ＬＡＮＤＯＮ ＡＳＨＦＯＲＤ

Midnight swallows the city whole.

I stand in the mouth of an alley that reeks of piss and rotting garbage, watching my breath fog in the freezing air. The rain has finally stopped, leaving everything slick and reflective—puddles catching the sickly yellow glow of a distant streetlight, making the whole scene look like something out of a noir film.

How fitting.

The polite Ashford mask is gone now. Carefully folded and tucked away in whatever compartment of my brain stores the performance. Out here, in the dark where no one can see, I don't have to pretend.

I don't have to be the Golden Prince.

I can just be what I actually am.

A hunter.

The man from the bookstore stumbles out of a dive bar three blocks down, exactly where I knew he'd be. I've been tracking him for hours—followed him from the bookstore to his apartment (a shithole studio above a laundromat), waited while he changed clothes and grabbed his keys, tailed him to this cesspool of a neighborhood where men like him come to drink away their failures.

He's drunk. Sloppy. Completely unaware that death is standing twenty feet away, watching him with the same clinical detachment a scientist might show a rat in a maze.

He lit a cigarette with trembling hands—still shaking from whatever I whispered in his ear earlier. Good. He should be afraid. Fear is the only appropriate response when you've touched something that doesn't belong to you.

When you've dared to tap on her glass box.

I move.

Silent. Controlled. Years of private martial arts training and an inherent understanding of how bodies work make this almost too easy. He doesn't hear me coming. Doesn't sense the predator closing in until my hand clamps over his mouth and I drag him backward into the alley.

His eyes go wide—recognition and terror flashing in equal measure as he realizes who I am.

"Shh," I whisper against his ear, my voice perfectly calm. "This won't take long."

I'm not angry. That's the thing people never understand about me. I don't kill out of rage or passion or any of those messy, human emotions that drive Lucius or Tristan when they get their hands dirty.

I kill because it's necessary.

This man touched Hazel. Cornered her. Made her afraid. He tapped on the glass box I'm building around her, and that simply cannot be tolerated.

So he has to go.

The hunting knife slides out of my jacket with a whisper of steel against leather. I considered using my hands—there's something intimate about choking the life out of someone, watching their face change colors as their brain realizes it's over—but that takes time. And despite what people might think, I'm not a sadist.

I'm efficient.

The blade goes in just below his ribs, angled up toward his heart. I've studied anatomy extensively. I know exactly where to cut to make it quick.

His body jerks once. Twice. Then goes still.

I hold him upright for a moment longer, making sure he's actually gone before I let him drop. His body hits the wet pavement with a dull thud that echoes down the empty alley.

I should feel something. Remorse. Guilt. The weight of having just ended a human life.

I feel nothing.

Just the satisfying sense of a problem solved. A threat neutralized. A weed ripped out by the root before it could spread.

I'm wiping the blade clean on his jacket when I notice it—a single drop of arterial blood has splattered onto my pristine white cuff. The crimson stands out starkly against the expensive fabric, a perfect circle of evidence.

I stare at it for a moment, then shrug.

It doesn't matter. I'll deal with it later.

Right now, I have flowers to buy.

The 24-hour florist on Fifth Avenue is one of those absurdly expensive places that caters to wealthy men with guilty consciences and mistresses who expect grand gestures. The woman behind the counter doesn't even blink when I walk in at one in the morning, still wearing the blood-speckled suit.

"Sunflowers," I say. "As many as you can fit in a bouquet. The best you have."

She nods, already moving toward the back room. "Any particular arrangement style?"

"Overwhelming."

"Excuse me?"

"I want it to be overwhelming," I clarify, pulling out my wallet. "The kind of bouquet that makes someone forget how to breathe when they see it."

Understanding flickers in her eyes—she thinks this is a romantic gesture. That I'm some lovesick fool trying to apologize to his girlfriend or win over a girl who's been playing hard to get.

Let her think that.

It's easier than explaining that I'm building a shrine to the only person who makes the screaming in my head stop.

She returns fifteen minutes later with a creation that's almost grotesque in its excess—dozens of sunflowers arranged in a cascade of yellow and gold, interspersed with smaller white flowers I don't bother identifying. It's massive. Expensive. Exactly what I wanted.

"Will this do?" she asks.

"Perfect."

I pay with cash—no paper trail—and carry the bouquet out into the cold night air. The streets are empty now, just me and the flowers and the faint memory of a man who no longer exists.

I should go home. Should shower off the evidence, change into clean clothes, get a few hours of sleep before morning.

But I don't want to.

I want to see her. Want to watch her face light up when she realizes I brought her flowers. Want to hear that soft gasp of surprise she always makes when I do something unexpectedly kind.

I want to remind myself why I just killed someone.

So I drive to Ardencrest, park in the visitors' lot, and make my way to the scholarship housing building with a bouquet the size of a small child cradled in my arms.

The security guard at the front desk barely glances at me—Landon Ashford coming and going at odd hours isn't unusual. I'm a Legacy Elite. I have privileges. Access. Freedom.

