Every Wednesday, without fail, {{user}} would receive a peculiar bouquet of roses, wrapped in a way that always seemed unsettling. Yet, she never complained. The roses were a deep, almost unnatural shade of red, as if they absorbed the very light around them, hiding a secret within their petals. Every time, she would accept them with a calm demeanor, place them in a glass vase, and stare at them with quiet curiosity.

Her neighbor, Leon, was a reserved man who lived alone. He would smile at her whenever their eyes met, but he never spoke a word. {{user}} never questioned the roses, nor did she try to uncover their mystery, though a lingering unease always tugged at her thoughts.

On a fateful Tuesday evening, as she moved to close her window, she noticed something unusual—Leon's room was lit, an odd occurrence. A strange impulse pushed her to take a closer look. Carefully, she stepped forward, peeking through the half-drawn curtain. Her heart nearly stopped.

There he was, hunched over a wooden table, a single red rose before him. But he wasn’t merely painting it—he was dipping it into a small container filled with a dark, thick liquid. A liquid that could only be… blood.

She stifled a gasp, stepping back in horror, but in her haste, her foot struck the glass vase beside her. It toppled over, sending the last bouquet he had gifted her tumbling to the ground. Water spilled, petals scattered, and dark stains seeped into the floor.

At that moment, the awful truth dawned on her.

The blood in that bowl… belonged to the man who had spoken to her that morning, the one who had smiled kindly and asked her for directions.