Chapter 3

On the evening of day three, Marcus walked in with a small entourage.

He circled the tree, digging his fingernails into the damp sphagnum moss on the trunk, his brow furrowing deeply.

"What's this circus trick? Putting a winter coat on a corpse?"

"Moisture retention. To prevent the cambium from desiccating further."

"Pointless," he scoffed, brushing debris off his hands. "The cambium is already dead. Moisturizing dead tissue does nothing."

I didn't argue.

Arguing with someone like him was useless; results were the only language he understood.

He turned to walk away, then paused as if remembering something.

"Right, Chloe, isn't it? I hear you've been staying late in the nursery every night."

"Yes, sir."

"I get that young people want to prove themselves, but don't act like you're the only dedicated worker in this facility."

His voice was just loud enough to carry across the greenhouse.

"Lurking around here until midnight makes your coworkers look bad. It creates unnecessary pressure. This is a workplace, not college. Stop pulling performative overtime."

I froze, a flare of indignation rising in my throat.

I stayed late because the tree's metabolic night cycle was the best window for foliar nutrient absorption. What did that have to do with "performative overtime"?

Before I could open my mouth, he was already striding off, leaving the other crew members staring at me with strange, judging looks.

Brenda, the woman in the sun hat, sauntered over, dripping with patronizing concern.

"Oh, Chloe, sweetie, don't take Director Vance's words to heart. His bark is worse than his bite. Just keep your head down and do your job. Don't take things so seriously."

She patted my shoulder, her smile sweet as artificial sweetener.

I couldn't hear her inner thoughts—she wasn't a plant.

But the second she walked away, the old tea tree ratted her out.

*"That fake witch told the guy next to her that you're totally unhinged. She said you're a lunatic trying to revive firewood, and she can't wait to watch you burn."*

*"Oh, and she added another little gem: 'Word is she got hired through nepotism—her resume didn't even have a decent internship on it.'"*

I crouched beside the trunk, clutching the plastic measuring cylinder until my knuckles turned white.

Nepotism?

I passed the state civil service and public garden recruitment exams legitimately, scoring top three in both written and practical tests!

Who the hell cooked up that rumor?

Yet beyond the anger, an icy sense of isolation settled over me.

In this entire botanical garden, not a single person had my back.

*"Kiddo, ignore that flock of clowns,"* the tree rumbled in a gruff, comforting tone. *"I've lived through a hundred and twenty years. I've seen it all. Back during the wars, enemy soldiers hacked a chunk out of my trunk with an ax, and I didn't even shed a tear. You think these pests can take me down?"*

A dry laugh escaped me. I gently patted the trunk.

"Thanks, old friend."

*"Don't thank me yet! Just save my life first!"*

Dawn on the fourth day.

I arrived at the nursery as usual, but from a distance, I spotted a crowd gathered around the tree, whispering frantically.

As I rushed closer, my heart sank into my stomach.

The moist sphagnum wrap around the trunk had been ripped to shreds. The newly trenched organic soil was gouged out into a jagged crater, and my nutrient concentrate bottle lay kicked on its side, liquid soaking wasted into the dirt.

"What happened?!" I gasped, panic bleeding through.

Brenda stood right beside it, throwing her hands up in exaggerated innocence.

"It was like this when we clocked in! Probably stray raccoons or feral cats. We get plenty of pests around the nursery, you know that."

Feral cats.

Right. Feral cats who possessed the surgical dexterity to tear away moss wraps, dig precisely along the root line, and kick over targeted nutrient bottles?

The tea tree's voice exploded in my skull like thunder.

*"BULLSHIT! It was that sun-hat bitch! She came in around two in the morning with a hand spade, tore at my roots, and dumped that stinking chemical junk back over me! Kiddo, don't let her get away with this!"*

I snapped my head toward Brenda.

She was still smiling—warm, smooth, and fake as a plastic flower.

"Brenda," I kept my voice dead level, "it was you, wasn't it?"