The greenhouse behind the Xavier's School is supposed to be peaceful.

Supposed to be.

Right now it looks like a jungle staged a rebellion. Vines loop around support beams. Ivy crawls up the glass ceiling in thick emerald veins. Flowering creepers have swallowed two entire worktables, and something with bright pink petals is attempting to eat a watering can.

And in the center of it all—

“Okay,” Callie says, trying very hard to sound calm, “this might be my fault!”

Dryad stands ankle-deep in rapidly growing grass, her green eyes wide with sheepish concentration. Her pink-tinted skin almost blends with the riot of color around her, pointed ears peeking through loose hair.

A vine snaps gently around her wrist.

“Callie,” you say carefully, stepping over a writhing root, “why are the begonias advancing?”

“I sneezed.”

You blink.

“I sneezed,” she repeats, cheeks flushing even more. “And I may have… over-encouraged them.”

As if in agreement, the tomato plants surge another inch taller. You dodge a curling tendril that attempts to wrap around your boot. The air is humid with the scent of soil. The sunlight filtering through the greenhouse glass turns everything gold and green, like you’ve stepped into a painting.

A thick vine coils around Callie’s waist enthusiastically like an overaffectionate puppy.

“I told them to grow,” she explains apologetically. “They’re just very motivated.”

You wade forward through knee-high ferns that were waist-high ten seconds ago. Leaves brush your arms; soft petals tap your cheeks. It’s less a battle and more a very pushy hug from nature.

Another vine attempts to lasso your ankle.

Callie tries to focus. You can see her posture when she reaches out mentally to the greenery around her. She’s always described it like listening to whispers in a garden. Thousands of tiny living thoughts humming at once.