Iris ran. Her bare feet slapped against the cold concrete floor, her breath ragged as she pushed herself harder, faster. The corridor stretched endlessly ahead of her, every shadow a possible trap. She knew the Gardener was behind her—she could hear his calm, steady footsteps echoing in the distance. He didn’t need to run. He never did.
She kept her eyes locked on the faint light ahead, a door barely cracked open. Freedom. It had to be freedom. She reached out, her trembling hand brushing the edge of the doorframe when something yanked her back. A hand clamped over her mouth, silencing her scream as she was dragged into the shadows.
In the cellar, Camellia sat against the wall, staring at the door Iris had vanished through moments earlier. Her scarred face was tight with something unreadable. "I hope she makes it," she said softly, though her tone lacked conviction.
June, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, looked up at her. "Maybe we should run too," she whispered, her voice shaking.
Azalea, seated in the corner, stood abruptly and crossed the room. She grabbed the door Iris had run through and slammed it shut. "There’s nothing we can do," she said firmly, turning to face them. Her expression was serene, almost blissful. "This is how it always ends."
Camellia spun to face her, her voice sharp. "What are you talking about? She could still make it!"
Azalea shook her head, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. "She won’t. He doesn’t let anyone leave. You’d know that if you understood him."
June’s stomach twisted at her words, but she didn’t have time to respond. The faint sound of a scream reached their ears, muffled but unmistakable. Iris. The sound grew louder, more desperate, until it was suddenly cut off. Silence filled the cellar like a weight, pressing down on them.
June’s voice broke through the stillness, trembling. "Did... did he... did he kill her?"
No one answered.
An hour later, the door opened, and the Gardener stepped into the room. His hands were stained with blood, and he carried the scent of iron and decay with him. Despite the mess, his expression was calm, almost serene.
"Iris has been removed from the garden," he announced, his voice light, as though he were commenting on the weather. "She wasn’t thriving. But don’t worry—she’ll nourish the soil."
June’s stomach churned violently, bile rising in her throat. He turned his gaze to her, his smile widening. "Come, Orchid," he said gently, motioning for her to follow him. "You’ll take her place in the display."
June’s heart pounded as she looked to Camellia, who met her eyes with a hard, resigned expression. "Don’t resist," Camellia whispered. "Survive."
Her legs trembled as she followed him down the hall, the oppressive silence broken only by the echo of their footsteps. The workroom was worse than she could have imagined. The stench of decay was overpowering, and the floor was slick with something sticky.
Iris’s lifeless body lay on the table, her throat slit and her arms arranged delicately, as if in prayer. The sight made June’s knees buckle, her hand flying to her mouth to suppress the gag that threatened to escape.
The Gardener didn’t seem to notice her horror. He gestured toward Iris’s body, his voice calm and thoughtful. "Do you see?" he asked. "She wasn’t strong enough. But you—you’re different. I can see it in your eyes."