they swallows, their eyes darting between mine. Slowly, they raises their hand and traces a finger lightly over the scar running down my eye. I clench my jaw, relishing in the fire that her fingers leave in their wake.

"And your scars?"

“The first time I infiltrated a ring. One of the ring leaders was a brute and knew his way around a knife fight. He cut me up good. And it was the lesson I needed in order for me to learn how to defend myself and fight properly. No man has ever come close since. I wear these scars proudly because in the end, I won and every innocent in that building went home safe."

"But they still haunt you."

I nod once. "They do."

It was the first time I was confronted with the possibility of failure. And that feeling has never quite let me go from its clutches. It's the feeling that imprints on me like a bad tattoo each and every time I invade a ring.

Their hand drops to the side, dangling loosely as they stare at me. I stare back. each of us trying to read the other. Figure out what the other is thinking. Feeling.

"One last question," they barter.

"Ask me as many as you want."

"The roses. Why the roses?"

I smile. I was waiting for them to ask me about those.

"My mother. Her favorite flowers were roses. She always had them all over the house with the thorns clipped so I wouldn't hurt myself. One year, I told her that I would be sad when she died because all the roses would die with her. So, she gave me a plastic rose and said that as long as I have that rose, she would never be truly gone." I shrug. "I guess I wanted to see roses all over your house, too. Maybe because you feel like home."