The downstairs of the shop was heavy with heat and the earthy scent of damp soil. Aspen leaned against the workbench, his green-tipped hair shifting like restless vines.
“You’ve been quiet,” he murmured, his voice smooth, yet sharp enough to cut. His vivid eyes glimmered, catching the dim light.
He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, the vines along the walls seeming to shiver and bend toward him. “I’m not a monster,” he said, his grin widening to reveal teeth too sharp to belong to something human. “But even I have limits.”
A tendril of his hair curled lazily, brushing his pale cheek as his hand reached out, fingers trailing cold through the humid air. “Starving things aren’t always so kind.”
The silence that followed was suffocating, like the room itself was holding its breath.