The sky was dark ,too dark no moon no stars no lights just endless darkness filled with terror and mist. The rain came down in needles, thin and merciless, turning the garden path into a glistening ribbon of silver. The intruder pushed through the rusted iron gate, which groaned like something waking from a long sleep.
The villa towered before him.
Not ruined. Not abandoned.
Just… still. Too still.
The walls were draped in creeping ivy, but the windows were immaculate—polished like black mirrors. Not a speck of dust. Not a leaf out of place. Almost as if someone cleaned them moments ago.
Lightning flashed.
For a heartbeat, the reflection in the window seemed wrong—stretched, smiling, watching—but it vanished before he could be sure.
The foyer door stood half-open, like an invitation that felt a little too deliberate.
He stepped inside.
Warmth greeted him, unexpected and unsettling. The scent of old roses clung to the air—sweet at first, then bitter underneath, like petals left too long in water.
The chandelier above him glittered softly, every crystal trembling even though the air was perfectly still. Its light cast long, elegant shadows that stretched across the marble floor with strange precision.
The villa felt alive. Listening.
He swallowed. Something about it felt… curated. Like every curtain had been straightened, every vase positioned, every candle placed not for beauty…
…but for watching.
A faint rustle drifted from the upper floor, almost like fabric brushing wood.
He spun toward the staircase.
Nothing there. Just darkness thick as velvet.
But then he felt it—not sound, not movement.
Presence.
A quiet, observing weight settling over the room, like someone had just stepped into the doorway he hadn't noticed.
The chandelier flickered.
A soft, rhythmic tapping echoed from above.
He realized it was footsteps.
Heel…
Toe…
Heel…
Toe…
Descending slowly. Gracefully. Like whoever was coming wasn't in a hurry at all.
The air tightened around him.
His fingers curled.
His breath hitched.
And then—
A silhouette appeared at the top of the stairs.
The silhouette at the top of the staircase sharpened as the chandelier's light steadied.
First, he saw the color—
a deep, fierce crimson spilling down the stairs like a living flame.
Then she stepped into view.
Her dress was red from shoulder to hem: silk that flowed like poured wine, clinging and whispering with every movement. Her hair—god, her hair—fell loose in a wild cascade, reaching far below her knees, swaying like a river of shadowed silk. A single red flower sat tucked above her ear, vibrant and soft against her dark strands.
She looked like she had stepped out of an old painting…
and refused to let the world forget her.
Her eyes were the only calm thing about her—icy blue, steady and serene, watching him with the kind of patience predators had right before they struck.
She descended one slow step at a time.
Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe.
Her dress whispered across the steps like a warning.
When she reached the middle of the staircase, she finally spoke.
"You've come a long way," she murmured, voice low and smooth. "Why?"
He tried to speak, but his throat locked.
She tilted her head ever so slightly—
and her blue eyes flickered.
For a split second.
Blue → molten gold.
The chandelier dimmed, reacting as if the entire house bowed to the sudden shift of power.
Her gaze scanned him, gold deepening, brightening—judging him without a single word. The air itself seemed to curl around her, tightening, waiting.
When she finished reading him, the gold faded back to calm, icy blue.
Her expression softened, but only the smallest degree.
"Well," she said, "that answers that."
She stepped fully into the light, the red silk shimmering dangerously.
"Now," she whispered, "let's decide what to do with you."
The moment he saw her—red dress flowing like blood made silk, hair pouring down her back like midnight water—his stomach dropped.
Oh gods… I shouldn't be here.
Why did I come? Why did I think this was just a house?
He backed up a step, but the door behind him slammed shut on its own.
His breath hitched.
She kept coming down the stairs, unhurried, eyes blue and cold like winter lakes.
She's too calm.
People aren't this calm. Not alone in a mansion.
She's going to kill me.
He pressed himself against the wall. His hands were shaking so hard his fingers went numb.
I just needed money… just a little… just something to eat.
Not this. Not her.
Please… I don't want to die here.
Her steps whispered closer—silk over marble.
Then her eyes changed.
Blue → blazing gold.
It wasn't just a color.
It was like being scanned by the sun.
He felt completely naked under that gaze—every sin, every fear, every hunger laid bare. His heart lurched painfully. He couldn't breathe. Tears pricked his eyes.
She knows. She knows everything. She sees I'm nothing. I'm no threat.
Please… please see I'm not bad. I just—
The gold faded.
Her expression softened.
Not kind… but not cruel.
