Moon_knight12

She solves murders.
She used to commit them.

Detective Aesira walks the rain-slicked streets of Old Town with a mind like a scalpel and secrets buried in shadows. Known for cracking the most confounding cases, she’s cold, brilliant—and haunted. Years ago, she silenced the killer within herself. Or so she thought.

When a series of murders begin to mimic her long-forgotten crimes—complete with chilling floral arrangements at every scene—Aesira is forced to confront a terrifying truth: someone knows who she used to be. Someone is recreating her work. And they want her attention.

As she chases a phantom through the twisted alleys of her past, Aesira meets Lucian, a man who sees through her mask and into her darkest desires. He knows everything. He may even love her. But his obsession could destroy them both.

Flowers of Death is a slow-burning psychological thriller where beauty and brutality entwine. With each case, the line between justice and madness blurs—until Aesira must choose who she really is: the hunter, the artist… or the killer.

Flower Of Death

I've always hated the sound of clocks.

There's something oppressive about it—mechanical, unrelenting. A reminder that time marches on, whether we want it to or not.

So when the body was found dangling from the hands of the Old Town clock, I felt something twist inside me.

"Name's Julian Crane," Raines said as we stood at the foot of the tower. "Architect. Big deal around here. Helped restore most of the historic buildings in Westbridge."

I didn't answer. I was staring up at the body—limp, spinning ever so slightly in the breeze. The man's neck twisted at an impossible angle, like a marionette with cut strings.

I'd used daisies once. For a man who beat his wife so severely she lost both her hearing and her memory. I'd left him in a bathtub, blood swirling with petals, a smile stitched into his cheek with fishing wire.

But Julian Crane didn't have a record.

"He must've done something," I murmured.

The body was staged at exactly midnight. No prints, no signs of forced entry. Whoever did this had disabled the internal clock system, climbed up, rigged the harness, and left without leaving a trace.

And a tiny piece of paper tucked inside the man's breast pocket.

I pulled on gloves and unfolded it.

The board was starting to look like a blooming funeral. White lilies. Dark roses. Marigolds. Daisies. Each case linked not by evidence, not by logic—but by aesthetic. By symbolism. And now… by timing.

Each murder had occurred exactly six days apart.

The same kind of structure I used to rely on when I planned my kills.

Late that night, I returned to the clock tower.

The air was colder up there, metallic and sharp. I climbed the rusted staircase, the sound of my own breath louder than the creaking of the steps. I stopped halfway up, flashlight flickering against the old brick walls.

Someone had written something here.

A single line etched in faded chalk:

"Do you like my timepiece?"

Below it, a crude sketch of a flower.

Tucked behind one of the clock's wooden beams, hidden carefully where only someone like me would look—a camera.

I pulled the memory card and slipped it into my coat.

Not because it was violent. Not because it showed the murder.

Standing inside the villa from days ago.

Touching the mannequin. Staring at the flowers.

I didn't remember a camera being there.

And yet there I was—caught in grainy, silent footage.

Standing in the corner, still as stone. Face just outside the frame.

He wanted me to see this.

And something else too—buried in the file metadata.

The footage was saved under a single word:

I sat in the dark for hours, piecing it all together.

There were still pieces missing, but one thing was certain now—this wasn't random. It wasn't chaos.

He was conducting this like a symphony.

Aesira's past, brought to life, one flower at a time.

Chapter 6: The Mystery of the Clock Tower