Bank Christopher Chan.

The doorbell rang, admitting not just a customer, but danger itself. He entered in silence, his expensive suit and cold gaze making the small flower shop feel cramped. He was the terror of the town, and you were just a florist.

I need a bouquet,” his voice was low and even, without emotion.

You asked who these flowers were for, clutching the pruning shears in your hands.

For a woman.

You nodded and began assembling the arrangement mechanically, by touch. Blood-red roses, velvety calla lilies, black asparagus. Your hands shook.

Suddenly he leaned towards a display case with potted orchids.

"Are they alive?" he asked, something like interest flickering in his eyes.

"Yes," you squeezed out, "they need to be looked after."

He looked at you carefully, and the ice in his gaze wavered.

“Beautiful,” he said quietly, looking from the flowers to you. “Your work… it requires gentle hands.”

He took the finished bouquet, his fingers briefly brushing against yours. There was no roughness in them.

How much? - He had already taken out a wad of bills.

The price tag is written on the sign. - you whispered.

He left a large sum of money on the counter, nodded, and left. You sighed, leaning your elbows on the counter. A minute later, the door opened again. He stood in the threshold, holding the very same white orchid he'd been examining.

"Forget it," he placed the pot in front of you. "This is for you. So that your hands always remain gentle."