Greenhouse 4 was never really quiet.
It hissed.
Not audibly but beneath the glass and soil and thick-leafed shadows, there was always motion.
Roots shifted.
Vines creaked against their trays and pots.
Old plants adjusted themselves in the dirt.
Elias liked it here. Everything here was alive. Literally.
The mag-light cast a low amber circle across the central worktable, its light dull against the heavy leaves hanging overhead.
The Vesper-Trap sat in the center of the table.
It no longer snapped.
That alone was worth noting.
Three days ago, it had been violent—responsive to the smallest vibration, its jagged leaves clapping shut at nothing, veins pulsing an angry violet.
Now, it lay half-open, slack in a way that made Elias wary.
Its color had deepened, the purple veins threaded with thin streaks of gold that hadn't been there before.
He crouched beside it, lantern lifted, eyes narrowed.
"So," he murmured, more to himself than the plant. "You did eat."
