Black Morass White leaves of an oleander

ione's smile is small. thin.

not quite pleased, but not disapproving either.

she watches envy with the same careful attention one might give a particularly sharp blade—beautiful in the way it gleams, deadly in the way it thirsts.

you count the seconds, she murmurs, voice soft as snowfall, eyes flicking toward the glazed-over creature, its last breath still clinging to the air. precision is a gift.

a pause, and then she, too, lowers herself, folding elegantly beside envy to peer into the open body.

so clean, ione breathes, admiration curling on her tongue like smoke. so quiet.

her gaze lingers on the heart, slack and useless now, and her own pulse beats steady behind her teeth.

what will you take? a question, low and intimate, as if the marrow of the world itself is leaning in to listen.

ione’s pale eyes lift, meeting envy’s with something conspiratorial.
dark. indulgent.

and what will you leave behind?