London, 1892

The sky wore a heavy coat of grey that morning, as though the city had forgotten how to breathe without the weight of smoke and fog. The scent of coal clung to the air, seeping into brick and bone alike. Horse-drawn carriages rattled down slick cobblestone streets, their wheels cutting sharp through puddles. The lamplighters had already gone, leaving faint halos around the still-flickering gaslights.

In a narrow room tucked between two aging brick buildings, Detective Alfred Seymour, an Alpha by designation but not by temperament, sat at his desk, fingers absently drumming against the edge of a case folder. The scent of tobacco lingered faintly in the space, though his pipe had long since gone cold. He leaned back in his chair, attention drifting instead to the note in his hand—written in an elegant, flowing script on thick ivory paper, the kind that didn’t belong in this part of town.

“I saw a man—tall, with a strangely stiff bearing. His hands moved constantly, as though anxious, but the rest of him remained still. Something about him unsettled me. I couldn’t shake the feeling, even after I returned home.

If you wish to discuss it further, I’ll be at Harrow Street—The Blossom & Verse.”

There was no signature. Only the name of a certain shop..might be a florist’s shop judging by the name..

Alfred folded the note neatly, tucking it into his coat pocket as he rose from his chair. He didn’t usually entertain vague accounts like this. But something about the way this one was worded—precise, unexaggerated, yet oddly evocative—compelled him.

Harrow Street was quieter than most districts—less soot, more sunlight filtering through tangled iron balconies and ivy-covered windows. And there, nestled between a modest tailor’s shop and a dusty bookbinder’s stall, stood a storefront with its sign painted in soft script: The Blossoms and Verse

Alfred pushed open the door. A small brass bell tinkled above his head.

The scent that greeted him was a blend of lavender, freesia, and earth—warm, comforting, and wholly unlike anything from his usual haunts. And underneath it all, just barely noticeable to his Alpha senses, was a subtle thread of something soft, distinctly Omega—not provocative, but grounding, like the scent of spring after rain.

Flowers bloomed in elegant disorder, vases of fresh peonies and sprigs of rosemary sharing space with delicate bunches of daisies and violet crocuses. Poetry verses were tucked between arrangements, scrawled on parchment and pinned lovingly among petals.

Behind the wooden counter stood a young man arranging a bouquet, fingers moving delicately as though each flower had a soul of its own. Short curls of pale blond hair framed his face, and when he looked up, his blue eyes held a quiet brightness that softened the room around him.

“Good morning,” the young man greeted gently, setting down a pair of ribbon shears. His voice carried that unmistakable lilt often found in well-bred Omegas, calm and composed, even under scrutiny. “You must be Detective Seymour?”

“I am,” Alfred replied with a slight nod. “And you would be…?”

“I’m Esther Thorne,” he said, stepping forward. “I sent the note.”

Esther’s presence had a subtle steadiness, a poised grace that Alphas rarely encountered outside the most refined circles. But there was no subservience in it—just quiet confidence, layered with restraint.

“You run this shop?” Alfred asked, glancing about.

“I do. It’s small, but it’s mine,” Esther said modestly. “Bit of a humble nook, but it keeps the day gentle.”

“I don’t usually make visits based on anonymous letters,” Alfred said, eyeing a nearby verse pinned beside a vase of forget-me-nots. “But yours was… different.”

“I didn’t mean to be mysterious, truly,” Esther replied, pouring tea with delicate grace. “I simply wasn’t sure if a florist’s hunch would carry any weight with a man of your profession.”

Alfred gave a faint huff of amusement. “You’d be surprised, Mr. Thorne. I’ve chased cases on far dafter things than a florist’s hunch.”

Esther smiled, faintly amused. “Then perhaps I won’t feel quite so daft myself.”

Alfred accepted the offered cup and settled into the chair across from him. As he took a sip, his senses were again brushed by that quiet trace of Esther’s scent, faint but grounding.

“Go on then. Tell me about this fellow you saw.”

Esther hesitated for a brief moment before speaking..

