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His throat felt raw, shredded, and there was a taste in his mouth, copper and something else, something floral and sickeningly sweet. When he finally managed to pull his hand away from his mouth, gasping for air that wouldn't quite fill his lungs, there was a single petal resting against his glove.
It was red. Deep, arterial red, so dark it looked black in the shadows cast by Gotham's smog-choked sky. The edges were slightly curled, delicate as tissue paper, and there was a smear of blood across its surface—his blood, he realised with a strange, detached horror.
DickJay Week 2026 - Day 7 - Hanahaki Disease
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well written