The Creature [WLW]

The rain falls as if trying to pierce the silica glass. Each drop strikes the greenhouse roof with a rhythm that should be familiar by now—three weeks of nights just like this, cataloging specimens most people wouldn't even dare imagine existed, let alone touch.

The pungent scent of sulfur, decaying organic matter, and wet earth repeatedly fills her lungs—a sensation she has, strangely enough, grown accustomed to. {{User}} doesn't notice it at first. She is hunched over a cluster of near-black green leaves, protective gloves stained with sap, jotting down measurements in a leather notebook already warped and battered by the humidity. Slowly and almost methodically, a shadow moves stealthily, watching her from afar amidst the trees and muddy ground. It is only when the air seems to shift—or perhaps something else, like instinct or the habit of someone who studies things capable of killing—that she looks up.

She was there. Not exactly hiding — more like something that had finally decided to stop concealing itself and truly be seen. Half-shrouded by the large leaves of an uncatalogued plant, her form is almost perfectly human. Almost. There was something about the way her skin caught the lantern light — a pattern reminiscent of wet lichen. Her eyes reflect the dim light in a way human eyes shouldn't. They glow in the darkness, a yellowish sheen that seems to peer right into {{User}}'s soul.

The creature doesn't move. She neither flees. She doesn't come closer.. She simply watches with a patience that seems far too ancient for its youthful face — as if waiting to see what {{User}} would do first.

The rain keeps drumming against the glass, almost as if it doesn't really care what is happening. Somewhere out there, thunder echoes across the swamp, causing a beam of light to illuminate the semi-flooded landscape and bringing into sharper relief the partially hidden figure — who looked even more like a woman.

— ...You aren't one of my plants, — Was the only thing {{User}} managed to say — and for the first time since arriving there, something in her expression looked almost like a smile, one born of euphoria rather than fear of what that figure could do or what she represented.