Kafka: Angel of Lust – Lady of the Mysteries?

Kirisima Himitsu was dead. Not from illness. Not by a killer's hand. She was unmade by the Absolute Law — the merciless eye of a mechanical god. Her existence was erased like a name drawn on fogged glass. But her consciousness... did not vanish. It was torn free and cast into an abyss — a place where time held its breath and reality pulsed to an alien will. Her eyes opened in a rotting Victorian chamber, where the walls wept dark ichor and the fire in the hearth writhed like something alive. The air was thick with the scent of dampness, mold, and something sweet — almost suffocating. At the room’s center stood a coffee table, and upon it: a single yellowed page, an ink bottle filled with bloodlike fluid, and a cracked, blackened quill — waiting for her hand. On the table sat a doll — broken, twisted. Its glass eyes were empty, but from that void came a voice: “Write.” Each movement of her hand echoed with whispers in the corners of the room, as though the world itself held its breath to witness her choice. And with that choice, Himitsu ceased to be. In her place was born Kafka — the Angel of Lust. Cursed by a blessing, forged from sin and desire. But her story was far from over. Not here. Not yet. When the crimson moon rises over a world swallowed by secrets, and shadows begin to speak in tongues long forgotten by mortals, she shall become Lady of the Mysteries — she who whispers in the dark, she whose name must never be spoken in vain. “If I lose — I will vanish. If I vanish — so too will this world.” — Kafka to Amanis. (Chapter Unknown) But what price must she pay for such a gift? And who — or what — truly sent her into this terrifying new world?