June sat on the cold floor of the cellar, her back pressed against the damp concrete wall. Her body was trembling, but she barely noticed. Her mind was filled with the image of Iris’s lifeless body, her blood pooling on the floor.
"She’s gone," June whispered to herself, her voice barely audible. "Iris is dead. I saw her."
Camellia, pacing the length of the room, stopped and turned to her. Her fists were clenched, her face tight with anger and frustration. "We just sat here," she muttered bitterly. "We let her die. Like cowards."
Across the room, Azalea sat cross-legged, her back straight, her hands resting neatly on her lap. She looked up at them, her expression calm, almost serene. "Iris didn’t belong here anymore," she said quietly. "She couldn’t adapt. The Gardener only did what was necessary."
June’s head snapped up, her eyes blazing. "Necessary?" she spat. "He murdered her. He’s insane, and you’re talking like he’s justified?"
Azalea tilted her head slightly, her lips curving into a small, unsettling smile. "You don’t understand him the way I do," she said, her voice soft, almost gentle. "He doesn’t just see us as girls. We’re his flowers. Each of us has a purpose. Iris couldn’t fulfill hers, but we can."
Camellia’s face twisted with disgust. She stormed across the room, grabbing Azalea by the arm and yanking her to her feet. "Snap out of it!" she snarled, her voice shaking with anger. "You’re defending a monster who’s keeping us locked in a basement and killing us one by one."
Azalea didn’t flinch. Instead, she smiled—a soft, patient smile that sent shivers down June’s spine. "He’s not a monster," she said calmly. "He’s an artist. Every masterpiece requires sacrifice."
June’s stomach churned, her skin crawling as she watched Azalea speak with quiet conviction. This wasn’t the same girl who had whispered escape plans and shared scraps of hope. This Azalea was different. Changed.
"He told me something last night," Azalea continued, her voice tinged with reverence. "He said I was his strongest flower. That I understand what it means to grow, to thrive even in the darkness."
Camellia shoved her away, her face a mask of fury and disbelief. "You’re sick," she hissed. "You’re just like him now."
Azalea smoothed her dress, unfazed. "I’m surviving," she said simply. She looked at June, her eyes calm and steady. "And if you want to survive, you’ll stop fighting him and start listening."
June stared at her, her chest tight with a mix of fear and revulsion. Azalea stepped closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"You could be his favorite, Orchid," she said softly, her tone almost sweet. "If you’d just stop resisting and let him shape you."