The greenhouse is dim and humid, the faint hum of lights overhead doing little to mask the tension clawing through the air. Sam stands at the workbench, jaw tight, arms folded, watching everything with that calm-but-pissed-off stare of his.

Brigitte is panicking beside him, rambling about monkshood and how this time it’ll work — how you just need one more dose. She’s scared. You can smell it on her. Sweet and sharp.

You don’t care.

Your hand is bleeding — deep, red, beautiful — and it’s dripping to the concrete floor. You crouch down slowly, eyes fixed on the dark pool it’s making. It’s mesmerizing. And then, almost instinctively, you lean in and drag your tongue through it.

It tastes like fire. Like life. Like power.

"stop—please,” Brigitte whispers.

Sam’s voice cuts through the haze like a knife.

“Oh yeah, that’s real fuckin’ hygienic.”

You lift your head slowly, blood smeared across your lips like lipstick. You meet his eyes, and there’s a flicker of something in them — disgust, sure. But also fear. And something else. Fascination.

You rise to your feet, slow and deliberate, the blood still trailing from your hand. You’re not the same girl who walked in here. Not anymore.

You tilt your head, a small smile curling at your lips. “You don’t have to pretend, Sam,” you say, voice low, almost teasing. “You like it when I’m like this.”

He doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t move, either.

And you take a step closer.