"Of course!" The stout Kafka reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, tapping through his gallery with a grin. "Here—that's Vivian. My wife."
Kafka leaned closer to look. On the screen was a cheerful photo of a woman with short brown hair, sharp eyes, and a confident smile.
She had one arm wrapped tightly around her husband's neck—not in affection, but in a playful chokehold, while he looked both pained and happy at the same time.
Kafka burst out laughing. "She's literally choking you."
"Yeah, that's Vivian for you." He said proudly. "She really wears the pants in the house. And somehow, I enjoy it."
"She's beautiful. You're lucky." Kafka smiled warmly.
"I know." He said sincerely. Then, with a teasing glint in his eyes, he added, "As for my daughter, I don't even need to show you a photo."
Kafka blinked. "What do you mean?"
"She's right here."
Before Kafka could even react, the plump Kafka turned toward the shelves and called out.
"Daisy! Can you come out here for a moment, sweetheart?"
A small voice answered from somewhere behind the rows of books.
"What is it, Daddy? I'm reading right now!"
Kafka's eyes widened as a tiny girl suddenly popped out from between two tall shelves. She had neat black hair tied into two ponytails, a book tucked under one arm, and an adorably grumpy expression on her face.
"What is it, Daddy?" She huffed, marching over. "I was really into my book, and you disturbed me—"
But her complaint stopped mid-sentence the instant she looked at Kafka.
Her eyes went wide.
She blinked once, twice, and then tilted her head in confusion.
"Daddy?"
She said slowly, looking between them.
Then again, with growing puzzlement she said,
"Wait…you're Daddy." She turned to the other. "But you're Daddy too. So…which one is Daddy? You're both Daddy?"
She rubbed her head, frowning deeply.
"This is so confusing right now…"
Both Kafkas couldn't help but burst into laughter.
The plump Kafka leaned down, patting her head gently.
"It's okay, Daisy. This man here is Daddy's close friend. His name's also Kafka. You can call him Uncle if you want."
Kafka smiled softly, crouching down a bit so he was at eye level with her.
"Hey there, Daisy. Nice to meet you. You've got a really cute hairstyle—suits you perfectly."
The little girl blinked at him, taken completely off guard by the compliment. She then stared at his face—the sharp features, the confident smile—so different from her father's round and gentle one and realised how handsome he actually was.
And then, to Kafka's amusement, her cheeks turned bright red.
"Ah—uh—I…" She stammered, clutching her book. "T-Thank you!"
And before anyone could say another word, she turned and dashed back toward the shelves like a startled rabbit.
"Daisy!" Her father called after her, half exasperated, half amused.
But she didn't stop, disappearing behind the shelves again.
The plump Kafka sighed, rubbing his face with a smile.
"Every time someone compliments her, she turns into a tomato and runs off."
"She's adorable." Kafka chuckled softly. "You've got a lovely family, you know."
"Yeah." He said, leaning back with a wistful smile. "I really do."
Before the scooting forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, a thoughtful glint in his eye.
"Hey." He said with an easy smile. "Since I showed you my family…can I see yours too? Evangeline told me you've got quite a big family yourself."
Kafka smiled wryly. "You could say that."
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and began swiping through his gallery.
The plump Kafka took the phone, glanced at the screen—
—and nearly fell off his chair.
"What the hell, man?!" He blurted out, loud enough to make a few library patrons glare at him for breaking the silence.
Kafka blinked, startled. "What?"
The plump one gawked, pointing accusingly at the phone.
"Evangeline said you had a big family, sure, but not THIS big! What the hell, are you building an army?!"
Kafka blinked in confusion for a moment before realizing what he was referring to.
"Oh, that." He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. "Yeah…I guess you could say it got a little out of hand."
"A little out of hand?!" The other exclaimed, flipping through the pictures on the phone like he was scanning through census data. "You have so many wives—how many even are there? And kids too?! This is crazy!"
Kafka's face turned red. "I-I didn't exactly plan for it, alright? I'm just…too much of a bastard, I guess."
The plump Kafka laughed so hard his belly shook.
"Hah! Bastard, my ass! You're a damn legend!" He wiped a tear from his eye, still laughing. "Man, I wish I had even one percent of your energy. I can barely survive one woman without getting yelled at, and you're managing an entire…empire!"
"Don't call it that." Kafka groaned, covering his face with one hand.
"Oh, come on." The other said between laughs. "You've got to admit—it takes effort! I mean, just keeping up with one wife's moods is exhausting. You've got, what, ten? Twelve?"
Kafka hesitated. "Closer to forty five."
"FORTY FIVE?!" The plump Kafka clutched his chest dramatically. "And kids?"
Kafka sighed and muttered. "About thirty-five."
"Thirty—" The plump Kafka went pale, then laughed incredulously. "You're kidding! Thirty-five children?! Do you even remember all their names?!"
"Of course I do." Kafka said defensively. "And for the record, there's…more coming."
