1
BEFORE YOU READ
Hi everyone, and welcome to Black Tulip. First of all, thank you for giving this story a chance. It means a lot to me that you are here. Black Tulip is a dark romance with psychological thriller elements. It deals with obsession, stalking, mental health struggles, grief, illness, emotional manipulation, morally grey characters, and a power imbalance between adult characters. Future chapters may contain explicit sexual content, strong language, and disturbing scenes. Please read with care and protect your peace. If any of these themes are not for you, that is completely okay. This story is fiction. It does not romanticize real-life stalking, abuse, or toxic relationships. It explores dark emotions, dangerous attraction, and characters who are not always safe, healthy, or morally right. I also want to mention that English is not my first language. I’m doing my best to tell this story in a language that is not my own, so thank you for your patience and understanding.
Thank you for reading.❤️
— Addison Thorpe
The third bouquet arrived on a Monday.
Min Haeri almost stepped on it.
It rested against her apartment door as if it belonged there, wrapped in matte black paper that looked too expensive for a building like this—too elegant for a fourth-floor corridor that smelled faintly of bleach, damp concrete, and someone else’s instant noodles.
Black tulips.
Again.
Haeri stood very still, one hand still locked around the strap of her bag, the other curled around her keys. For a second, she only stared.
The first bouquet had unsettled her. The second had annoyed her. This one made something cold move down her spine.
Three bouquets in a week. No note. No name. No card. Just flowers Just flowers left outside her door in an old walk-up where nothing beautiful ever arrived by mistake.
She looked down at the dark petals. In the weak hallway light they looked almost unreal—soft, expensive, carefully chosen. Whoever had left them knew exactly what they were doing.
Her jaw tightened.
Slowly, she crouched and touched one of the stems. Wet. Fresh enough that a bead of water slipped over her fingertip and broke against her skin.
Haeri’s head snapped toward the stairwell.
Silence.
No footsteps. No voices. No elevator hum. Just the thin buzzing of the overhead light and the sudden, sick certainty that whoever had left the bouquet had not done it hours ago.
They had done it recently.
Maybe minutes ago.
For the first time that week, Haeri didn’t unlock her door right away.
THREE WEEKS EARLIER
By the time Haeri left the convenience store, Seoul looked drained of color.
Dawn had come and gone, but the sky still hung low and pale above the street, as if the city had changed its mind about morning. She had been off shift for three hours. Long enough to go home, shower, change, and start walking uphill toward the university. Not long enough to feel human.
Her legs ached. Her eyes burned. There was still a faint smell of instant coffee trapped in the sleeves of her hoodie.
She crossed at the light with a paper cup of cheap kimbap she hadn’t touched and checked her phone out of habit.
One message from her manager.
One payment reminder from the hospital.
Nothing else.
Fine by her.
People were exhausting when they expected things from you. Friendship, replies, small talk, emotional energy she no longer had. Ever since moving to the city five years ago, life had narrowed into something sharp and practical: work, class, bills, hospital visits, sleep if she got lucky.
Mostly, she didn’t.
Her grandmother, Kim Sun-ja, had never really come back from the stroke.
The doctors had stopped using hopeful words years ago. Now they talked about stability, routine, long-term management, and rehabilitation with the careful detachment of people who no longer believed in miracles. Haeri had learned to hate calm voices in white coats almost as much as she hated pity.
She shoved the phone back into her pocket and kept walking.
The hill to campus was lined with bare trees and old brick walls stained dark by winter. Students moved past her in clumps—laughing, eating, half-awake, leaning into one another like the day hadn’t already taken something from them. Haeri kept her head down and followed the path toward the College of Public Safety building.
Final year.
Just survive final year.
That had become the only goal small enough to be believable.
Once, she had talked about graduate school with something close to hunger. Criminal psychology. Forensic assessment. She wanted to understand what made violence bloom inside ordinary people. What turned fixation into obsession, obsession into harm.
Lately, ambition felt expensive. But she still went to class. She still took notes. She still showed up.
The lecture hall was fuller than usual when she walked in. Too much noise for a Monday. Too many phones out. Too many girls pretending not to fix their hair in the reflection of black screens.
Haeri almost turned around before she heard someone near the aisle whisper, “That’s him.”
She looked up.
A man was standing at the front of the room, placing a folder on the desk with calm, unhurried movements. Early thirties, maybe. Dark suit. Dark tie. Not severe exactly, just precise. The kind of face people trusted too quickly because it looked composed.
The projector flickered on behind him.
Special Topics in Criminal Psychology
Assistant Professor Jin Tae-sung
The room lowered itself into silence.
Professor Jin glanced over the class once, not lingering on anyone long enough to seem rude, but not missing much either.
Then he smiled. It changed his whole face.
“Good morning,” he said. His voice was warm enough to make half the room sit straighter. “Before we begin, let me ask you something.”
He picked up the remote and clicked to the first slide.
A single sentence appeared on the screen.
"Most stalkers do not begin with violence. They begin with ritual."
For the first time that morning, Haeri forgot how tired she was.
