The white rose stared back at him almost mockingly. Its petals were velvet-soft, still dewy with the memory of the morning rain. It looked too alive to be resting on a corpse.
Detective Liam Miller crouched beside the body, his gloved fingers hovering over the chest of the deceased, where the tender bloom rested.
There was no blood. No signs of a struggle. No trauma. Just utter stillness... and the faint, sweet scent of the flower.
The penthouse was silent, aside from the occasional click of a forensic camera or the murmur of uniformed officers exchanging theories they didn't believe themselves. The man on the floor had been powerful, just like all the others. But here, stripped of influence, he looked like anyone else: small, mortal, and very, very dead.
Liam stood slowly. The glass walls offered a panoramic view of the glittering city below. Cold light bathed the room in steel tones, but the flower shone like a warning—an intentional message left by someone who wanted to be understood.
She's back.
"Third one in six months," muttered Detective Mei Williams, Liam's partner. She stood behind him, arms crossed, eyes sharp. "No prints, no toxins we can identify, and nothing on the security feeds. Just like the last two."
He didn't respond right away. Instead, he pulled a small evidence bag from his coat pocket and slid the flower into it carefully. The softness of the petals lingered on his gloves, like the aftermath of a whisper.
"You think it's the same killer?" Mei asked, already knowing the answer.
Liam nodded. "It's her."
Mei sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Thorn."
It was a name spoken more in rumor than official reports. A serial killer who left a signature flower with each victim—always ironic, always symbolic. And always clean. Too clean.
"She's escalating," Liam murmured, mostly to himself. "Getting bolder. This one didn't even bother hiding the message."
He moved through the apartment, eyeing the surroundings with methodical precision. Expensive decor, minimalist style, no personal touches. Just wealth and sterility.
"Security team says no one entered the building between 9 p.m. and now," Mei said. "They think he just dropped dead."
Liam knelt beside the body again. "Except he didn't."
A pause.
He leaned in, close enough to see the faint shimmer at the corners of the man's mouth. Almost invisible unless you knew what to look for.
"Poison," he said. "Something subtle. Fast-acting. No taste, no odor."
Mei crouched beside him. "You think she's a chemist?"
"No. I think she's something else entirely."
He rose to his feet again, straightening his coat. He was tired—more than usual—and he could feel the weight of the case clinging to him like smoke. Every detail reminded him of the first one. The one that had never been solved. The one that had started it all.
His mentor. His friend.
Same flower. Same lack of evidence. Same silence in the aftermath.
Liam crossed the room, letting his eyes roam over the framed photos on the wall. A family portrait. A campaign shot. A vacation in Italy.
All perfectly arranged. Just like the body.
"You okay?" Mei asked behind him.
He hesitated. Then: "Yeah."
She didn't push. She never did.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the glass. Somewhere in the distance, the city kept humming—oblivious to the quiet war happening just beneath its skin.
Liam turned back to the scene, his voice low.
"She's out there again. And this time... I'll find her."