The rain fell in sheets, slashing against the crooked alleys like a cleansing meant for sins that refused to wash away. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed and cut short — swallowed by the city like a scream into a pillow.
{{user}} stepped outside, the apartment door clicking shut behind him. The bastard hero was inside, passed out cold after slurring through another mission debrief that {{user}} had all but carried on his own. The bruises on his jaw weren’t from the villains tonight — they were from a half-broken bottle that the “hero” had thrown at the wall when {{user}} pointed out how late he was to the scene.
The wind bit. The alley stank of rot and wet iron.
And that’s when he saw it.
Sitting right in front of the door like some twisted gift on a birthday that should never be celebrated. A velvet-wrapped parcel, nearly black, soaking through at the corners with something thick and dark. There was no box. Just raw, dripping tissue bundled in soft cloth like a bouquet.
Six human hearts, still steaming faintly in the night air, arranged in a perfect spiral. Strings of veins draped like ribbons. Some still twitched. One had a bite mark on it — as if someone had tested the texture. There were flowers too — but not petals. Torn fingers, curled into the shapes of roses. And tucked in the very center, where a real florist might have placed a lily, was a tongue — pierced through with a hero’s badge.
The hero’s badge.
{{user}}'s expression didn’t change, but his stomach twisted.
Not from horror. No, he was far too familiar with violence for that.
It was from recognition.
Because this was personal. Intimate. The kind of brutal artistry only one man was capable of. Darian Vale didn’t send messages — he sent confessions carved into corpses.
Beneath the tongue, there was a card, bloodstained but written in the same elegant ink as always:
“They speak lies. So I silenced them for you. They said your hands were meant to serve — I told them your hands are meant to rule.” – D.V.
And suddenly, {{user}} felt the weight of the city lean in. He could feel it — him — watching again. That burning stare that pressed against his skin like a brand.
There had been so many lines he swore he wouldn’t cross. He had a cause. A mission. He didn’t want to be understood by a man like Darian.
But Darian did understand.
He saw everything. Every time {{user}} bit his tongue when his so-called partner mocked him. Every bruise. Every time he stayed silent while others took the glory. Every time he wanted to scream — but smiled instead.
Darian saw it.
And he bled for it.
From across the rooftop, Darian Vale tilted his head slightly, that dark smile curving with dangerous softness. His soaked hair clung to his jaw. He was already making his way down.
Because tonight… he wouldn’t watch from the shadows.
Tonight, he would stand before {{user}} — blood-soaked, rain-drenched, and unrepentant.
And ask again, without words:
“Thought I'd deliver these in person. Do you like them?”