Not all flowers bloom under sunlight.

Some take root in shadows — between the cracks of crumbling walls, in muffled screams, and forgotten bones.
 They feed on secrets.
 They blossom in blood.

Rain fell gently, muffling the city in an eerie silence. Somewhere in the distance, a music box played a crooked lullaby, as if time had broken its spine.

They call him a serial killer.
 I call him an audience member.

Lightning flashed. For a split second, I saw the figure on the rooftop — balanced like a tightrope walker, motionless. A harlequin mask hid his face. He smiled without moving his mouth.

The crime scene before me looked like a stage set. A dead bride lay in a coffin, her eyes still open. A black flower was sewn into her lips. A theatrical mask rested beside her, as if placed there with care.

Every corpse is a message.
 Every crime, a performance.
 But this stage doesn’t belong to him.
 It belongs to us.

Beside me, Lira stared at the body. Her pale eyes shimmered, sensing the echoes of pain left behind. Her hands trembled just slightly — not from fear, but from recognition.

My name is Edrick Veil.
 And this is the case that will kill me.