I take the stairs to the third floor, my footsteps silent on worn carpet, and stop outside room 316.

Hazel's door.

I raise my hand to knock, then pause.

What if she's asleep? What if showing up at one-thirty in the morning with flowers makes me seem unhinged instead of thoughtful?

What if she sees through the mask?

The thought sends a spike of something cold through my chest—not quite fear, but close enough. I've worked too hard building this persona, this version of myself that she trusts. The gentle best friend. The safe harbor. The man who would never hurt her.

If she ever saw what I really am—if she ever looked at me and saw the monster instead of the mask—the silence would come back.

And I would lose the only thing keeping me human.

I lower my hand.

The flowers can wait until morning.

ＨＡＺＥＬ ＢＬＯＯＭ

I wake up anxious.

It's a familiar feeling—the tight knot in my stomach, the way my hands shake slightly as I get dressed, the hypervigilance that makes every sound feel like a threat. I've lived with anxiety my whole life, learned to function around it the way you learn to function around chronic pain.

But today it's worse.

Because today I have to go back to the bookstore.

And what if he's there?

The man who cornered me yesterday. Who looked at me like I was something he could take. Who made me feel small and helpless and frozen in the worst way possible.

Landon said he took care of it. Said the man wouldn't bother me again.

But what if he was wrong? What if the man comes back angrier? What if—

My phone buzzes, cutting off the spiral.

Landon: Good morning, Sunflower. I have a surprise for you. Can I stop by before your shift?

The anxiety eases slightly, replaced by something warmer. Landon has this effect on me—just seeing his name on my screen makes the world feel a little less hostile.

Me: You don't have to bring me anything.

Landon: I know. I want to.

Me: You spoil me.

Landon: That's the plan.

I can't help but smile as I finish getting ready, pulling my hair into a messy bun and grabbing my bag. Whatever Landon's surprise is, it'll probably be something thoughtful and excessive—that's just how he is. Last week he brought me a first edition copy of my favorite poetry collection because I mentioned it once in passing. The week before that, he paid for my textbooks without asking.

He's the best friend I've ever had.

The best friend I've ever deserved.

The walk to the bookstore feels longer than usual, every shadow making my pulse spike, every stranger making me want to run. By the time I push through the door, I'm wound so tight I might shatter.

Mrs. Chen looks up from behind the register, her weathered face creasing into a smile. "Good morning, Hazel!"

"Morning, Mrs. Chen." I set my bag down, trying to keep my voice steady. "Anything I should know about before my shift?"

"Oh!" She waves a hand dismissively. "That man who was bothering you yesterday? You won't have to worry about him anymore."

My heart stops. "What?"

"He relocated. Middle of the night, apparently." She shrugs. "His landlord called this morning asking if I knew where he went. Said he cleared out his apartment without notice, left all his furniture behind. Good riddance, I say."

"He... left?"

"Permanently, from the sound of it." Mrs. Chen goes back to sorting receipts. "Probably realized he wasn't welcome here."

Relief crashes through me like a wave, so intense it makes my knees weak. He's gone. Really gone. I don't have to be afraid anymore, don't have to spend my shifts jumping at every sound, don't have to relive that moment of being cornered and helpless.

Landon was right. He took care of it.

I don't know how he did it—maybe he threatened the man with legal action, or used his family's influence to get him evicted, or just scared him badly enough that running seemed like the only option.

But it worked.

I'm safe.

I'm restocking the poetry section when I hear the bell chime.

"We're not officially open yet—" I start, turning around.

And there's Landon.

Standing in the doorway with a bouquet so massive I can barely see his face behind it. Sunflowers—dozens of them, arranged in a cascade of gold that catches the morning light streaming through the windows.

My breath catches.

"Landon—"

"Good morning, Sunflower." His voice is warm, affectionate, completely genuine. "I thought you might like these."

"I—" Words fail me. I've never received flowers before. Never had someone care enough to bring me something this beautiful, this thoughtful. "You didn't have to—"

"I wanted to." He steps closer, and I can see his face now—that perfect smile, those teal-blue eyes that always seem to see right through me. "You've had a rough couple of days. You deserve something beautiful."

I reach for the bouquet, my hands trembling slightly with emotion.

And that's when I see it.

The stain on his cuff.

Dark. Smeared. Unmistakably crimson against the white fabric.

Blood.

My brain stutters to a halt, trying to process what I'm seeing. Landon is so meticulous about his appearance, so careful with his expensive clothes. He wouldn't walk around with a stain unless—

"Did you cut yourself?" The words tumble out before I can stop them.

He glances down at his cuff, and for just a fraction of a second—less than a heartbeat—his expression goes completely blank. His teal eyes flatten into something empty and dead, like looking into the eyes of a mannequin.

Then he blinks, and the warmth floods back.

"Oh, that." He laughs softly, brushing his thumb over the stain. "Cooking accident this morning. I was making breakfast and got careless with the knife."

