wet, Miss Kafka. This is insane." With her thumb, she creases over her clit and begins to rub circles. A yell gets caught in Kafka's throat. Stelle presses her lips into her ear. "You're real tight, too. I can't believe this." 

She doesn't want to wonder what other people would think if they saw Kafka like this—hopeless and flustered. Stelle wants this all to herself. 

Kafka's attention. It should only be hers for the taking. 

Three fingers thrust into the woman, rough and harsh. Kafka's hips grind against her thumb on her clit. Stelle feels her throbbing— she feels herself aching. It's faster now, harder and heavier. It's dismantled now, the dynamic she established with Kafka two months ago. It's bare now, and all her feelings are revealed in consequence. 

"Cum for me, Miss Kafka." All threads of restraint become unravelled. Stelle's teeth sink into the top of the woman's tit. 

Kafka tightens around her. Nails dig into Stelle's shoulder, and she throws her head back with a screaming moan. She comes, unashamed. 

Kafka slants against the steering wheel behind her. Her chest heaves, and the aftershocks of the pleasure vibrate to her legs. The woman glows with her cheeks red and sweat on her chest. 

Stelle pulls out her fingers; Kafka groans quietly. She feels Kafka drip onto her lap. 

Her hand glistens in cum. Her face tenses, watching strings disconnect as she separates her fingers from each other. She wants to taste it. She wants to know what Kafka tastes like.

But Kafka beats her to it. Her tongue flicks out at the tip of Stelle's finger. 

Starting out with small licks, Kafka tastes herself. She takes her time, ensuring every fluid is hers to take back. Her mouth slowly descends further down to Stelle's knuckles. She moans against Stelle's palm. Her tongue is warm and soft as Stelle stills. 

Stelle takes a breath through her teeth as Kafka blinks at her. Something in her chest rumbles.

She sucks Stelle's fingers clean. Kafka wraps her lips around the girl's trigger finger, sucking until her lips reach the furthest knuckle and gently nips. She moves away with a pop and a spent smile. A bite mark remains. 

Stelle's hand moves to the woman's breast again; her teeth graze her nipple and gently bite.

"You could have left a little for me." Her tongue darts out.

Kafka pinches her cheek. "You'll have your chance." 

The woman looks down and guides Stelle's hand to cradle her cheek. Kafka closes her eyes and puts her hand on top of Stelle's. She kisses Stelle's palm and then her wrist. 

"Again?" The woman whispers. 

Stelle pants, holding tighter onto Kafka's hips. She gives her answer with another kiss on the lips and two digits on the woman's clit.