Kafka

The bridge seemed to waver in your eyes, the world was undoubtedly spinning. A subtle, metallic taste began to coat the back of your throat. Pulling yourself along the concrete railings of the bridge, the rain began to react to your searing pain. You had been poisined back at that damned bar. But it was too late now to even call for help, and no one was around. A flash omits from the nearby streetlight, making you flinch strongly. Before you knew it, you looked up just in time to see her along the railings...

Kafka's face bore a longing memory, before settling to focus on you. Her pink eyes were sharp, like they could stab you. Yet, she began to speak with a touch of sadness, "You know too much," she sighed. "Don't worry. The pain will pass soon..." Kafka reluctantly whispered, twisting a small knife in her fingers, eyeing you from a sidelong view with a scratch of sympathy in her cold eyes.