The morning air in Saint-Malo was thick with the scent of rain, damp stone, and something colder—something that curled at the edge of Jack White's spine like the whisper of a ghost. The town had not woken to the usual chime of church bells but to murmurs, low and urgent, as people gathered by the river.

The body lay on the slick stones by the water, pale and unmoving, her dark hair fanned out like spilled ink. The crimson rose petals scattered around her looked almost delicate in contrast to the stark reality of death. Jack White knelt beside her, tugging his hat lower as he studied the scene. His face betrayed nothing, but deep beneath the surface, something cold curled in his gut.

The roses.

A damn signature. One he knew too well. One that had no right to be here.

Jack exhaled slowly, the damp air heavy in his lungs. It can't be.

The last time he'd seen roses arranged like this, it had been twenty years ago, before he had been caught. Before Jack had watched the trial, the sentencing, the so-called justice carried out. Before he had been buried in the past, along with every mistake, every regret, every goddamn feeling Jack had sworn to kill.

But now?

"Chief," Maggie's voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and steady. She held out a file. "Victim's name is Ella Montgomery. Twenty-three. Art student."

Jack took the file, barely glancing at the photo. He didn't need to. He already knew.

The uncanny resemblance, the deliberate placement of the petals—it was all too precise, too deliberate. Not just some sick imitation. No, this was personal. A message meant for him.

Maggie shifted beside him. "This isn't just a copycat, is it?"

Jack clenched his jaw, folding the file shut. "No," he murmured. "It's not."

The office was dim when Jack returned, the overhead light humming softly as he sank into his chair. The files were spread before him, the past laid out in stark black and white. Photos of him, of crime scenes, of everything he had tried—failed—to bury.

He let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his face.

Jack had been the one to move first. He always was. He'd pressed a rose into his palm that night. Jack hadn't needed words; he'd simply leaned in, fingers grazing his jaw before he pulled him close, tasting whiskey and something darker on his lips.

The nights that followed had been slow-burning and relentless. Jack had kissed bruises into his skin, traced the curve of his spine with reverence, held him so tight it almost felt like possession. And in return, he had given him everything—his laughter, his mind, his goddamn soul.

And then, the murders had started.

Jack had denied it at first. The growing suspicion in the back of his mind. Because he couldn't be, he wouldn't be. Not the same man who had whispered his name in the dark, who had taken roses from Jack's hand like they meant something.

But the truth had bled through in the end, cold and merciless.

Jack had arrested him himself. Had stood there, unreadable as always, as he smiled that infuriating smile in the courtroom, unrepentant, untouched. And when the sentence had been read, he had only turned to him, his voice low, amused.

"You really think this is the end, Jack?"

Jack had never answered. Had never even looked back as they led him away.

And now, here he was. Twenty years later. Another body. Another rose.

The faint sound of something delicate shifting caught his attention. And there, standing by the window, was the last person he ever expected to see. In his hand, a single rose—a blood-red rose—was slowly being pulled apart, petal by petal. Jack watched, his eyes narrowing as the petals drifted lazily to the floor, each one falling with a soft rustle.

"So, you're back." Jack leaned back in his chair, letting out a slow breath. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, letting the fragrance fill his lungs. That damn smell. It was unmistakable—haunting, nostalgic, and far too familiar.