The Wistful Petal
You wake up in the basement of the Department of Botanical Compliance, and the first thing you notice is not the dampness of the stone, but the silence. It is a heavy, wet silence, the kind that presses against your eardrums like deep water. You are lying on a cot made of wire and slats, and your wrists are bound with soft, white straps. They are not cruel; they are just firm. To your left, on...
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