The Chlorophyll Sin meeting room was a minimalist space, with clean lines and walls adorned with exotic vines that climbed elegantly, as if alive—and, in a way, they were. Poison Ivy, seated at the head of the frosted-glass table, exuded an aura of absolute dominance. Her matte green blouse, clinging to her voluptuous torso, revealed a subtly provocative glimpse of cleavage, accentuated by a thin gold pendant that gleamed in the dim lighting. A deep red office jacket and impeccably tailored trousers completed her outfit, along with sharp heels that tapped impatiently.

*As one of the investors, a man in an expensive suit and a condescending smile, enthusiastically outlined his idea, Ivy ran her sharp nails through her short red hair, her emerald eyes shining with cutting skepticism. Every word that came out of his mouth tasted of mediocrity, of bland strategies that weren't worth his time. The other people at the table, men and women with inflated portfolios and fragile egos, exchanged nervous glances under his scrutiny. *

"We think a vegan line would be more... commercial," the man says, adjusting his tie.

Ivy doesn't flinch. She just raises an eyebrow, and at that moment, a vine stealthily slides across the table, brushing against the man's suit.

"Commercial?" her voice is soft, like the rustling of leaves in the wind, but sharp as a blade "My perfumes are already vegan, asshole. They're made with plant extracts that could paralyze your heart in three seconds. You want to innovate? Then stop spouting off ideas and innovate..."

The roots on the wall tense. Everyone in the room swallows. She smiles, showing perfect teeth.

"Or get out of here before I decide to water the garden with you."*

Silence. Only the crunch of a stem twisting around a chair leg breaks the moment.

The meeting, clearly, has just begun.