She sighed. The kind of sigh someone gives when they're tired of being disappointed by the world.
"You're not here to harm," she murmured.
He choked out a nod.
"You're here because you're starving."
Another nod—this one trembling.
She approached him slowly, and he flinched, expecting a strike. Instead, she slipped a careful hand into a small drawer near the staircase. From it she pulled a slim pouch—soft leather, neatly tied.
It jingled faintly.
His breath caught.
Money.
Actual money.
She stepped close enough for him to see the intricate red flower in her hair.
"Look at me," she said gently.
He forced his gaze up. Her blue eyes held a softness he didn't understand.
"You don't belong here," she murmured.
Before he could react, she uncorked a tiny glass vial. A faint scent—sweet, floral—filled his lungs before he realized what she was doing.
Dizziness washed over him.
"What—?" he gasped.
"Shh. This is mercy."
The world blurred, gold flickering at the edges of his vision.
He felt her place the coin pouch in his hand.
Her fingers were cold.
Her voice was soft.
"You'll wake outside. You'll remember nothing. You'll start over."
His knees buckled.
As consciousness slipped away, he heard one last whisper:
"Be better with this chance."
Then—
Darkness.
Cold air brushed his face.
He blinked, blurry shapes wobbling into focus. Grass. Gravel. The old rusted gate.
He was lying outside the villa.
Not inside it.
He sat up slowly, head pounding like he'd slept for a century.
What… happened?
His memories were smudged, like water streaks over ink. He remembered rain. Lights. Fear? Someone? Something?
Everything dissolved the moment he tried to reach for it.
Frustrated, he rubbed his eyes—
and froze.
There was a leather pouch in his palm.
He opened it.
Coins.
More than he had ever held in his entire life. Enough for food. Maybe shelter. Maybe months of safety.
His throat tightened.
"Why…?" he whispered to no one.
No answer came. The gate behind him creaked softly, as if urging him to leave.
So he did.
He staggered toward the road, clutching the pouch like a lifeline, unaware that the villa behind him was still watching.
She drifted to the tall window, pulling aside the velvet curtain with two fingers. Outside, the beggar limped down the misty path, clutching the coin pouch to his chest like it was the last piece of hope in the world.
Her blue eyes softened for exactly half a second—
—and then turned icy again.
"Good. He's moving."
She crossed her arms, leaning against the window frame.
"If he stays any longer, he'll ruin the view."
Her hair spilled around her like a dark waterfall as she tilted her head, examining him one last time.
"At least he remembered to take the money," she murmured. "I do hate waste."
He reached the bend in the path. Hesitated. Looked back once—confused, scared, hopeful.
She smirked.
"You won't remember me," she whispered, voice soft as the breeze outside. "But you will remember that fortune smiled at you today."
The golden flicker appeared briefly in her eyes—not scanning, just amused.
She let the curtain fall shut.
"Now," she said to herself, brushing imaginary dust from her sleeve, "let's hope no one else interrupts my evening."
She shut the door with a flick of her fingers, the echo sliding through the hall like a blade. The house settled again, quiet and obedient.
She exhaled sharply.
"I should've just killed him," she muttered, brushing a strand of her long dark hair over her shoulder. The silk of her red dress shimmered as she moved.
She paced slowly, irritation tapping at her ribs.
"I still can," she said under her breath, lips curling. "He's only a few steps down the path. One quick trip and—poof."
She lifted her hand dramatically, miming a disappearing act. "Problem solved."
A beat.
She shook her head. "Nah. Let it be. If he's stupid enough to come again…"
Her blue eyes narrowed to thin, cold slits,
"I'll kill him without blinking."
She stopped in front of the tall mirror, her reflection glowing in the dim chandelier light. Her knee-length hair spilled like dark water behind her, the red flower bright against the black.
She smoothed her dress, tilted her chin, admiring herself from every angle.
"I wasn't in the mood to kill today," she said, half to herself, half to the mirror. "And evil ones deserve to die. Not pathetic little creatures like him."
Her eyes flicked to gold for a second—mocking her own softness.
She leaned closer to the mirror, lips curving into a wicked smirk.
"Don't be so soft anymore, Blaze," she whispered to her reflection. "You're ruining your reputation."
She winked at herself.
"And you know you're far too perfect for that."
There was small village named ginger-town just a mile away from the villa. The tavern was buzzing louder than the storm outside. Lanterns flickered, mugs clinked, and every conversation somehow curved back to her—
the red-wearing ghost who lived beyond the forest road.