“He was peculiar,” he said softly. “Not frightening at first glance—but the longer I looked, the more wrong he seemed.”

Alfred looked at him, waiting.

“He wasn’t doing anything overt,” Esther continued, “just standing near the lamppost across the street. But… it was the way he stood. Perfectly still—unnaturally so. As if he didn’t quite belong in his own skin.”

Alfred’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Esther glanced out the window, voice gentler now, thoughtful. “There was tension in him, but not the kind you’d expect from someone waiting or hiding. He wasn’t anxious—he was composed. Controlled. Like a man on a stage, playing a role that didn’t quite fit him.”

“And his hands,” Esther added. “He kept adjusting his gloves. Not fidgeting… more like resetting a habit. Smooth, precise. Again and again. It was deliberate.”

“Deliberate,” Alfred echoed.

Esther nodded. “It felt like a rhythm—one I wasn’t supposed to notice. But once I did, I couldn’t stop watching it. The way he moved his fingers, how his gaze never followed people, only corners and shadows.”

Alfred tilted his head slightly. “You believe he was watching for something.”

“Or listening,”Esther replied quietly. “His head kept turning, just a little—like he was trying to hear something beneath the noise of the street.”

There was a pause, then Esther finished softly, “I don’t know what it was about him, Detective… but I’ve never seen anyone stand in silence and still feel so loud.”

There was a beat of silence between them.

“You’ve an eye for detail, Mr. Thorne,” Alfred remarked.

Esther gave a modest shrug. “Floristry is all in the details, Detective. A bloom can wither by the slightest wrong touch.”

Alfred stood, brushing down his coat. “If anything else comes to mind, send word.”

Esther nodded politely. “Of course.”

As Alfred turned to leave, he paused at the door. “The Blossom & Verse… it’s an odd name for a flower shop.”

Esther chuckled softly. “Well, sir… some souls bloom better with a touch of verse, don’t they?”

Alfred gave a slight smirk, tugging his coat collar up as the bell chimed behind him.

Out on the street again, with fog curling at his heels, Alfred walked away with a faint scent of freesia still clinging to his coat—and a mind more stirred than he'd expected.

The following morning arrived cloaked in mist and chill. London’s streets remained damp, the cobblestones slick with yesterday’s rain, and the air carried the scent of iron and chimney soot. Alfred Seymour stood at the edge of a narrow alleyway in Whitechapel, gloved hands tucked into his coat pockets, eyes scanning the street like a hawk watching for the faintest flicker of movement.

The conversation with Esther Thorne had left a quiet imprint in his mind. There had been nothing overtly criminal about the man’s account, no tangible evidence—just a lingering unease, a peculiar encounter, and a florist’s eye for detail. Yet, something about it continued to press gently at the edge of his thoughts, like a poem half-remembered.

There was also the scent—the subtle trace that had lingered in the shop. Sweet, Refined, clean, with a faint note of lilac beneath the perfume of blossoms. It wasn’t overwhelming; Esther carried it like a whisper rather than a declaration. Alfred had been trained to notice such things, though he rarely let them cloud his judgment. Still, it lingered.

“Detective Seymour!” a voice called from behind.

Striding up through the damp morning mist came Francis Ashford—Alfred’s assistant, sharp-featured and always immaculately dressed, with an understated sense of propriety that Alfred found both mildly amusing and occasionally grating

“Message from the station, sir. We’ve another report—not far from Harrow Street.”

Alfred arched a brow. “Another?”

“Yes, sir. Same description—tall man, gloves, fine coat. Seen loitering near St. Alden’s Lane. Disappeared before anyone could speak to him.”

Alfred’s jaw tensed subtly. “Where exactly?”

“Corner of Alden and Firth. A schoolmistress saw him from her window.”

Alfred gave a small nod. “Send word to keep eyes on that corner. No need to make a fuss—just quiet observation.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Francis disappeared into the haze again, Alfred glanced down the lane, expression unreadable. He didn’t like coincidences—especially not ones that came wrapped in poetic notes and gentle voices.

