A woman, or some creature wearing one's body, walks up behind the occupied flower without a word. She has a loose white shirt on, open along the stomach, and a pair of plain brown pants that tie with a cord drawn slightly too tight. Without so much as a word or a gesture or even a glance towards this captive person, she pinches a leaf of the plant that has him so transfixed.

It rots under her touch, the vibrant colors turning black and the leaves withering. The eyeball shrinks as though drying out, and the entire plant wilts within moments. Only when she's certain it's dead does she look up at the person it had entranced. Her gold eyes are calm, as though this is something she's done thousands of times before.

"Don't look so livid," she says, and her voice matches the way she stares. Her eyes are at the same level as his, which she takes as a comfort. If there's any fear in the way she's approaching this conversation, she thinks she's hiding it very well indeed. "They are only plants."