Killer Of A Mother

Kafka slumped on the couch, his body restless, his mind a storm of confusion and lingering adrenaline. He rubbed his temples, his usual sharpness dulled by the surreal turn of events, waiting for any sign of Abigaille or Olivia to emerge from the bedroom.

Each passing minute felt like an eternity, his nerves fraying as he replayed the moment Olivia had tried to kill him, her murderous intent unmistakable yet inexplicable.

And then finally, after what seemed to be a eternity, the bedroom door creaked open, and Abigaille stepped out. Her face made it obvious that she was exhausted and and in relief, her eyes heavy as if she'd just endured a marathon of a conversation.

A wry smile tugged at her lips as she met Kafka's anxious gaze, but the weariness in her expression spoke of a deep, emotional exchange with Olivia.

Kafka shot to his feet, his voice urgent. "Mom, what's going on? Is she okay? W-Where's Mom? Is she coming out?"