Later that day, the bell above The Blossom & Verse chimed again.

Esther looked up from a pot of freshly cut roses, brushing pollen from his fingers. A faint trace of warmth bloomed in his scent—an instinctive shift, barely perceptible but unmistakable to an Alpha with Alfred 's sharpened senses.

“Detective Seymour,” he greeted, voice soft with recognition. “You’re back.”

“Hope I’m not intruding,” Alfred replied, stepping inside and brushing droplets from his coat sleeves.

“Not in the least. Come in.” Esther gestured to the now-familiar seating corner, already set with a new pot of tea. “Chamomile today. I thought it might suit the mood better.”

“You’ve a fine instinct for tea,” Alfred said with faint amusement as he took his seat.

Esther smiled and poured quietly, his graceful hands steady. There was something in the way he moved—a calm elegance that reminded Raihan of finely bound poetry, all softness on the surface but with depth beneath.

“I wanted to ask,” Alfred began, “about something you said yesterday. The way you described the man—waiting, yet composed. I’ve received another report. Same appearance, same strange mannerisms.”

Esther’s brow lifted slightly, but he didn’t look surprised. “So I wasn’t merely imagining him.”

“No, you weren’t. And I’d like to know—if you can remember anything else. Any detail, however slight.”

Esther leaned back in thought. “Well… there was one thing.”

“Yes?”

“He wore a ring,” Esther said softly, eyes narrowing faintly in recollection. “Not on his ring finger, oddly—on his index. Silver, I believe, though I only caught a glint of it.”

“A crest?”

“I think so. It caught the light when he adjusted his gloves.” Esther’s fingers mimed the movement, precise and thoughtful. “It wasn’t overly ornate, but it had a shape—perhaps a sigil, though I couldn’t make it out clearly.”

“That’s more than useful,” Alfred murmured. “Most people wouldn’t have noticed.”

Esther gave a modest shrug. “Perhaps most people aren’t used to arranging bouquets by candlelight. You learn to notice small things—the curve of a stem, a bruise on a petal. I suppose a ring glinting in the dark isn’t all that different.”

Alfred studied him a moment longer. “You’ve a very particular way of looking at the world, Mr. Thorne.”

Esther’s lips curved in a smile. “I suppose I do.”

There was a brief, warm silence between them, broken only by the quiet clink of porcelain as Alfred set down his teacup.

“Would you be willing,” he asked finally, “to let me know if you see him again? Or anything else that feels… off?”

“Of course,” Esther said without hesitation. “I’d rather not see trouble walk past my window again.”

“And if it does,” Alfred said, rising slowly, “you’ll have more than flowers at your side this time.”

Esther looked amused. “I feel safer already.”

Alfred gave the faintest smile. “Take care, Mr. Thorne.”

As the bell chimed once more and the detective disappeared into the London mist, Esther stood quietly behind his counter, gaze lingering on the door. His heart was steady, his scent calm—but beneath that surface, there was a quiet flicker of something unfamiliar. Curiosity… or perhaps, something deeper.

And for a man who spent his days arranging Flowers, it was oddly comforting...

The following days unfolded beneath a grey, dripping sky. The rain had softened to a whisper, yet it lingered like a forgotten sorrow across the city’s rooftops and narrow lanes. The scent of wet brick and coal smoke perfumed the streets, a blend as familiar to Londoners as the chiming of the clocktower.

Detective Alfred Seymour stood in the reading room of his residence, a modest yet refined suite tucked within the upper floors of a converted townhouse in Bloomsberg. The fireplace crackled low behind him, casting amber light against the heavy curtains and the carved edges of his desk. Scattered across the surface were sketches, notes, and a freshly written transcript—Francis Ashford’s summary of the Alden and Firth sighting.

There it was again: the same man, the same stillness, the same inexplicable aura of presence without action. The kind of quiet that unsettled a watchful mind.

Alfred reached for the cup of coffee resting beside a stack of old case files. Strong, dark, with a touch of cardamom—its aroma curled into the air like a whisper of thought. He sipped slowly, eyes drifting to the silver ring Esther had mentioned. A ring on the index finger—silver, possibly crested. Unusual, deliberate.

