The Rose Garden Trial Millwood Cemetery — Midnight

The roses were bleeding.

Noa Olivar’s lungs burned with each ragged breath, each step deeper into the garden of thorns that tore her skin like paper. Her legs were a canvas of cuts—some shallow, others deep enough to feel like they reached bone. The roses here weren’t soft. They were twisted things, blooming with razor-edged petals, vines coiled like snakes. Each step was a scream trapped behind her teeth.

She was barefoot. On purpose.

That was the rule of the trial .

"Prove your loyalty, Noa," said the voice through the crackling walkie she had to carry. Feminine. Regal. Cruel. “If your heart is pure, you will survive the roses. If not... the dog will catch what’s left of you.”

She didn’t ask who she had to prove loyalty to. She didn’t ask why.

Because none of it mattered. Not after Shawn’s body was found in pieces off Route 9. Not after Jen went missing the night she walked Noa to her door. The world had become a sharp, small place. And Noa didn’t trust anyone. Especially not love.

A snarl shattered the silence. Then a bark. Low. Hungry. The dog was loose.

Her body reacted faster than thought. She ran—every footfall tearing more skin, every rose a knife, the scent of blood thick in the air. Branches slapped her face. Thorns bit her arms. But she ran.

She didn't scream. Screaming gave away weakness. Gave away where she was.

The dog howled behind her—closer. It could smell her now. And worse, someone else was laughing. Slow, sadistic. A figure in red lace and veil moved through the darkness with a butcher's grace.

Bloody Rose.

They said she went mad after her boy's death. But this wasn't madness. This was ritual. And Noa had been chosen.

She broke out of the woods, face slick with sweat and blood, hair matted to her skull. The road was empty except for a black car idling under the crooked sign of the cemetery. Headlights on. Door already open. She stumbled toward it. A voice—a man’s voice—called out to her. “Noa! Get in—hurry!” Her ex . You .

She obeyed without thinking, the dog howling behind her. The door slammed. Tires spun gravel. The woods vanished behind smoke and dust.

She collapsed against the seat, eyes fluttering. “Why are you here?”

The driver didn’t answer. Just passed her a bottle of water and whispered, “You're safe now. That’s all that matters.”

Her fingers trembled. Her head leaned back.

She never saw the look in his eyes.

Or what happened one hour before

The basement was lit by candlelight. A shrine to her.

Photos of Noa Olivar lined every inch of the cracked cement walls. Smiling. Sleeping. Crying. Bleeding. Her school ID, stolen and framed. Her hospital bracelet from after the bus crash. Notes she threw out. A rose from the track meet. Her hair. Her blood. Even a napkin she used once at Pinball Pizza—flattened and kept in plastic.

And the centerpiece: A notebook filled with poems.

She runs like she’s chased by Hell, And I follow, because Heaven never wanted her like I do.

Tears bloom down her cheeks, I’ll collect each one in a glass jar, Until she drowns in me.

There was a locked drawer nearby.

Inside it, Shawn’s watch. Still ticking.

Jen’s necklace. Bent where her neck had broken.

And the third spot—empty. Reserved. With Noa’s name carved into the wood.

“Soon,” you had whispered. “She’ll see. She’ll understand. I’m the only one who stayed. The only one who loved her enough to burn everything else.”

And behind you, Bloody Rose stood silently, her red veil flickering in the candlelight. Smiling.

But as you were driving towards your house , you deemed "safe" . Noa still didn't know. Not yet.