The first time Serin saw someone die, she was six.

  Her grandfather took her to a field behind the mountain, just as the sun was starting to set. She wore a red scarf. He carried a shovel.

  “Serin-ah,” he said, voice soft, like a bedtime story, “Do you know what makes a person bad?”

  She blinked. Shook her head.

  He crouched down beside her and pointed toward a man tied to a post... bloody, groaning, his mouth stuffed with cloth.

  “That one,” her grandfather whispered, “is a worm in human skin. He beats his wife. Hurts little kids. Smiles in church.”

  Serin stared at the man’s face.

  It was pale and sweaty.

  She didn’t feel anything.

  Not fear. Not horror.

  Just curiosity.

  “Then kill him, Grandpa.”

  Her grandfather ughed.

  It was warm. Proud.

  “No, no, little flower. You do it.”

  ***

  That day, Serin learned how hard it was to swing a metal rod with tiny hands.

  She missed twice.

  But on the third try, the crunch was loud and satisfying.

  Her grandfather cpped.

  “Good girl. You’re blooming just like I did.”

  ***

  At home, her parents kissed her goodnight, tucked her in.

  Her mother called her “my sweet angel.”

  Her father called her “our precious baby.”

  She smiled.

  And thought about the way blood steamed in the cold air.

  ***

  By age nine, she had a habit.

  When someone at school shoved her or called her names, she didn’t cry.

  She followed them. Watched. Memorized.

  One time, she left a dead rat in a boy’s backpack.

  Another time, she “accidentally” pushed a girl down the stairs.

  People whispered that she was cursed.

  A little strange. But always smiling.

  ***

  One day, she asked her grandfather, “Why do I feel happy when bad things happen to bad people?”

  He looked at her, eyes misty with love.

  “You’re not like them,” he said. “You’re special. A flower that blooms in blood.”

  “But what if I’m not punishing bad people?”

  He paused.

  Then smiled.

  “Then you’re just enjoying life, aren’t you?”

  ***

  Serin never forgot that.

  She didn’t kill for justice.

  She didn’t even care about right or wrong.

  She killed because it made her feel alive.

  ***

  Years ter, when her grandfather died peacefully in his sleep, Serin didn’t cry.

  She arranged the funeral. Read his eulogy. Held her mother’s hand and comforted her.

  But when she stood alone at his grave, she knelt down and whispered...

  “I’ll keep blooming. I promise.”