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

"Let's slip beneath the surface now. Where secrets rot quietly in the dark. Where Aesira starts to feel something other than fear."

Not with words. Lucian never asks in the traditional sense. He just… opens doors. And waits to see if I'll walk through them.

The third night I returned to the villa, I told myself it was for the investigation. For evidence. A psychological profile. Something I could use.

I didn't want to be interrupted by the weight of it.

It had been locked before. But now he held the key like a gift.

"You'll want to see this," he said, tone almost reverent.

The room smelled of cedar and dust and dried petals.

Inside: journals. Dozens of them. Lined neatly on old wooden shelves.

Like installations in a gallery. Marigolds, orchids, belladonna. Flowers as halos. Vines as veins. Some looked like my past work—nearly identical. But others…

I flipped through one journal, its pages covered in slanted, elegant handwriting.

"Of course," he replied. "You don't create beauty and then let it vanish."

He looked at me with those unreadable eyes. "Yes. But you inspired it."

I should've screamed, arrested him, burned the place to the ground.

Instead, I asked, "Why the marigolds?"

He smiled. "You remember, don't you?"

That night in the woods. My hands sticky with blood. The man who had begged. The marigolds I scattered around his face, like sunbursts around a storm.

"How do you know about that?" I whispered.

He stepped closer. "Because I was there, Aesira. Watching."

My vision blurred. The walls felt like they were closing in.

"I studied you," he said, voice rising slightly. "You taught me that death didn't have to be ugly. You taught me how to frame it."

Lucian stepped even closer, his voice softening again.

"Tell me the truth, Aesira. When you saw the photos… did you feel disgust—or jealousy?"

Because he already knew the answer.

Later that night, we sat in the library. Rain tapping against the windows. Candlelight flickering like breath.

Drawings. Notes. Clippings. My cases. My kills. The police versions—sanitized, censored. And his. The real ones.

How I looked when I smiled at victims just before the end.

How he imagined I smelled—"like steel, and ash, and lilies."

Obsessively, disturbingly close.

He watched me read for a long time, then finally said:

"You hide it well, Aesira. But I see it. That flicker in your eyes when you walk through a new crime scene. You're not repulsed. You're alive."

I closed the journal, throat tight.

"You want me to become a killer again."

"No. I want you to become what you were meant to be."

But when I got into the car, I didn't drive to the station.

And Lucian's voice echoing in my head.

Become what you were meant to be.

Chapter 9: Secrets Beneath the Surface