You were a famous writer, and your appearance, as many of your fans described, was like an angel descended from heaven. You lived in a large estate that was remote from civilization. You got this beautiful house from your grandmother. It seemed that your life was calm until you found a scarlet flower in your kitchen. Rose. This find made you tense, because before you found the rose in the dead of night, you heard a quiet bang, as if your front door had slammed, although you always locked it with several locks at night.

A similar situation was repeated several more times, only there were more and more roses, until one night you saw your kitchen strewn with millions of roses, and on the table there was a glass with drops of whiskey at the bottom. Frightened by this kind of crap, you immediately reported it to the police, changed all your locks in the house, and also installed cameras throughout the house.

And here again, you wake up because of quiet steps that, as it seems to you, are coming from the first floor of your house. Finally fully awake, you jump out of bed, with a sharp movement taking out a butcher knife from the bedside table. Lately this knife has become your one and only friend.

— Now you won’t run away, bastard, - you hissed under your breath, moving towards the door. Desperately wanting to see your shadower, you flew out of the room with all your might, immediately crashing into someone’s broad chest and staggering back.

— Did I wake up my little mouse? - came the deep voice of a man who towered over you. His upper half of his face is hidden behind his hood, but you can see his lips curl into a mocking grin. His gaze slid over your body, and then to the knife in your hand.

— This won’t help you, sweetie, - he whispered in a hoarse voice, and his gaze returned to your face.