🆆🅰🆁🅽🅸🅽🅶: 🆃🅷🅸🆂 🆂🆃🅾🆁🆈 🅲🅾🅽🆃🅰🅸🅽🆂 🅼🅰🆃🆄🆁🅴 🆃🅷🅴🅼🅴🆂, 🅸🅽🅲🅻🆄🅳🅸🅽🅶 🆅🅸🅾🅻🅴🅽🅲🅴, 🆂🅴🅻🅵-🅷🅰🆁🅼, 🅰🅽🅳 🅱🆁🆄🆃🅰🅻 🅺🅸🅻🅻🅸🅽🅶🆂. 🆁🅴🅰🅳🅴🆁 🅳🅸🆂🅲🆁🅴🆃🅸🅾🅽 🅸🆂 🅰🅳🆅🅸🆂🅴🅳
𝔹𝕖𝕔𝕒𝕦𝕤𝕖 𝕀 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕤𝕥𝕠𝕡 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝔻𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕙 –
ℍ𝕖 𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕕𝕝𝕪 𝕤𝕥𝕠𝕡𝕡𝕖𝕕 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕞𝕖 –
𝕋𝕙𝕖 ℂ𝕒𝕣𝕣𝕚𝕒𝕘𝕖 𝕙𝕖𝕝𝕕 𝕓𝕦𝕥 𝕛𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕆𝕦𝕣𝕤𝕖𝕝𝕧𝕖𝕤 –
𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝕀𝕞𝕞𝕠𝕣𝕥𝕒𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪.
-𝔼𝕞𝕚𝕝𝕪 𝔻𝕚𝕔𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕤𝕠𝕟
The shears clicked—a sharp, final sound cutting through the heavy silence.
She stood in the heart of her garden, draped in a red nightgown that billowed like smoke, its fabric whispering against her skin as she moved through the sea of crimson blooms. Camellias, dahlias, begonias, anthuriums, hibiscus, amaryllis, geraniums, poppies, peonies. Roses—deep as wine, rich as blood.
A kingdom of red. A realm of beauty and secrecy.
Her fingers worked meticulously, severing each stem with precision, placing the roses into a glass vase as if arranging offerings for something unseen. The garden pulsed under the moonlight, its radiance fragile, trembling on the edge of reality. Of dreamy roses. Of illusions woven in petals and shadows.
Then—her phone crackled to life.
A voice, low and hypnotic, disturbingly composed, spilled into the night. A documentary—a podcast on a serial killer.
"Because I could not stop for Death—"
The words curled in the air, winding around her like a whispered incantation.
"He kindly stopped for me—"
She pressed too hard—a deliberate mistake, or an unconscious one?
A thorn sliced through her skin. A thin streak of blood curled down her fingertip, catching the glow of the garden lights.
She did not flinch.
Did not react.
She simply stared—as though watching something unravel.
"The Carriage held but just Ourselves—"
A slow exhale. The scent—intoxicating, exhilarating. Iron and night and something darker.
She lifted her hand, studying the rich crimson against her pale skin.
And then—she licked it.
Not in haste. Not in reaction.
But in thought. In curiosity.
"And Immortality."
A smile—slow, cold, unreadable.
The voice from the documentary droned on, filling the air with hollow facts, dissected lives, twisted stories.
But her mind? Elsewhere.
Beyond the confines of the garden, beyond the tangible world.
She was creating. And tonight, her paintings would be spectacular.
🔪💀🪓🖤💢👁️🗨️⛓💣
OFFICE OF THE CHIEF OF POLICE
CERTIFICATION
POLICE REPORT:
As per report and records of events available in the official blotter of this office there appears the following data:
POLICE BLOTTER SERIES OF --- 20XX
BLOTTER PAGE NUMBER: --- 366
BLOTTER ENTRY NUMBER: --- 20-XXXX to 20-XXXX
Date & Time Entered: --- January 23, 20XX
11: 55 p.m.
FACTS OF THE CASE:
Entry No. 20-XXXX to 20-XXXX January 23, 20XX/11:55PM : REPORT ON MURDER
ITEM "A"—Reporting person, male, 45 years old, married, fisherman, and a resident of XXX appeared at this station and reported that he found a woman, VICTIM A, a female, dumped near the river as he was fishing. VICTIM A was beaten, bound, and drowned to death. Multiple incisions in the body. The body is already bloated, but the most visible marking looks like a torn angel's wings at the back of the victim. (Like an angel lost or cut off their wings—For your information and reference a photo included). The investigation shows VICTIM A died from asphyxia.
No suspects as of writing. Case ongoing.
This Police report was issued upon request at XXXX, on January 23, 20XX.
Prepared by:
Senior Police Officer II
Police Superintendent
Chief of Police