Yoon Serin had always loved red.

  Not the pink of cherry blossoms or the orange of dying autumn leaves.

  But the thick, deep red of spilled paint on a white canvas.

  Or the way roses bled at their thorns.

  Her grandfather once told her that red was the color of crity.

  “Because in red,” he whispered, “there’s no hiding. It’s a color that tells the truth.”

  She had only been seven years old when he said that—sitting on his p, staring at a dying rabbit he’d just killed with his bare hands.

  Her mother thought Grandfather was just a sweet old war veteran.

  Her father thought he was slightly eccentric but harmless.

  Only Serin knew the truth.

  Her grandfather was a murderer.

  But unlike the monsters in stories, he didn’t kill for pleasure.

  He killed for justice.

  “People lie,” he would say as he sharpened his bdes. “But their actions don’t. The wicked deserve no mercy.”

  Serin would nod, clutching her little stuffed bear, wide-eyed but curious.

  “But I’m not like you, Harabeoji,” she said once.

  “No,” he had replied, brushing a hand over her soft bck hair. “You’re something rarer.”

  ---

  She was ten when she made her first kill.

  It had been an accident.

  Or so she told herself.

  The neighborhood dog had bitten her hand—nothing serious. But it had hurt. And the way it barked… the way it growled when she passed… annoyed her.

  One afternoon, while the owners were out, she slipped into their yard.

  She gave it chocote... lots of it. She didn’t even blink when it began foaming at the mouth, thrashing in the dirt.

  When it stopped moving, her heart didn’t race.

  She just tilted her head and whispered, “Good boy.”

  That night, she hid her injured hand behind her back as her grandfather bandaged it with a sigh.

  “You could’ve just told me,” he said.

  “I wanted to try it myself,” she replied.

  He looked at her for a long time.

  And then, he smiled. “Ah. You’re not like me after all. I kill because I have to.”

  He paused. “But you? You kill because you want to.”

  ---

  After that, she practiced.

  She didn’t touch animals again. They were too obvious. Too messy.

  Instead, she started with people who didn’t matter.

  A middle school boy who pulled her hair and stole from girls.

  A teacher who groped students and threatened them to stay quiet.

  A nosy cssmate who spread lies and smiled like a saint.

  She never killed impulsively.

  She studied. Observed. Waited.

  Her grandfather taught her how to break necks with minimal sound.

  How to stab just once, precisely. How to mask a crime as an accident.

  When she turned thirteen, he gifted her a small knife with her name engraved inside the hilt.

  > “To my pretty little flower,” it read.

  She had never felt more loved.

  ---

  The funny part?

  Her parents never knew.

  They adored her—called her their gentle, brilliant daughter. Her brother thought she was a little odd, but lovable.

  And she was. She smiled, hugged them, said thank you when praised.

  She was good at pretending.

  So good, that even she sometimes forgot it was a lie.

  Until someone *irritated her.*

  Until the urge came again.

  To remove them. To erase them.

  To feel that sharp, delicious jolt of satisfaction when someone who bothered her ceased to exist.

  ---

  The red flower bloomed early.

  And it was still smiling.