Petals for a Killer

It was exactly 11:00 PM, the time Isla always flipped her "Closed" sign and turned off the lights in Wild Bloom, her small flower shop tucked between forgotten alleyways and whispering city shadows. But that night, as her hand reached for the light switch, the bell above the door chimed-sharp, urgent.

He stumbled in like a ghost, blood dripping down the side of his face, staining the pale tiles beneath him. Dressed in black, with eyes colder than winter storms, the stranger looked like sin wrapped in silk.

"Ten thousand roses," he rasped.
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Red," he added, swaying. "All red."

Then he collapsed.

Panic clawed at her throat, but her heart-too kind for this world-moved faster. Isla locked every door, drew every curtain, and pulled him behind the counter. Hands trembling, she cleaned the wound on his head, placed ice on his temple, and whispered comforting nonsense until the man stopped flinching in his sleep.

That night, she didn't go home. She curled up on the shop floor beside him, lulled to sleep by the scent of roses and danger.

But by sunrise, he was gone.

No note. No name. Nothing... except a single red rose in a water glass on the counter.

The next day-another rose.
Then another.
And another.
Day after day, always at opening, never seen, never explained.

A love letter written in thorns.

Will she ever see the bloodstained stranger again?
Or was he just a dream wrapped in petals... and gunpowder?

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