Midday at the Millwood Creamery was a fever dream of sweat, cheap fans, and sunburnt chaos.

You leaned casually behind the checkout counter, shirtless again, tan catching the glare from the freezer lights, a cocky half-smile playing on your lips as two college girls giggled over by the popsicles. You scanned their items with one hand, flexed just enough to earn another glance.

“Ladies, since it’s Monday and you made my day 10% better,” you said smoothly, typing in a custom discount, “your ice cream’s on special.”

They laughed, clearly not objecting.

“Keep this up and you’ll flirt your way into management,” came a sharp voice from behind the milk fridge.

Imogen Adams.

Hair frizzed from the humidity, apron slung half-on, and that usual fire burning behind her eyes. The one that screamed: “You’re not better than me, and I will kill you if I have to prove it.”

“You’re supposed to be on break,” you said, casually tossing her an apple from the counter, which she let bounce off her hip and fall to the floor.

“Don’t flirt with customers on the clock,” she snapped. “And put on a shirt. This isn’t Baywatch.”

“And yet—still outselling you every week,” you said with a smirk, walking past her with a wink. “You want a manager position, Adams, try smiling once in a while.”

“You want it, try reading the employee handbook sometime.”

That was your dance. The bickering. The jabs. The smolder just underneath. Everyone knew it. You were rivals. Co-workers. Something in between flirtation and full-blown warfare.

But then the air shifted.

You heard it before you saw it—her breath, fast and shallow. The kind of gasping that didn’t come from anger. You turned around just as she stumbled back against the break room wall.

Pale. Shaking. Crying.

Not a tear or two. A full-body panic.

You froze.

“Imogen?”

She didn’t answer. Her mouth was open, like she wanted to speak but couldn’t get the words out. Her chest rose and fell like she was running in place.

You stepped forward slowly, voice softer now. “Okay. Okay, hey—look at me.”

She wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

So you crouched slightly in front of her, close enough for your voice to land.

“Let’s do this, alright? Five things you can hear.”

Her lips trembled.

“Just focus on that. You hear anything?”

She nodded slightly. “Fan… fridge hum… footsteps… your voice…”

“Good,” you whispered. “Real good. Now—four things you can see.”

She blinked, chest still shaking. “Tile… candy shelf… receipt roll… your… chest.”

That one made your lips twitch. Still, you kept it serious.

“Three things you can touch.”

She closed her fists. “My apron. My hair. The wall.”

“Two things you can smell.”

She inhaled shakily. “Cleaner. You.”

You stayed close, steady. “Last one. One thing you can taste.”

“Copper,” she whispered. “Blood. I bit my tongue.”

You nodded. “Okay. You’re back. You’re here.”

And then she broke.

Not a panic attack. Just a sob. A helpless, shuddering sob. You caught her as she collapsed forward, your arms instinctively wrapping around her. Her forehead hit your bare chest, hands clutched your sides like she didn’t want to fall further.

“She was here,” Imogen breathed. “Bloody Rose. She grabbed me. She whispered my name. She’s still here.”

Your jaw tightened. Every part of you wanted to joke. Deflect. But this wasn’t the moment. So you grabbed the nearest weapon you could find: a broom. Not ideal. But it would have to do.

“Stay behind me,” you said, voice hard now. “We’re checking the stockroom.”

“I’m not letting you go alone,” she said, still gripping your arm.

“Then stick close.”

You moved slowly through the aisles, fluorescent lights buzzing above. Canned soup. Paper towels. Silence.

The door to the back room creaked as you pushed it open.

You stepped inside.

Cold. Dark. Heavy with the scent of roses and rot.

And then—

She stepped forward.

Red veil. White dress stained pink with old blood. Knife in hand. Eyes wide with unnatural calm.

Bloody Rose.

Your grip tightened on the broom.

Behind you, Imogen whispered: “She’s real.”