A man in a muddy coat slammed his drink down.
"I'm tellin' you—she burned him without fire."
Half the room groaned. "Oh, not this again."
"No, listen! My cousin's friend saw it. She touched him—just touched—and his skin smoked like hot iron."
From the corner, an old woman barked a laugh.
"Touched him? Please. She didn't lay a finger on the fool. She only looked at him."
She traced a line in the air. "Fire came out of her eyes. Blue one moment, molten gold the next."
A group of children pressed closer, wide-eyed.
One whispered, "Is she dead? Or alive? Or… something else?"
The adults exchanged glances.
"Immortal," someone said.
"Cursed," another added.
"Both," grumbled the blacksmith, downing half his ale. "My grandfather swore she hasn't aged a day since he was a boy."
"Ages backward," offered a farmer. "Saw her once. She looked younger than last year. I nearly fainted."
The children squealed.
Then a woman near the hearth leaned in, voice dropping to a hush.
"And her hair…"
She shivered.
"Cursed fire. Moves even when there's no wind."
"Aye," the baker nodded vigorously. "My nephew swears he saw it coil like a serpent when she was angry."
"Your nephew was five!" someone shouted.
"And five-year-olds don't lie," he argued.
The room erupted in mixed agreement and laughter—
until the door creaked open and everyone froze.
It was only a traveler seeking shelter.
The old men exchanged looks, then one leaned forward, tapping his cane.
"You're new around here, aren't you?" he said.
"Well, let me give you advice if you want to survive longer than a week."
The traveler blinked. "Alright…?"
"Never—" the old man raised a crooked finger,
"ever walk the path leading to the red villa. Not during the day. Not at night. Not even if the gods themselves drag you by the ankle."
The tavern went silent.
"And stay away from her garden," someone else muttered. "The roses there don't grow—they watch."
A farmer by the window nodded vigorously.
"I felt them follow me. Every bloom turned its head. I nearly tripped running off."
The children, emboldened by fear, burst into daring whispers.
"Let's go at dawn," one boy said.
"Not inside—just to the gate!"
"You go," another hissed. "I'm not dying because you want to impress Mira!"
"Bah," the eldest woman scoffed. "None of you will go. The road itself turns strangers around. And if you do reach the gate…"
She leaned closer, eyes gleaming.
"She'll know."
Everyone shuddered.
Through the rain-streaked window, lightning flashed—
just enough to make the forest road gleam like a warning.
Somewhere far beyond those trees, in the silent red villa,
Blaze probably yawned…
completely unaware of the chaos she caused
just by existing.
It was nearly a year ago when the tale first reached Ginger-Town.
A traveling merchant swore he saw her crossing the ridge at dusk, red silk glowing faintly in the fog.
He told anyone who would listen:
"She… she walked across the forest like it was water. Her hair—long, darker than the night—flowed behind her. And those eyes… blue, no, golden! I swear, golden like fire."
Everyone nodded nervously.
Some scoffed.
Some leaned in closer.
"She looked right at me," the merchant continued, voice trembling. "I froze. I couldn't move. I tried to blink, tried to look away… but she—she knew me. Just knew."
Then his voice dropped to a whisper:
"She didn't speak. Didn't move closer. But when I woke up by the road… I… I remembered nothing else. Only… fear. And the color red."
A few villagers had been nearby, claimed to see something, but none remembered details beyond the faint glow of red in the mist.
Some argued it was a trick of the twilight.
Others swore it wasn't.
No one could confirm the sighting.
Except one thing was certain:
By morning, every witness' memory of her exact appearance was hazy, incomplete… except for the fear, the rumors, the legend she wanted them to carry.
And so the whispers spread.
"Red-wearing ghost."
"Her eyes burn gold."
"She walks the forest like it's water."
All planted by Blaze herself.
Because she had seen them.
Because she had decided:
Let them fear her. Let them exaggerate. Let them tell each other stories.
And then… let them leave her in peace.
Blaze reclined on the velvet chaise in her red villa, one ankle crossed over the other, her silk dress pooling like liquid fire beneath her. The chandelier cast shards of light across the marble floor, glinting off her long hair and the crimson flower tucked behind her ear.
Across the room, a tall, obsidian-framed mirror shimmered. Not just any mirror. A magical mirror. She could see any place she loved, any person she cared to observe. And tonight, her attention was on Ginger-Town.
She tilted her head, lips curling into a sly smile.
