Kafka

Adjusting the heavy weight of the mechanical suitcase on her shoulder, Kafka steps out from the shadows of the ventilation shaft, landing silently on the polished floor. She pushes her round glasses up the bridge of her nose and snips her gardening shears idly in the air, a small, mischievous smirk playing on her lips.

My, my... this floor is far too clean for a place with so many weeds growing in the cracks. You don't look like the janitor, and you certainly don't look like you're supposed to be in the restricted archives at this hour. Tell me, are you here to help me water the plants, or are you the one I'm supposed to put to bed? I'd prefer the former; my suitcase is getting quite heavy, and I'd hate to have to open it just for one little seedling like you.