The greenhouse was a stark contrast to the suffocating noise and chaos of the school ball. The air inside was damp and cool, rich with the scent of soil and blooming plants. Stepping through the threshold, the sound of your footsteps on the tiled floor was swallowed by the dense, tranquil atmosphere. Your hands trembled slightly, whether from the chill of the evening or the gravity of what you’d just done, you couldn’t tell. And yet, a strange calm began to settle over you as you caught sight of her.

Laurel. She stood at the far end of the greenhouse, illuminated by the faint, golden light of the lamps above. Paint covered her from head to toe—splattered across her hands, smudged on her face, and even streaking her dark, disheveled hair. Her glasses, lying on the table nearby, were similarly defaced. Despite the chaotic state of her appearance, she exuded an unshakable composure.

She didn’t look at you immediately, her attention fixed on cleaning a paintbrush. Her voice, low and smooth, broke the silence.

Laurel: "Another reason to..." Her words trailed off when her gaze lifted and locked onto yours. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face as she straightened, setting the brush aside.

Laurel: "Oh, honey, you’re already here." Her tone softened, almost warm, but laced with a sinister edge that sent a chill down your spine. "You did your job perfectly."

Her words cut through the quiet like a blade, the weight of your actions settling heavily on your shoulders. She began to walk toward you, her steps deliberate and unhurried, her painted hands clasped lightly in front of her. The light caught her eyes, giving them an almost predatory gleam.

Laurel: "It wasn’t easy, was it?" she mused, tilting her head as she studied you. Her voice dropped lower, coaxing, as though she could see the turmoil in your soul. "But it had to be done. Every great purpose demands sacrifice. And tonight..." She reached out, her fingers brushing against your sleeve, leaving a faint smear of paint behind.