Black Roses

Petals of ink-black vengeance unfurl inside a Californian Eden: Yoda, a draftsman of Kyoto’s serene karesansui, prunes the topiary of ex-magnate Benson Burleigh only to see his own life topple—Burleigh’s skull split by a diamond-studded monocle, Blossom, his kimono-clad wife, wrenched into the fog, and the perfumed cabal of Blanche De Vore, Harry the dandy cyclops, and Wong Fu pinning the scarlet crime on the solitary immigrant. Steel doors clang; a turncoat cellmate, half-faced by Blanche’s earlier treachery, slips him a file of resentment. Freedom smells of camellia oil and gunpowder. Yoda re-emerges in white silk, posing as an aristocrat hungry for a counterfeit daughter; the ruse is origami that folds the underworld back upon itself. In a candle-lit drawing-room that reeks of frangipani and fear, the architect-turned-avenger slides shoji screens of truth aside: Harry’s monocle glints once more—this time reflecting his own signed confession—while Blanche’s cigarette holder trembles like a seismograph of guilt. Blossom steps from behind a lacquered screen, alive, unbroken, and the final rose on the table—dyed obsidian—bleeds red at its edges, absolving the gardener who once drew stones instead of blood.