Chapter 1 - Bullets and Bouquets

Lennox’s mother was leaving. Again.

Each time, he wished that it would be her last excursion. That she wouldn't come back. Each time, he was left disappointed.

“Lennox, dear,” her clipped voice echoed as autumn sunlight poured through the flower shop’s glass door, outlining her in a featureless silhouette. “Run the shop for a bit. I have some friends to meet—I’ll be back right before we leave for your father’s ceremony, so be dressed before I’ve returned.”

He sighed and glanced at a neglected pot. Its dusty, flaking glaze revealed a network of cracks through which dry soil had long since spilled out. Once, it cradled a thriving flower bush; now it held only a dead stick—one of many casualties in the botanical graveyard she left for him to tend. Stuck behind the counter, he had no choice but to endure while she chased the next glittering liaison.

“Fine, Mother.” Not like he had a choice.

Her heels clicked and clacked against the tiled floor. She turned to face her eldest son, raising an eyebrow at his derisive tone. “Lennox, can you help me fasten this necklace? I don’t want to ruin my nails on that tiny clasp.”

Without a word, he moved with a precise, almost involuntary rhythm—a four-count motion ingrained in him from brutal dance lessons in a wilder, richer past.

His mother snatched back his attention. "How do I look?" She pirouetted in the shop's foyer, her silver-plated jewellery swinging about to a five-count twirl. The stark shine contrasted painfully with the shop’s drab and unappealing interior.

“You look quite dapper, Mum,” he murmured, the expected response echoing hollowly as she swept out into the chaos beyond the door. The tiny bell chimed her departure, and in a blink, she had dashed down a narrow alley.

In mid-conflict London, social gatherings were few and far between. The war zone had expanded to every corner of the British Isles, which left no place untouched by violence. His mother was one of the few who still thrived in it. The rest of the family, including him, were left to manage relics of that faded glory; a rundown flower shop and a crumbling past. Both were her legacy, not his.

Lennox surveyed his domain. The once pristine wooden shelves were littered with petals and empty pots. Grimy windows filtered in a meagre light that barely illuminated the forgotten seed display. A tarnished greenhouse lurked outside amidst collapsing buildings— a silent testament to the city’s neglect. Yet his gaze lifted as he noticed a new disturbance: on Street 00273, blue-clad troops were commencing another ill-fated skirmish. He allowed the familiar, haunting rhythm of distant gunfire to mingle with his own numbness.

The shrill commands and anguished screams that might shock the uninitiated no longer unravelled him. His heart, long hardened, barely flinched now. It was only his buzzing nerves and tense muscles that reacted, equipping him to flee should a stray round fly through the bullet-proof glass.

Behind the safety of his counter, Lennox zeroed in on a lone figure in blue limping towards the store. Scarlet blood oozed down his leg, leaving a ghastly trail in its wake. A hand reached up to brace himself, wiping the glass of the shop in with a print of red before it dropped to the knob, staining it. The man ripped open the door to the store, doubling over and falling onto his knees when he could no longer hold up his weight. His breaths were hard, and the need to speak became his only purpose.

"Please... help me," his voice choked.

Lennox didn't move, only watched the struggle from behind the counter. In theory, his heart went out to the soldier. In practice, an emptiness took over his frame; sympathy had been a feeling he lacked long ago. Instead of seeing a human, he saw a future inconvenience.

The soldier could say no more as a bullet buried itself in his neck. A large amount of blood splattered into the air, the droplets carving out arcs that reached as far as the counter. Lennox's eyes quickly travelled down, making sure none had reached his skin. Any manner of diseases could lie dormant in that stranger’s veins. The now lifeless figure plummeted to the ground in a pool of his own blood. Mortally wounded, the man wouldn't have survived the night even if someone had helped him.

He never had a chance. Yet he asked for it anyway.

Lennox sighed. He brought up a hand to course through his short, dirty blonde hair, fingers brushing past his undercut and pushing the locks behind his ear before he finally decided to move. Slow taps of his feet echoed through the shop, his far too expensive shoes smearing droplets into the tiles. He narrowed his eyes a bit when a gust of wind blew in, stirring some of the gathered dust around the room as he closed the door. Lennox knelt to inspect the body, and the fight still raging beyond it. Outside the shop, the aftermath of battle was swept away by civilians armed only with soapy water and grim determination—a pitiful consequence of an order meant to keep violence to the boulevards and nothing more.

An hour or so after the battle subsided, a new presence dashed in and quickly slapped twenty euros on the counter. They stared him down and asked, dead serious, "What’s the floral equivalent of flipping someone off? I want it subtle, though. No dead roses."

At the time, Lennox was still wiping up the blood from the previous incident. His attention wandered from his guest back to the cloth in his hands. Along with the tile, it was stained with crimson, its edges drying a deep reddish-brown. The blood had made its way through the fabric, contouring the lines of Lennox's palms to drip from his wrists. He wished they could have picked a better time.

The florist stifled his distaste as he got up to swipe the money off the metal counter, scanning the customer up and down. Fiery red hair, fatigues, combat boots caked with blood, and a sniper rifle adorned their person, gold-rimmed goggles resting atop their head. The visage was unmistakable—they were a Syndicate member.

A Crimson.

"Such information will cost you twenty euros and a little help with this body here." Lennox said, motioning to the lifeless pool of red outside. "It's too cumbersome for compost."

