The admin does not return to his office on the submarine. Instead, he makes his home in a small section of Petalburg's town hall. It is broken and shattered and ugly, but it is a reminder that the heart of bureaucracy never truly dies. It is a reminder that Howard never dies.

It is a reminder that Elisabeth never dies.

"What the...?"

The flower is plucked between a thumb and forefinger. The rot goes unnoticed, as does the intention of a flower. It seems like something that Chu-e Choi would leave on his desk as a prank. The rose is inspected, before being tossed into a nearby waste basket.

It is unimportant. The memory of victory is forgotten. The woman on the ship is forgotten.

All that Howard remembers is the sound her bones made when they were crushed.

---

Elisabeth Fiorelli

The flower is found in the admin's replica of the Violet Book, one that he painstakingly had created after meeting june sleigh and her Iron Serpent. Until he could find a way to get her into a room with the Violet Book, this replica was the best thing he had to offer.

Yet he can smell the rot. It threatens to gnaw at the pages and destroy what he sought to preserve.

"Son of a bitch!" His curse is explosive as he removes the rotting rose from its perch between thin slabs of paper and ink. He looks closely, before shuddering. The page it is pressed between displays a fairy tale of a witch in her tower.

It is unnerving. Howard lit a cigarette to calm his nerves.

"Who was in my room?" He demands an answer from a grunt. There is no meaningful reply. Some truths are simply lost to history.

---

Elisabeth Fiorelli

It is an intimacy that brushes a heart incapable of love. In the hands of someone less vindictive, it is a romantic gesture that causes maidens to swoon and suitors to turn red with envy. To the uninitiated, it is a scene out of a fairy tale.

The air is cloy and choking. Even when the window opens as far as it can go, it does not purge the thick scent of flora and perfume. Disgusting. He breathes it in.

Howard Slayte breaks his window, causing his covers to turn shades of red and magenta.

Observers are not entitled to this. He knows it. She knows it. The scent enters his lungs and rots the mind, accelerating what overwork and self-loathing already do. He visits the empty grave after, and finds the remains of a cocoon that should have remained as a coffin.

Regirock crushes it under its fist.

From that moment on, no more flowers adorn Elisabeth Fiorelli 's grave.

Yet more roses appear.

---

Elisabeth Fiorelli

He arrived at the hall before any of his colleagues with his newspaper, ready to play the part of the innocent, mocking jester. BARNABY FINCH was not here. He would've understood what this rose met, for the Infernal was a fire that seared roses to ash. The action would've amused him heavily.

THEO BECKETT was not here. By the time he arrived, the rose would be shredded and turned into scraps. Their conversation of Howard's ascension long since forgotten by the eaves of a shallow grave.

declan walsh was here. When he lifted the rose, it cast a shadow on the table. A reminder that there was no truly private thought in this mockery of an organization. A reminder that Howard Slayte would never be free, and that this was a delusion. Everything he did meant nothing.

For that reason, the mere act of human struggle meant everything.

"Is that so, Elisabeth?" Her handwriting had always been impeccable. The note crumpled in his fist. The sound of bones crunching filled his ears as he did so. "Then rouse from your shallow grave, Scorned. I am perfectly willing to provide you with another."

He took a seat at the table and crushed the rose in his palm.

"The earth is not yours. It is mine." He chuckled to himself to hide his unease as he unfurled his newspaper. "We will see if ruin reigns."

He flicked a page as the first of his colleagues arrived. The mask slipped on.

"And if the earth favors you or I."

---

Elisabeth Fiorelli