The wind howled through the narrow streets of Noirvelle, carrying with it the scent of rain and decay. Beneath the flickering glow of a gas lamp, a man stumbled, clutching his chest. His breaths came in shallow gasps, fogging the cold night air.

"Help…" he croaked, his voice swallowed by the empty street. But there was no one to hear him.

He collapsed to his knees, the cobblestones slick beneath him. A crimson pool spread slowly under his trembling hands, staining the hem of his velvet coat. His eyes darted wildly, searching for the source of the searing pain in his chest. That was when he saw it—black petals, soft and glistening like obsidian, blooming across his skin.

"No… No, no!" he screamed, clawing at the petals. But they multiplied, curling around his fingers as if alive. His screams echoed off the walls, growing weaker with each passing second until silence claimed the night.

The body lay still, the only movement coming from the petals as they withered, crumbling into ash.

High above, perched on the wrought-iron balcony of an abandoned opera house, a figure watched. Cloaked in shadows, they twirled a single black rose between their gloved fingers. A faint chuckle escaped their lips.

"The first petal has fallen," they murmured, their voice velvet-smooth. "And the game begins."

With that, the figure vanished, leaving only the scent of roses lingering in the air.