"Now… I will tell you about her.The one who looked like a hibiscus flower—beautiful, delicate, and red.Red not just in color… but in blood.And yet, the flower came to mean hope, because of her."
The full moon shimmered over the slow-moving river, casting silver ripples across fields of red hibiscus. The flowers swayed gently, untouched by wind, as if bowing to the figure kneeling beside them, a woman with bloodstained hands and eyes like hollow glass.
She knelt in silence, planting a single hibiscus beside the others. It was fresh. The soil is still warm. Her fingers trembled slightly—not from fear, but from something unfamiliar: peace.
Then, in the reflection of the water, a shadow appeared behind her.
She turned. Slowly.
A man stood there, middle-aged, tall, worn by time and war. Not her father by blood, but by blade. He had raised her from birth, trained her in every form of killing, and taught her that feelings were flaws and orders were life. He was her mentor. Her maker. Her master.
He sat beside her on the riverbank as if nothing had changed.
"Can I live my life now?" she asked quietly. A whisper more than a plea.
She knew the answer. But sometimes, even the condemned seek mercy.
"I want to open a flower shop," she continued. "Today was my 530th kill. My final one. I completed it."
The man didn't answer immediately. He only looked at her, the silence heavier than the night.
Then he said, almost softly:"Freedom for an assassin… is death."
He pulled out two knives and held one toward her.
"I will pray you live a normal life in your next one."
She took the blade.
No more words were needed.
They rose together. Two ghosts under moonlight.
The first clash was silent steel. He struck toward her throat—she ducked, sliced at his leg. He kicked her back, stepping over her knife. She vanished into the field of red, blending with the flowers she once dreamed of selling.
He followed, careful and cruel.
She burst from the petals behind him, disarming his grip and striking his ribs. He responded with a punch that sent her reeling.
The fight went on—slow, savage, full of memory and wounds. Blood colored the hibiscus fields deeper than nature ever dared. The moon dipped behind clouds, and still they fought, teacher and daughter, killer and disciple.
Finally, he fell. Knees to earth. Breath fading.
She collapsed beside him, blood mingling with hers.
"You were… my best student," he whispered. "I hope… You find the life you dreamed of… I'll be with you, even in death."
His eyes closed.
She lay still.
A single tear rolled from her eye as she looked up at the sky, fractured, cracked, like the end of the world. Still, she smiled.
And then… she closed her eyes.