“Intentional,” he murmured aloud. “He wants to be noticed, but only just a bit.”

A knock sounded at the door downstairs. Alfred straightened slightly, setting his cup down with practiced grace.

He descended to the entry hall and opened the door to reveal Francis Ashford, again impeccably neat despite the weather. A touch of rain clung to his shoulders.

“Detective,” Francis greeted. “Apologies for the hour, but I thought you’d prefer this in person.”

“You do seem to favour dramatic entrances,” Alfred said dryly, gesturing him in.

Francis entered briskly, removing his hat but not his gloves. “You’ll want to wear gloves as well before handling this. It may be nothing, but it carries a certain… tone.”

Alfred raised a brow but complied, slipping on his own fine black gloves from the side table.

Francis unwrapped the parcel carefully on the drawing room table. Inside, protected in glassine and linen, lay a single flower—deep violet with a pale, delicate throat. Belladonna.

Beside it, another note, written in slanted script on parchment: “Even beauty bears poison.”

Alfred’s eyes narrowed. “Belladonna,” he said under his breath. “Deadly nightshade.”

Francis nodded. “Found beneath the same cellar grate—Alden and Firth. No one saw who left it.”

“In the language of flowers,” Alfred murmured, fingers gliding over the edge of the envelope, “Belladonna speaks of danger in disguise. Poison hidden in elegance.” sighting.

Francis nodded. “A message meant to be read by someone who’d understand it.”

“Someone like Mr. Thorne.”

Francis hesitated. “You still believe he is connected to this?”

“No,” Alfred replied evenly. “But I believe he was meant to see something. He noticed the ring. He spoke of a man whose silence weighed heavier than presence. And now a flower appears beneath a cellar gate...”

“And you intend to tell him?”

Alfred glanced out the window toward the fog. “I intend to ask.”

Later that afternoon, The Blossom & Verse

The bell above the door sang its gentle chime as Alfred stepped inside. The air was warm with the scent of hyacinth and cedar, delicate and grounding all at once.

Esther Thorne stood behind the counter, arranging pale lisianthus with sprigs of white heather. His golden curls caught the soft lamplight, and his apron was dusted faintly with soil. He looked up, offering that ever-gentle smile.

“Detective Everhart, would you like tea?"

“That would be pleasant but I am in quite a hurry,” Alfred replied, setting down his umbrella. “And I’ve brought something for your opinion.”

Esther raised a brow, curious. “Something floral, I hope?”

Alfred approached and, with careful motion, withdrew the protected envelope. “Belladonna,” he said softly. “Left near Alden and Firth. Along with a message.”

Esther’s fingers hovered over the glassine, but he didn’t touch it. His expression shifted—not fear, but recognition. A subtle tension behind his eyes.

“Belladonna…” he echoed. “Even beauty bears poison—I know the phrase. My mother used to say something similar.”

“She was fond of flower language?” asked Alfred

“She believed flowers spoke truths people were too polite to say aloud.”

Alfred studied him quietly. “And what truth do you think this one speaks?”

Esther’s gaze lingered on the deep violet bloom. “That something is coming,” he said softly. “And it’s hiding behind something lovely.”

Alfred nodded. “Then it’s best you stay watchful. If anything seems unusual—anything at all—I want to know immediately. Not the local patrols. Me.”

Esther met his gaze steadily..

“I will,” he said. “Thank you for trusting me with this.”

“It’s not just trust,” Alfred replied, his voice a touch lower. “It’s caution. The kind that keeps people alive.”

Esther’s smile returned, faint but honest. “You’re not as cold as you seem, Detective.”

“And you,” Alfred said as he turned to leave, “are far more observant than you let on.”

As the door closed behind him, Esther remained still for a moment, his mind replaying the image of the Flower

He didn’t yet understand why, but his hands trembled..

And in the quiet heart of the shop, the Belladonna remained—a warning in bloom, graceful as death..