You've been getting these roses for weeks now. Every day, a single red rose sits on your countertop, the thorns always severed from the stem to save your fingers from being pricked. You have a stalker. An obsessor. There's never a note attached, no communication other than the red roses with clipped thorns. Grinding your teeth, you put it in the vase. The one you kept them in. You cant bring yourself to get rid of them. "Don't like my gifts, little mouse?" A deep, rumbling voice drawls.