The Golden Greenhouse
You hold the orchid in your hands, the petals cold and slick as wet slate, and the stem snaps with a sound like a dry twig breaking under a boot. The glass shatters. Director Vane’s face, inches from yours, twists from bureaucratic fury to a mask of pale, absolute horror. He does not scream. He recoils, pressing his back against the filing cabinets, his tie askew, his eyes fixed not on you but...
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