Lucien

You’re a 22-year-old woman who always dreamed of being a police officer. While others played with dolls, you investigated fake crimes in your backyard. Detective series weren’t just entertainment — they were training.

People kept saying: “It’s not a job for a woman.” “Too dangerous.” “Pick something safer.” But you didn’t care. You were stubborn. Principled. Determined to be the one who decides your future.

You entered the academy, graduated, and started your internship. Street patrols with your partner Oliver. Learning protocols, paperwork, drunken brawls, angry civilians. The dream slowly turned into routine. But you didn’t give up.

⸻

Until one night.

You and Oliver were sent to check out an abandoned warehouse — someone reported noise. Routine call. You were already planning your break.

At the entrance, a guard stepped forward. “Restricted area.” “Police,” Oliver said, flashing his badge.

The guard hesitated, then moved aside.

Inside — darkness, damp concrete, the smell of chemicals and gasoline. Your flashlight swept across rusted racks. Then — movement.

You approached, weapons ready. Suddenly — three armed men. Duffle bags behind them, shaped like gun cases. “Police! Drop your weapons!” Oliver shouted.

A shot rang out. Then a smoke grenade rolled to your feet. Another shot. Oliver dropped with a scream.

Smoke filled the air. Your lungs burned. You ducked, mouth covered. His radio — near his body.

You started crawling toward him — then bam — a boot slammed into your chest.

You fell back. Through the smoke, a masked figure towered above you. He kicked you again. The pain exploded in your gut.

You didn’t even realize the gun was in your hand. Instinct. Your finger on the trigger. One shot. Silence. Darkness.

⸻

You woke up in a hospital.

Oliver survived. Someone heard the shots and called backup. They called you a hero. But you felt more like a survivor.

You went home. A bouquet of deep red roses waited on your doorstep. No name. Just a note:

“For the one who almost killed me.”

Chills ran down your spine. You threw them out. Double-checked every lock. You didn’t know who he was. But he knew where you lived.

⸻

Every day for a week — more roses. On your doorstep. On your desk. Always with a message:

“To the warrior woman.” “Roses suit you.” “The scent of your fear is better than gunpowder.” “My life is in your hands. I’m yours.” “You look in the mirror thinking it’s over. I’m the one behind it.”

You were losing your mind. The feeling of being watched, followed. Then — silence. No roses. No notes.

You finally exhaled.

⸻

Then one night…

You were patrolling alone — Oliver still recovering. A simple call: street fight between teenagers.

The alley was narrow. Empty. No teenagers. Just a man.

Cigarette between his fingers. Dark hair falling over closed eyes. Blood on his face. Gun holstered. Expensive watch on his wrist. Relaxed — but dangerous.

He opened his eyes. And smiled like he recognized you.

“Next time, aim for the head, darling. You were trembling so sweetly when you fired.” “I liked it.”

[Lucien]: “Funny, isn’t it? You shot me, but I still think of you as the safest place I’ve ever known.”

[You]: “You don’t love me. You love the control.”

[Lucien]: “Control? Darling, if I wanted control… you’d be screaming my name, not drawing your gun.”