"That's fine by me, flower boy." The Crimson hauled the body away, whistling a tune on their way to the dumpster. They were on the wrong side of the Bridge, yet they acted like they owned the place. Lennox wouldn't argue, though. The shop needed all the business it could get.

He waited until his customer returned, "Well, we don’t have much here, but I’m sure I can scrounge something up. Will that be all?"

The newcomer, who appeared to be male at a closer look, nodded impatiently.

Lennox moved fast—his motions set to a practiced six-count—selecting the flowers with mechanical precision. Larkspur, orange lilies, geraniums. Cypress for accenting. When his hand reached for a ribbon, he didn’t pause. In his haste and under the constant pressure of the shifting war outside, he picked up a roll of blue ribbon; tying his fate to the same threads that held the flowers together.

With the bouquet completed, Lennox slid it across the counter toward the sniper. Their eyes locked in a tense, breathless instant.

The redhead’s gaze swept over the bouquet before settling on the blue ribbon. A slow, mirthless smile crept over his face. “Blue, flower boy?” he drawled, tilting his head as if appraising a freshly revealed secret. “You planning your funeral, or have you lost your marbles?”

Lennox’s pulse thundered in his ears. He opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat.

The sniper leaned closer, his eyes narrowing as he let his fingers brush along the ribbon. With deliberate care, he pulled the thin strip free. He pulled it taut, wrapping it around Lennox’s eyes, although it was barely wide enough to cover them. “This is what dead people see, florist. If you’re not careful, you’ll soon be seeing this for all eternity.”

The blue fabric unfurled in his grasp and, as if in silent testimony, fluttered into the blood puddle. It soaked up the ichor with ease, turning Crimson in its own, twisted way.

For a long, charged moment, Lennox stared at the strip—a vivid symbol of his error. Internally, curses rumbled against his ribcage. Finally, unable to hold his silence any longer, he muttered, “I—I swear, it wasn’t meant…  I wasn’t thinking straight. My sincerest apologies, sir.”

The sniper’s gaze didn’t waver. Instead, he let out a dry chuckle that carried amusement and a chilling undertone. “Accidents like that always have a way of speaking louder than words,” he said, his voice low, “Were you trying to get me killed by my own comrades? We all make mistakes, flower boy. But if you keep this up, you’re not far from making your last one.”

As he turned to leave, the echo of his words trailed off in the charged silence, leaving Lennox to grapple with the crushing weight of his error. A mistake that could’ve proved to be far more than just someone else’s inconvenience.

Later, as he tallied the remaining inventory, Lennox’s thoughts turned grimly to the future. The prolonged summer humidity, mounting taxes, and ever-shrinking customer base had left his finances teetering. Every day, fewer flowers bloomed, and every week brought dwindling sales. Beyond the practical worry of the shop’s survival lay an even more personal terror. Chase’s tuition was rising, and with it, his responsibility to his only true tether to hope.

He opened his ledger and scanned the numbers—expenses he might trim, heirlooms to pawn off—each calculation heavy with the weight of obligation. Amid the falling brown, yellow, and red leaves outside the shop’s window, Lennox’s gaze kept drifting to the worn orange and sage sign of ‘Kendrick’s Flowers’. The once brilliant black calligraphy had faded to grey, much like any dreams the shop used to harbour.

A final check of the inventory brought a resigned exhale as he crossed off another type of flower—carnations. If they lost any more variety, even fewer customers would find reason to visit. And without customers… the shop would be lost to the torrent that already threatened to tear it apart.

The building itself, born from his mother’s aristocratic ambitions, had once been a proud chain of identical shops; each with white paint, refined black trim, and a luxurious bay window overlooking a park. Now, even the park was slowly returning to its natural, wild state, following the same path as the outskirts of London. 

Just then, the shop’s bell clanged again with an urgency that made his heart skip. He turned to see Chase burst through the door. His younger brother—a fourteen-year-old with the same pale, tousled blond hair and striking icy blue eyes as their father—was soaked in sweat and dust. The tremor in his arrival told a story of frantic escape; of darting through street skirmishes and dodging danger at every rounded corner.

“Lenn, I… I had to get out,” Chase panted, his voice raw with both relief and terror. “I… I skipped class, but the soldiers came out of nowhere, and I—” 

Lennox’s chest tightened as he pulled his brother into a brief, protective embrace—a momentary pause in the unyielding chaos. Chase was his lifeline; the only ember of hope in a world dimming to ash. “I can’t believe you’re sneaking out again. You know as well as I do exactly how dangerous it is out there.” Despite reprimanding him, Lennox’s eyes betrayed the fear that had rooted him to this life of perpetual compromise.

After bolting the door, the florist retreated into the basement; the cramped, musty recess that served as both home and haven from the relentless discord overhead. Each step on the creaking metal stairs resounded with the knowledge that every moment alone upstairs was fraught with the peril of a world at war.

In that dim solitude, amid the calming wafts of eucalyptus and lavender, Lennox forced himself to return to the ledger. As he recalculated the numbers, thoughts of Chase reminded him why he must keep fighting. He had to, for both their sakes.

The florist could only hope that they could escape long before the earth, or a Crimson bullet, claimed them.

Which meant no more mistakes.

About the Author

Katia Kerenth is an undergraduate short story writer and novelist who strives towards worlds worth getting lost in, between both the stars and the shadows. She's drawn to dystopian fiction that's not-so far from home and fantasy worth fearing. 

Instagram: @katiakerenth

Cover design made using Canva design tools.