"More—?"
Kafka nodded, looking half amused, half mortified.
"A bunch of them are pregnant right now. So, yeah. There'll be a few more in the oven before long."
The plump Kafka groaned loudly, throwing his head back.
"You really are one hell of a beast, aren't you?!"
Kafka blushed even harder, mumbling.
"Stop making it sound like that…"
"Hey, no judgment." The plump Kafka chuckled, holding up both hands in surrender. "If anything, you've earned my respect."
"But you really are something else. No wonder Evangeline called you the Incarnation of Lust—you deserve the title."
Kafka groaned even more. But the other only laughed louder.
Then, with genuine curiosity, he leaned forward again.
"Okay, serious question—how do you even handle that many? Like, emotionally, physically, spiritually? I'd be dead after two kids, max."
Kafka sighed but smiled softly.
"It's not easy. But I love them all. Each one of them has their own quirks, their own smiles, their own warmth. It's chaos, sure, but it's my kind of chaos."
"Damn." The plump Kafka said with admiration. "You really do sound like a god." Then he leaned back, chuckling. "Though, hey, I've got one of my own coming too."
Kafka blinked, smiling. "Really?"
"Yeah." He said, smiling proudly. "Vivian's pregnant again. Doctor just confirmed it last week."
Kafka's smile grew warmer as he reached across the table, extending his hand. "Congratulations."
The plump Kafka clasped it firmly.
"And congratulations to you too, Mr. God of Multiplication."
They both laughed, shaking hands, before pulling back with mirrored smiles.
For a few moments, the room grew quiet.
Both men leaned back in their chairs, gazing at each other—two versions of the same soul who had taken completely different paths.
Yet somehow, both of them had found something rare. Peace. Happiness.
It was then that Kafka exhaled, his expression shifting slightly into something more serious.
"There's…something else I need to talk about." He said quietly.
The plump Kafka tilted his head. "Hmm?"
Kafka hesitated before continuing.
"Right now, Abigail and Olivia, my mothers—I mean your mother and my current wives—they don't know the truth."
"They still think I'm you. That I'm the same Kafka who lived here before everything happened. I've hid it from them."
The plump Kafka's playful expression faded. His brow furrowed slightly. "I see…"
Kafka continued. "And I've been thinking…maybe it's time they know. That you exist. That you're here, living your own life. I want to tell them everything. After all, it's not fair for them to live a lie, and—"
He paused, exhaling.
"Honestly, it'll be difficult. I've been living that lie for so long. If they find out, it'll be a mess. But…if you want to see them, I'll make it happen. I'll bring them to you. I promise."
He looked up, sincerity written all over his face.
"So…what do you want, really? Do you want to meet them?"
Inwardly, Kafka braced himself.
Part of him was secretly hoping the answer would be no—that they'd keep their worlds separate.
The meeting would only stir old emotions, old wounds. But if his counterpart wished to see them, he would make it happen without hesitation.
However, to his surprise, the plump Kafka simply shook his head.
"No." He said quietly.
Kafka blinked. "No?"
He nodded again, with a small, wry smile.
"There's no need. That part of my life…is something I'd rather leave behind."
Kafka frowned slightly, but remained silent as he listened.
"I was a horrible son back then." The plump Kafka said softly, his eyes distant. "A moody, selfish brat. I treated them terribly—like servants. I yelled, complained, ignored them when they showed love."
"And yet, they kept loving me anyway. I don't even know how they did it."
He exhaled deeply, the regret palpable in his tone.
"And I don't want to drag that part of me back into their lives…They deserve peace."
Kafka's expression softened.
"They're happy now, right?" The plump Kafka continued. "That's all that matters. Even back then, when they had me, they struggled. I could tell. I made their lives miserable. So, knowing they're smiling again—with you—that's enough for me."
He looked up, meeting Kafka's eyes sincerely.
"If I show up again, it'll just bring confusion, stress, pain. I don't want that. I'd rather keep things as they are. You have your world, I have mine. You're keeping them safe and happy—that's all I could ever ask for."
Kafka was silent for a long moment, before a faint smile tugged at his lips.
"That's…actually a very mature answer." He said quietly. "I wasn't expecting that from the boy I once heard you were."
The plump Kafka chuckled softly.
"Yeah. Guess I've done a lot of growing up these past years. After everything I went through, the fear, the struggle, learning how to stand on my own, I realized what really matters. Peace. Family. The little things."
Kafka nodded slowly. "You're right."
The plump Kafka smiled gently. "So please, just promise me one thing—keep them happy. Keep them smiling. Give them the love I couldn't."
Kafka met his gaze, his tone firm and steady.
"I promise. There won't be a single day they'll go without a smile, not as long as I'm with them."
Silence returned again—the kind that spoke volumes. Both men sat there, gazing at one another with quiet understanding.
Two Kafkas. Two worlds. Two lives finally at peace.