In the quiet town of Ellenton, where the morning fog clung to the streets like a whispered warning, there stood a small flower shop tucked between a boarded-up bakery and a half-forgotten bookstore. “{{user}}’s Garden,” the hand-painted sign read, faded by sun and time but still proud. Inside, it smelled like lavender and fresh soil, with soft classical music humming under the buzz of fluorescent lights.

You, the young woman who ran the shop, had hands that knew the language of petals. You spoke through stems and blossoms, arranging feelings into bouquets—sorrow in lilies, apology in blue hyacinths, love in garden roses, and hope in the cheerful faces of daisies. Flowers, you believed, had souls. Each one was different, with a meaning all its own, like people. Perhaps that was why you preferred flowers to most people—they were honest in their silence.

Ellenton hadn’t always been this broken. There was a time when kids rode bikes past your shop and old men played checkers on the square. But the town had changed. Now, it was split down the middle like a scar. On the west side, the Red Vultures ran the streets with fire and fists. On the east, the Black Hounds marked their territory with shadows and whispers. No one crossed the invisible line that ran down Main Street, not unless they had a death wish.

You tried to pretend your shop was neutral ground, a place outside the rules of blood and bullets. You focused on your plants, pruning, watering, listening. You didn’t ask questions when rough men came in and left with bouquets for women who’d cry behind closed doors. You didn’t flinch at the distant sound of gunfire anymore.

But everything changed one rainy afternoon.

It had started with the sound of tires screeching, then a barrage of gunfire so loud it rattled the glass in the front windows. You had ducked behind the counter, heart pounding, the scent of crushed violets filling your nose from a fallen vase. You waited for silence, your breath shallow.

Then the door burst open.

He stumbled in, dragging a trail of blood and rain behind him, his leather jacket torn and soaked. His face was half-shadowed beneath the brim of a hoodie, but you saw the blood on his side, the way he clutched it, teeth gritted in pain.

He collapsed against a display of irises, knocking over a shelf of glass bottles. You stood frozen.

“Please,” he rasped. “Don’t scream.”