A limp body hung from the ceiling, bound by a leather belt.

It swayed with an agonizing slowness, as if the very air itself had turned heavy. A swollen tongue lolled past the chin. On the floor lay an upturned chair, surrounded by a dark, pooling stain.

The dead held no secrets; they only kept a grim silence. After a few faint, pendulum-like oscillations, the corpse finally came to a dead stop. Still, fluid continued to trace down the thighs and legs, dripping onto the floor drop by drop.

"I didn't do anything."

"he started it! he's the one who threatened me!"

It all began with a lie—a trembling plea uttered by a young girl. What started as a trivial deception snowballed out of control, ultimately driving a man to his grave.

The girl resembled a flower.

But she was like the Rafflesia—a corpse flower that eschews roots to feed on a host, luring its surroundings with a foul, suffocating stench until it devours its provider whole.

Now, her lies were tightening around the throat of her own family.