June sat frozen in a wooden chair in the center of the room, her arms bound tightly behind her back. Rough ropes bit into her skin, and her ankles were shackled to the legs of the chair. She tried to calm her frantic breathing, but her chest heaved with each panicked inhale. The Gardener moved around her, humming softly as he prepared his tools.
He dipped a brush into pale white paint and turned to her, smiling as though this were the most ordinary thing in the world. “You need to understand how special you are,” he said, his tone reverent. “Orchid is the queen of flowers. And you—you’re going to be my masterpiece.”
He began painting her face with precise, deliberate strokes. The cold, sticky paint clung to her skin, and June flinched as he pressed too hard near her temple. She wanted to jerk away, to scream, but the others’ warnings replayed in her mind: Don’t fight. It only makes it worse.
Camellia watched from her corner, her scarred face grim and expressionless. “This is his ritual,” she muttered under her breath to Iris, who sat trembling beside her.
“For what?” Iris whispered, her voice quaking.
Camellia didn’t look at her, her voice bitter. “For display.”
When the Gardener was finished, he stepped back, admiring his work. June’s face had been turned into a stark white mask, her lips painted a deep, bloody red. Her hair had been braided and adorned with fake orchids, the plastic petals brushing her cheeks. She felt like a doll, hollow and lifeless.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered, his voice filled with quiet awe. But then his tone darkened, his eyes narrowing. “But perfection comes at a price.”
He reached for the shears, and June’s stomach twisted as she fought the urge to scream. He turned toward Iris, his eyes locking onto her quivering form. “You’ve been wilting, Iris,” he said softly, his tone chillingly calm. “And wilting flowers don’t belong in my garden.”
Iris’s eyes widened with terror, and suddenly, she bolted. Her bare feet hit the ground hard as she darted toward the door. June’s heart raced as she watched Iris disappear into the corridor.
The Gardener didn’t rush. He moved with a terrifying calmness, his long strides deliberate. “Run, little flower,” he murmured under his breath. “You won’t get far.”
Iris’s legs burned as she sprinted through the labyrinthine halls, her breath ragged. Her heart thundered in her chest as she spotted a faint light in the distance—a door. A way out. She pushed herself harder, her feet slipping on the cold, damp floor.
The door was just ahead. She could feel the cool air from outside, the promise of freedom. Tears streamed down her face as she reached for the handle.
A hand clamped over her mouth, yanking her back into the shadows. She struggled, her muffled screams breaking through the suffocating silence.
“Shhh,” the Gardener whispered, his voice soft and deadly. He struck her hard, the blow sending her to the ground. Iris whimpered, her voice barely a whisper. “H-help…”
But no one came.