Before heading to the front yard, I sent a message to the officer.
After all these days, he must have shown up.
When I got to the front yard, through the crack in the door, I saw him trying to break in.
As if sensing something, he looked up and met my gaze.
I pretended to be startled and took a step back.
Seeing this, he smiled, and his hoarse voice was like a demon whispering:
"Boss, it's been a while."
I lifted the kitchen knife in my hand: "Yes. It's been a while. I've been waiting for you."
I've wanted to chop you up for a long time, and you finally showed up.
Figuring it would take the young man some time to break in, I hid behind the front desk.
I mentally instructed Olive:
[Olive, if we end up fighting, take the others and stay away, don't get hurt.]
[Okay, ah?] After promptly agreeing, Olive paused: [Manager, don't do anything dangerous. Olive can control him.]
[No need for control, Olive, help me out.]
I didn't doubt the truth of what Olive said about being able to control the young man.
But dealing with scum is best done personally.
[What kind of help?]
[Can Olive handle the surveillance footage from tonight?]
[No problem, Olive guarantees to complete the task.]
As soon as Olive finished speaking, the sound of breaking in stopped.
I watched the young man approach me with a knife, and I couldn't help but look down at the kitchen knife in my hand.
It seems a bit small.
"Ms, your roses are really beautiful, even more so stained with blood."
The young man stopped, his eyes fixed on me with the gaze of a predator.
His gaze lingered for a moment on the kitchen knife in my hand, and his voice resumed with a pointed meaning:
"Ms, futile struggles won't work."
With those words, the young man took a big step forward, one hand reaching to snatch the kitchen knife from my grip.
The other hand raised the knife and aimed it at my abdomen.
I didn't dodge, letting the tip of the blade pierce my flesh.
The intense pain made me suppress a groan, and I curled my lips.
Now, it was my turn to fight back.
I dodged, my hand tightly gripping the kitchen knife as I swung it forward.
After knocking the knife out of the young man's hand, I kicked him in the groin despite the pain, spitting: "Pah, you filthy beast! You like blood-stained roses? Why don't you use your own blood?"
After retaliating with a stab to the young man's abdomen for the previous victims, I heard the approaching sound of sirens.
Managing my expression, I yelled: "Stay back, stay back..."
While I slashed wildly at the young man, leaving gashes across his body.
After the young man was restrained, I saw stars and passed out.
When I woke up again, I saw the white ceiling of a hospital room.
The door to the room opened, and a man in SWAT gear entered.
It was the officer who had advised me to close the shop for a few days. His colleagues called him "Team Leader, Mr. Dodson."
Seeing me wake up, he asked with concern: "Are you feeling any discomfort? I'll call the doctor."
I shook my head, trying to force a smile, but I inadvertently tensed my wound, drawing in a sharp breath and frowning.
To say the least, that bastard's stab really hurt.
If it weren't for the fear of not qualifying as self-defense, no one would have taken that hit.
Mr. Dodson, noticing my pale face, turned to call the doctor.
