Snow drifted through the broken windows like slow-moving feathers, settling quietly over the bodies scattered across the room. The flakes melted as soon as they touched skin, leaving small beads of water on cold faces. The smell of gunpowder clung to the air. It had been thick at first, sharp enough to sting the nose, but now it floated like a fading memory. The room was silent except for the whisper of wind slipping through the cracked frames.
"They're all dead, sir," one of the men in black said. His voice barely reached the far end of the room. Even speaking felt wrong here, like the air itself wanted quiet.
Mr. Flowers stepped forward with slow, measured steps. The soft click of his polished shoes tapped against the wooden floor. He did not rush. He moved as if the whole scene waited for him, frozen in place until he allowed time to continue.
His coat swayed slightly behind him, heavy with melted snow and the cold morning breeze that followed him inside. He stopped near the smallest body, his shadow stretching long across the floorboards. He lowered his gaze, not blinking, not recoiling, simply observing.
He reached into his coat and took out a cigar. The movement was unhurried, almost graceful. One of his men immediately stepped in and brought a lighter close. The flame wavered once, then held steady.
Mr. Flowers leaned in. The cigar tip glowed red. He took a slow breath and let the smoke escape in a steady line.
"So all of this was for nothing," he said. The smoke curled upward. "Just another waste of lives."
His men shifted their stance but stayed silent. They never interrupted him. Not when he spoke softly, not when he spoke like this, tired and disappointed at the same time.
He exhaled and watched the haze drift above the bodies. It felt like even the smoke hesitated, as if unsure whether it should disturb the broken scene below.
He stared for a long moment. He seemed to wait for something… a twitch of fingers… a hint of life buried beneath blankets and blood. Anything that could say the night had not ended like this.
But the room did not move. Only distant crackles from brittle wood and burning dust reached his ears.
"Clear the bodies," he said. His voice held no emotion. "Give them a proper burial. Even the dead deserve that much."
"Yes, sir."
Mr. Flowers turned to step away. His foot lifted, ready to leave the frozen stillness behind.
Then he stopped.
A faint shuffle brushed through the silence. It was so soft that anyone else might have mistaken it for fabric or settling debris. But he heard it clearly.
He stepped back toward the far corner where old beds and thin blankets formed a messy pile. The men followed his gaze, hands tightening on their weapons.
There, half buried beneath torn sheets, a girl tried to push herself up. Her arms trembled, but she kept trying. Her breaths rasped, thin and strained, like she was dragging air through a narrow crack. Her hair clung to her cheeks in hardened streaks of dried blood.
Mr. Flowers approached her without hurry. His face did not change. Not surprised. Not relieved. Simply watching, the same way he observed everything.
He reached out a hand.
The girl grabbed it immediately, her fingers cold and desperate. She pulled herself into him, pressing her small body against his coat. The sudden closeness made his men stiffen. A few hands twitched toward holsters.
Mr. Flowers lifted one hand slightly. They stopped at once.
The girl held him tightly, her grip steady despite her uneven breathing, her eyes calm with no crying or pleading, only a quiet certainty as if she had decided he was the safest place in the world.
Her voice came out small. "Are you going to take me home? As your daughter, sir?"
"Yes." His reply came easily. He looked down at her face. It was blank, unreadable, smeared with someone else's blood. "I am here to take you home. But tell me one thing."
He placed two fingers under her chin and lifted her face, turning it just enough for her to see the bodies around them.
"Do you feel remorse for them?"
The girl looked. Her gaze did not linger. She looked back at him as if he had asked about something simple, like the weather.
"They were monsters," she whispered. "They never gave me a proper meal. I just want a proper meal. A soft bed. Nice clothes. And a name."
Mr. Flowers let the cigar fall to the ground. He crushed it beneath his heel. Smoke fluttered away softly.
He crouched to her level. His face drew close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath in the winter air. He placed a hand on her head, gentle and steady.
"If you do whatever you are told, without question," he said, "you will have more than that."
His lips curved into a thin smile.
"If you want a better life… a big room to sleep in… clothes, shoes, food, anything, then all you need to say is yes sir. Do you understand?"
She nodded.
"Say it," he whispered.
"Yes, sir."
"Good girl." He stood and signaled to his men. "Give her a bath. A warm one. Then whatever she wants to eat."
He paused and studied her one more time, his eyes narrowing with interest.
"You will get a brand new life."
Two Years Later
Morning light spilled through the wide windows of Rose's room, soft and pale. The brightness touched the large bed where she lay tangled in sheets, warming the edge of her pillow. The air smelled faintly of fresh flowers from the garden outside, mixed with the scent of perfume she had worn the night before.
Another girl slept beside her, curled up near the edge, her breathing quiet and steady as she dreamed.
Rose blinked awake.
She lifted her head slightly. The room was wide and filled with soft colors, nothing like the room she used to sleep in two years ago. Everything here was clean, soft, warm, hers.
But the morning did not stay gentle.
The first thing she noticed was the figure standing near the windows. Mr. Flowers and his cigar in his hand. His back was straight, his hands behind him, his gaze fixed outside as if he had been waiting for her to wake.
Her breath stayed steady as she pulled the bedsheet up to cover herself and sat up.
"Sir… you are home early. I thought you were not coming back until next week."
Mr. Flowers turned and walked toward her. His steps were calm. He did not look at the sleeping girl beside her. He never asked about the people Rose kept close or brought into her room. Her choices were hers. As long as she obeyed him, he never interfered.
He brushed a strand of her hair aside with a gentle motion, a touch that came close to fatherly but never reached it.
"Today you turned sixteen," he said with a warm smile. "How could I possibly miss your birthday?"
He held out an envelope.
Rose took it. She opened it slowly. Her eyes scanned the bold black seal printed at the top of the letter.
Dark Central Academy
Invitation Confirmed
She stared at the paper, her eyes steady, her heartbeat unchanged, the letter landing in her mind like a stone in still water with no ripples at all.
"After two years of waiting," Mr. Flowers said, "they finally gave you an invitation. You are officially going to be a student of DCA."
She did not react.
"You should be happy, Rose."
She lifted the corners of her lips into a small, practiced smile.
"Good girl," he said softly.
He turned toward the door. Just before he stepped out, he paused.
"When you get there… do whatever it takes to get to the top."
Then he left the room.
The door closed with a soft click.
Rose's smile faded at once. It slipped off her face like it had never existed.
Beside her, the girl stirred awake. She moved closer and wrapped her arms around Rose from behind, resting her chin on Rose's shoulder. Her voice was sleepy and warm.
"I heard everything… I can't believe you are leaving. I am going to miss you, Rosy. Will you miss me?"
Rose did not answer right away. She looked at the admission letter again. Her fingers tightened around the edges. Her eyes stayed unreadable just like always.
"No," she said finally. "I won't."