"Are you okay?" I step closer, genuine concern overriding my confusion. "Do you need—"

"I'm fine, Hazel." He transfers the bouquet to one arm and reaches out with his free hand to cup my face, his touch so gentle it makes my chest ache. "It's just a small cut. Nothing to worry about."

His thumb brushes across my cheekbone, and I lean into the touch without thinking. This is Landon. My best friend. The person who makes me feel safe when everything else is terrifying.

Of course he's okay.

Of course the blood is from a cooking accident.

What else would it be from?

"Now," he says, pulling his hand back and holding out the flowers again. "Are you going to make me stand here all day, or are you going to accept these?"

I take the bouquet with a smile that feels like it might split my face in half. "They're beautiful. Thank you."

"You're welcome, Sunflower."

He stays for a few more minutes, helping me find a vase large enough to hold the massive arrangement (we end up using three), making sure I eat the breakfast pastry he brought, checking that I'm really okay after yesterday's incident.

And the whole time, I don't think about the blood on his cuff.

I think about how lucky I am.

How impossibly, inexplicably lucky I am to have someone like Landon in my life.

ＬＡＮＤＯＮ ＡＳＨＦＯＲＤ

She accepted the flowers with that blinding smile—the one that makes her whole face light up, that makes her look like something out of a painting.

The one that makes the silence in my head stretch out like a peaceful lake instead of a screaming void.

I watch her arrange the sunflowers in their makeshift vases, humming softly to herself, completely unaware that she's holding a murderer's trophy.

You ask if I'm bleeding, sweet girl.

I'm not.

But I would bleed every drop in my veins to keep your hands clean.

The man from the bookstore wasn't bleeding either when I left him. He was already dead, his blood soaking into the filthy alley pavement where he belonged. Just a minor inconvenience. A mess that needed cleaning.

And I cleaned it.

Because that's what you do for the things you worship.

You remove anything that threatens them. You build walls so high and so strong that nothing can touch them. You create a perfect, pristine sanctuary where they can exist without ever having to see the darkness.

Even if you have to wade through blood to do it.

She glances at me over her shoulder, still smiling. "You're staring."

"Just admiring my handiwork." I gesture to the flowers. "I think yellow is your color."

"Everything is my color according to you."

"Because it's true."

She laughs—soft and genuine and completely trusting—and goes back to arranging flowers.

I stay for another twenty minutes, making sure she's settled, making sure she feels safe. Then I excuse myself with the promise to check in later, to make sure she gets home okay after her shift.

She hugs me goodbye—quick and sweet, her small frame pressed against mine for just a moment.

And in that moment, with her warmth seeping into my chest and the scent of sunflowers filling my lungs, I make another vow.

I will never let anything touch her.

Not fear. Not pain. Not the ugliness of this world.

I will build her a glass box so perfect, so beautiful, that she'll never want to leave.

And I will stand guard outside it, covered in the blood of anyone who dares to come close.

Because she is my silence.

My sanctuary.

My religion.

And I am a zealot who will slaughter anything that threatens his worship. I mean anything. Even If it is myself.

I'm halfway back to my car when my phone buzzes.

Tristan: Where were you last night? Evander said you disappeared from the penthouse.

Me: Had something to take care of.

Tristan: Something or someone?

I smile at the screen, typing my response.

Me: Just weeding the garden.

Tristan: ...

Tristan: Do I want to know?

Me: Probably not.

Tristan: Fair enough. Try not to leave evidence lying around.

Me: I'm always careful.

And I am.

The body in the alley will be found eventually—some homeless person or early-morning jogger stumbling across it and calling the police. But there's nothing connecting it to me. No fingerprints (I wore gloves). No witnesses (I chose my location carefully). No motive (what reason would Landon Ashford, golden heir to a political dynasty, have to murder some nobody in a back alley?).

I'm untouchable.

Just like I've always been.

I slide into my car and check my reflection in the rearview mirror. The Golden Prince stares back—perfect hair, perfect smile, perfectly controlled.

No one would ever suspect what I really am.

And that's exactly how I like it.

I pull out of the parking lot and head toward campus, already planning my next move. Hazel has a study session this afternoon with some girls from her Political Theory class. I should make sure I'm nearby, just in case. Should make sure no one bothers her, no one makes her uncomfortable, no one even looks at her wrong.

Because if they do?

Well.

I'll just have to do some more weeding.

The thought makes me smile as I merge onto the highway, the morning sun glinting off my perfectly polished hood.

Hazel thinks she's holding flowers.

She has no idea she's holding the first petal of a bouquet built from blood.

And I'm going to keep adding to it, one body at a time, until she's surrounded by so much beauty she never has to see the corpses underneath.

That's love, isn't it? No, madness what I feel for her is not love. Love is too little of a word for the way my head screams when she is not their within reach, wheneever he can see her.

Protecting someone from the ugliness of the world.

Even if you have to become the ugliest thing in it to do it.