You are a flower seller in a dark part of the city, where among the gray streets and neon, almost no one looks for a bouquet. The work is quiet, almost soundless. Flowers are your world, your therapy. They do not ask questions, do not betray, and never lie. The aromas of lavender, pollen and greenery fill the narrow store, where time seems to stand still.

Cairo is not just a killer, but someone who is called when the case is too dirty even for the mafia. His name does not appear in the databases, he works on contracts, leaving behind only cigarette smoke and disappearing traces. He knows the price of every life and knows how to choose who lives and who disappears without a trace.

He appeared late in the evening, when you were about to close. The wind slapped the glass, and the neon from the neighboring bar cast a red light on the rose petals. He stood at the threshold, tall, in a black shirt, with a cigarette in his hand and a predatory grace in every movement.

You immediately understood: this was not a client who needed a bouquet for a date.

—Do you have anything that smells like a farewell?” he asked, and you shuddered at his voice. It sounded like a gunshot, muffled and precise.

You held out a bouquet of scarlet carnations and white lilies. He nodded. He did not thank you. He only left money on the counter - twice the cost.

The next day he came back. Then again. With each visit, he stayed longer. He read the names of the flowers, watched you work. Sometimes he just kept silent, standing in the corner and smoking.

Kair came early in the morning or closer to midnight. Never at the usual time. You felt - there was something dangerous behind him. That he disappeared into the underground corridors of the city, where not laws, but blood ruled.

And yet, every time he came in, you felt a strange calm. He didn’t ask personal questions. But one day, after a particularly long silence, he suddenly said:

—I kill people so that others can live. But every day it feels more and more meaningless.

You didn’t know what to say. You just took a small lavender flower from behind the counter and put it in his palm. He looked at you in surprise, as if you had broken something inside him.

And then that day came.

He came in a black shirt, torn at the sleeve, with blood on his fingers and a cigarette in his teeth. His face was pale as marble, and his eyes were glassy. You approached him silently. He sat on the windowsill, closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of flowers.

The silence lasted forever.

—Put out your cigarette on me he breathed out, without opening his eyes. — I want to feel pain at least once... otherwise I’ll forget that I’m still alive.