"Oh? What are they saying tonight?" she murmured, voice soft as candle smoke.
The mirror rippled, and suddenly the tavern appeared before her eyes: lanterns flickering, mugs clinking, villagers leaning close to whisper. Their words came faint, layered with fear, exaggeration, and excitement. Every rumor she had planted herself… or carefully guided… drifted back to her in perfect clarity.
"She burned him without fire!" one man barked, pounding the table.
"She didn't touch him at all!" the old woman countered.
"Her hair… cursed fire… coils like a serpent!" a child whispered.
Blaze chuckled, the sound delicate yet sharp. She let her fingers trail over the edge of the mirror.
"Good," she purred. "Exaggerate. Fear is delicious when it's curated."
The villagers argued, contradicted each other, dared each other, shivered at the tales… and she drank it all in, utterly amused. She could hear the excitement, the hesitation, the trembling admiration. Every whisper, every glance cast toward the forest road, every glance toward her villa—it fed her.
"And notice," she murmured, golden eyes flickering for just a heartbeat, "not a single one knows the truth. Not a one remembers seeing me clearly. Perfect."
She leaned back, smoothing a hand over her hair. Her reflection in the mirror caught her golden eyes for a split second, then returned to their calm blue.
"I do enjoy this game," she whispered to herself. "They fear me, they exaggerate me… they respect me without realizing I've decided what they remember."
A faint breeze rustled through the room. Blaze let her gaze linger on the mirror, watching as the villagers gestured, argued, and whispered again.
"Let them talk," she said softly, voice almost teasing. "Let them tell the stories they love. Let them fear the ghost in red. And above all…"
She stretched luxuriously, the red silk sliding over her knees.
"Let them leave me in peace."
The mirror rippled once more, and Ginger-Town faded from view. Blaze reclined further, letting a satisfied smirk curl her lips. Tonight, the legend had grown. And she had enjoyed every second of it.
The sun glared off the golden walls of the villa, turning the forest clearing into a molten prism of light. But the intruders didn't flinch. They were confident—corrupt officials from the villages, greedy for the villa's treasures: gold walls, gem-encrusted columns, the kind of wealth that made men blind with lust.
Blaze appeared in the doorway before they could even step inside, crimson dress flowing like fire, hair tumbling below her knees, a single red flower framing her perfect face.
"Ah," one of the officials sneered, voice oily. "Just a thin, pretty girl… let's size her too."
The others laughed, bold and mocking.
Blaze's icy blue eyes scanned them. Slowly. Methodically. Then the color shifted. Gold, molten, burning. The intruders froze mid-step.
She tilted her head, a single brow arched.
Every evil deed you've done… far outweighs anything I've touched. You won't leave here alive.
No one spoke. No one dared.
Blaze's lips curved into a faint, almost bored smile, and the first of them shivered despite the sun. She didn't move—she didn't need to.
Then the first man stepped forward, arrogance masking fear. "And what? You'll kill us all? You're just—"
A single glance cut him off.
Gold eyes, serene as death, piercing into him, unblinking.
He staggered. His blood ran cold. Not metaphorically. Literally. The chill went from his toes to his skull, and he collapsed, frozen.
Blaze moved with predatory grace, silk sliding over marble, her expression unchanging: a mask of perfect, cruel calm.
The others charged, weapons drawn, shouting.
Blaze sighed—soft, melodic, and bored.
Their first attacks met air. She shifted, and with a flick of her wrist a dagger appeared from her red dress. One precise movement, one neck sliced. Blood arced beautifully through the sunlight. The second man barely had time to scream before a second strike ended him.
The ones who tried to run didn't get far. From hidden sleeves, Blaze flung tiny needles—poison tipped, whisper-thin, lethal. They struck with impossible speed. Flesh burned blue, bodies stiffened, and they fell like candles snuffed out, fading in seconds.
Every motion was poetry. Every drop of blood on her hands and face gleamed, not grotesque, but ceremonial. The gold in the walls reflected it, multiplying the effect.
The officials who survived long enough to glimpse her expression felt their bones freeze. That calm, perfect, unsympathetic face, streaked with blood, holding the dagger like a natural extension of her hand…
It was enough.
They could feel her eyes on them even if they didn't see her gold gaze—they knew she was measuring, judging, deciding who would die next.
And when she finally lowered her weapon, the villa was silent. The air was thick with the coppery scent of blood, the sun glinting off walls of gold and gems, the bodies of the greedy officials strewn like discarded dolls.
