Thorns Among Roses

Daisy clicked her tongue. "Never say you don't have money. If you look like this, no man will marry you."

Freya raised a brow. "That my mission now?"

Daisy grinned and looped her arm through hers. "Let's go to the clothing store, then you're going to eat at the restaurant."

"I can't pay—"

"You'll pay with your charm. Or wash dishes. Come on."

The small, cozy restaurant Daisy worked at was bustling but smelled like heaven, something very uncommon in the Cadet Mess hall . She worked as a chef to support her old, sick father. As they sat down with their not-so-expensive orders, Freya finally felt something she hadn't in a while.

Not alone.

Daisy brought a certain kind of light to people—like sunlight slipping through a dusty window.

Through the glass door, Freya saw a heavyset girl, around 5'7" with dark hair tinted red and golden eyes, accidentally bump into one of two boys walking together. Her book fell. She picked it up quickly, murmuring an apology.

The boy wore sunglasses indoors. He sized her up coldly.

"Oh my, don't forget to eat today," he said with a mock smile.

The girl, Alice Groves, barely looked at him. "I am sorry. I need to go."

He snatched her bag. "Go where?"

Luis Watson opened the bag. "Let's see what you've got in here."

Alice tried to retrieve it, but Luis tossed it to the second boy.

Derek McCoy, a tanned young man with wavy black hair and sharp amber eyes, opened it and found snacks.

"Luis, are you hungry? Because I am sooo hungry."

He opened a bag of chips and handed it to Luis.

Luis offered them to Alice. "Want some, fatso?"

From a short distance, a tall figure called out, his Green eyes glinting beneath long chestnut hair tied partly in a ponytail: "Luis! We have to go. We're gonna be late for the mission."

Desmond.

"Wait—we're bringing snacks," Luis answered smugly.

Freya stood up. Daisy reached out to stop her, a whisper of warning in her voice. "Don't."

But Freya was already moving. Always too busy saving the world to listen.

"That's enough. Give her stuff back."

Luis looked her over slowly. "Who are you? Did your dad beat you up for that attitude?" refering to the bruises Freya had from earlier.

Derek snorted a laugh.

As Freya reached for the bag, Luis's arm swung unintentionally into her injured shoulder. She stumbled and fell.

She cursed him under her breath.

Luis's cocky grin vanished. Slowly, he removed his sunglasses.

His eyes—cold, terrifying, almost inhuman—seemed to glow.

Desmond was at his side in a heartbeat, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Luis? Don't do this. Not here. You're going too far."

Luis paused, then slid his sunglasses back on. "It's your lucky day," he muttered with a smirk.

Alice extended a hand to Freya, helping her up.

Daisy had come out too, her expression unreadable as she watched the scene unfold.

Freya brushed the dust off her pants, narrowing her eyes. "Who the hell is that guy?"

Daisy sighed. "Luis Watson. You don't want to cross him. His eyes—one look and people crumble. It's not just fear. It's your fear. Your worst memory, the thing you try hardest not to relive—it becomes real. One look could trap someone in their deepest fear."

Elsewhere 

In a crumbling basement with walls stained dark from the ages, a man begged for mercy—his voice hoarse, body broken.

The masked man didn't speak.

He didn't need to.

Ropes creaked. Tools clattered. The air was thick with fear.

The victim's eyes were wide with terror, his hands trembling as he fought against the ropes that bound him. His mouth was taped shut, but the muffled sounds of his sobbing still carried through the grim, cold air.

The masked man approached, his gloved fingers taking hold of a set of gleaming metal tools. With deliberate slowness, he unwrapped a tweezer-like device.

He pulled the first nail free from the man's trembling hand. The victim's body jerked violently as the cold metal bit into his skin, his body writhing in pain. The masked man didn't flinch, didn't pause. He simply worked.

The sound of another nail being pried loose was met with a sharp, strangled gasp from the man, his throat desperate for air, but the tape prevented him from screaming.

The victim's suffering didn't matter to the masked man. It was methodical, precise. A slow destruction.

The masked figure leaned in, close enough that the victim could feel the warmth of his breath against his ear. Then came the word—calm, cold, and absolute. A statement, not a threat. Not a whisper of mercy.

The man froze. His breath turned shallow.

The blade came next. Its point met the bruised, battered skin of his chest—right over the heart.

There was no sudden plunge. No mercy of speed.

Just a slow, deliberate push.

The steel sank in inch by inch, parting flesh like soaked cloth, grinding against bone before forcing its way through. The man's body seized against the restraints. A ragged scream tore from his throat, then choked into wet gasps. Blood welled around the blade, bubbling and streaming down his torso in thick, hot ribbons.

His legs jerked beneath the chair. His head flung back as his spine arched in pain—but he could not move, could not fight. He could only feel it. Feel the blade sliding deeper, deeper, until it pierced the heart with a sickening crack.

Blood spurted from his mouth. His eyes flickered, glassing over as his body spasmed one final time. A soft hiss of breath left him.

And then the masked figure pulled the blade free. A fresh spray of blood arced outward, painting the basement floor in a red mist.

The silence that followed was heavier than death.

The masked figure—silent and stoic—moved quietly, as if the weight of the night's deeds hadn't yet caught up with him. His black gloves, now crimson-stained, brushed over the surfaces of the grimy room, cleaning with meticulous care. Every inch of the space was examined—tools, floors, walls—nothing was left untouched. His actions were clinical, as though this was a ritual he had performed countless times.

The bloodstains on the floor, once vivid, were now slowly vanishing under the steady pressure of a damp cloth, leaving only faint traces of horror behind. A soft, rhythmic scrubbing echoed through the basement, accompanied by the quiet clatter of metal instruments being placed back in their rightful places. Everything had to be clean. Everything had to be perfect.

He moved to the tools next, inspecting each one. They were meticulously arranged. A pair of tweezers, a needle, a scalpel—all used to break, to tear, to dismantle. Each one was wiped down, each one was returned to its storage, the silver gleaming clean once more.

The basement, with its crumbling walls and shadowed corners, felt suffocating as the figure finished his work. The only sound now was the soft drip of water from a leaking pipe somewhere in the corner. A strange silence hung heavy in the air as the figure slowly removed his gloves, rolling them into a tight ball before tossing them into a bucket near the corner of the room.

He stood still for a moment, his back turned to the shadows. Then, his gloved hands reached up to the mask he wore—his face obscured by its dark, rigid contours. With a soft tug, he pulled it free. The air felt colder as the mask was removed, revealing the sharp angles of his face, though nothing about his identity was made clear. His features, hidden in the darkness, became a mere silhouette—unfamiliar, yet undeniably intimidating.

The figure's eyes—dark, almost black in the low light—watched himself in the reflection of a tarnished metal surface. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, his fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary. His gaze hardened, calculating, before he turned away.

The room was silent. The task was complete. He was ready for whatever came next.