Kafka's hands twitched in hers, his mind reeling, his heart hammering. He couldn't speak, couldn't even think, as her confession echoed in his head.
And Vanitas who watching...expected him to panic.
She expected him to pull away, to demand answers, to recoil in horror at what she had just admitted. She braced herself for outrage. For disgust. For him to scream,
"What the hell is wrong with you!?"
But none of that came.
He just...stared.
Completely still. Completely silent. Eyes locked to hers like he was reading something far beyond the surface.
But that very silence, his unreadable calm, was what made Vanitas' heart race in fear. She couldn't tell what he was thinking. And the longer he said nothing, the more terrified she became.
Her gaze darted toward Evangeline, silently begging for help, but even she looked nervous, lips tight, arms crossed. This was something not even she could predict.