Blaze ran her fingers lightly along the dagger, watching the light catch the blood, letting it smear across her crimson silk. She exhaled, soft, bored.
"I do wish they had manners," she murmured, voice low enough for the shadows to catch it. "But I suppose…"
She turned, hair falling like a dark waterfall over her shoulder.
"…mercy is for fools. And evil ones."
The villagers of Ginger-Town would not forget the day Blaze decided to remind the world why she was untouchable.
By mid-afternoon, the corrupt officials lay lifeless, bodies arranged with deliberate cruelty. Blaze did not leave them where they fell. One by one, she carried their cold, limp forms, her movements unnervingly light, almost graceful, despite the weight.
Outside the villa, the road to Ginger-Town stretched like a silver ribbon under the sun. There, she left her message. On the foreheads of each corpse, carved with a slender dagger, words gleamed red against pale skin:
"Whoever enters the villa will end up like this."
The villagers who stumbled upon the scene screamed, froze, and fled, their fear multiplying with every retelling. Even distant officials sent to investigate found their courage evaporate, and the legend of the red-wearing ghost grew another layer: alive, merciless, untouchable.
Back in the villa, the air was heavy with coppery scent, mixed with the faint sweetness of roses that lingered despite the carnage. Blaze walked down the long, polished corridor to her private chamber.
A single candle flickered on the ornate desk. She lifted her hand and let her fingers graze the flame.
It kissed her skin. Fire licked along her fingers, danced along her arms, but she felt no pain.
The red silk of her dress stayed untouched. The blood that had splattered across her clothes, hands, and arms moments ago vanished like mist. A fresh red flower appeared, perfectly positioned in her hair, petals unblemished, flawless.
Blaze tilted her head, eyes tracing the reflection in her tall, obsidian-framed mirror. The blood on her hands was gone; her skin was immaculate. Her hair cascaded like dark water down her back, the red silk flowing as if she had just stepped from a dream.
She raised her hand, letting the candlelight tremble across her pale skin. Fingers flexed, graceful, lethal.
"Yes," she murmured softly, voice low and full of satisfaction. "Perfection."
The mirror reflected her entire image: bloodless, flawless, terrifying in beauty. Blaze leaned closer, eyes flicking from icy blue to molten gold for a heartbeat, admiring herself with the same satisfaction a queen reserves for a kingdom she alone commands.
A sudden shadow shifted across the room. Blaze's gaze lifted. At her window, perched with majestic poise, an eagle waited. Its feathers shimmered in the sunlight. A rolled piece of parchment, tied with black silk, dangled from its beak.
Blaze did not startle. She moved with unhurried elegance, extending her hand. The eagle hopped onto her outstretched fingers, talons clicking lightly against her skin. Its weight was perfect, deliberate, trusting. She guided it to rest on her shoulder, the bird's gaze sharp and alert, eyes glinting with intelligence.
Carefully, Blaze removed the letter from its neck. Unfurling the parchment, she let her eyes glide over the words, every syllable cutting her attention like a spell. The eagle shifted slightly, golden eyes scanning the surroundings, alert for danger even when none existed.
Blaze's expression remained serene, but her golden eyes darkened slightly—focused, calculating, alive with the thrill of the inevitable.
"Guess it's time," she murmured to herself, voice low, measured.
"To end my… vacation here."
The eagle cooed softly, nuzzling her neck before taking off. Blaze followed its flight with her eyes as it arced into the sky, wings slicing through the clouds. Golden flecks shimmered across its feathers as it scanned the landscape below, the surrounding forests, and the distant village, as if her will guided it.
She turned back to the mirror, straightening her posture, adjusting the fresh red flower in her hair. Her reflection was flawless, untouchable. She allowed herself the faintest smile, one that held both cruelty and amusement.
"Yes," she whispered again, softer this time, to no one but herself.
"Time to remind the world… why no one crosses Blaze."
The villa seemed to breathe with her, walls of gold and gem catching the afternoon sun, reflecting shards of light like countless eyes watching the forests beyond. And Blaze, standing there in her pristine crimson dress, felt the thrill of anticipation coil around her like a living thing.
Somewhere beyond the forest, the eagle carried her will in its wings, preparing the path for her next move. And Blaze? She had already begun to calculate every possibility, every outcome, every fool who dared approach her again.
The candle flickered, a small, quiet flame, but her body, her presence, her aura burned brighter than any fire could, untouchable, unstoppable, immortal.