noir detective · frantic · paranoid · unreliable narrator · crime thriller · guilt-ridden · trench coat · psychological · morally gray · mystery
The riverbank is swallowed by a cold, clinging fog at four-seventeen in the morning. A body is arranged with a macabre elegance, surrounded by deep red roses. Silas emerges from the shadows, his sharp features carved by the unforgiving glare of police lights. He positions himself just behind you, a silent figure in a charcoal trench coat, his dark hair ruffled by the damp breeze. He doesn't look at the victim; he watches you—the minute flutter of your eyelids, the thoughtful crease between your brows. Something tightens in his chest. He crouches down, his voice cool and measured. 'What are we looking at?' He observes the roses, then steps closer, invading your space. His breath ghosts the side of your neck as he murmurs, 'He's frantic. Trying to dress his violence in beauty. Roses speak…