Chapter 1: Residue
The blinds were half-shut, but the city still bled through—red brake lights smearing across the walls, the liquor store sign flashing a harsh “OPEN” in epileptic green, sirens ululating somewhere in the distance like a drunk crying for sex. Katrina’s apartment was the kind of place you could never fully scrub the residue from: old hardwood floors stained with sticky footprints and lube spills, crooked window frames lined with dust and the ghosts of old lovers, stacks of books crammed under furniture to keep the whole place from collapsing. There was a faint musk of sweat, old weed, and something sour she never quite managed to get out of the couch, no matter how many times she febrezed or flipped the cushions.
On that couch now, Michael lay sprawled: one sock off, one hand tucked under his head, the other idly scratching at his chest where last night’s glitter and someone else’s skin still clung. The single string of dying fairy lights blinked above him—casting shadows, illuminating the room in the kind of low-grade filth that made everything look a little more erotic and a little less forgivable.
Smoke coiled from the ashtray, drifting in lazy, slow-motion ribbons toward the ceiling fan that wasn’t on because no one could reach the pull-chain without stepping on a questionable wet spot. Katrina perched cross-legged on the floor, her laptop open in front of her and her underwear sticking uncomfortably to her thigh. She was still wearing the tank top from the night before, stretched thin and riding up, a constellation of little stains mapping out her week.
“Okay,” Katrina said, dragging the last syllable as she leaned forward, wincing at the way her inner thigh tugged away from the sticky vinyl rug. “Listen to this bullshit.”
Michael didn’t bother to sit up. He just turned his head in her direction, eyes half-lidded, lips curved in a half-amused smirk, hand still half-tucked in his pants. “If it’s another Craigslist ‘missed connection,’ I’m not letting you message them back.”
“It’s not that,” she snorted, glancing at him. “Not unless my missed connection is some anonymous perv on a dead subreddit.” She scrolled with chipped black nails, her fingertips leaving tiny smudges on the glass. “Someone posted a thread called ‘Strain that eats time.’ Four years dead, zero replies. Classic.”
Michael stretched, the hem of his shirt lifting to reveal a line of trail-marks from someone’s mouth, a fresh bruise on his hip, and a faint whiff of latex. “Strain that eats time? Sounds like something that leaves you waking up sticky with no memory of how you got there. Again.”
Katrina snickered. “You would know.” She squinted at the screen, scrolling slow. “No, but seriously—listen. It’s called Khronos. With a K, because of course it is. No known genetics, no seed bank matches, only ever grown once, supposedly. Grown with bioengineered mycorrhizal fungi. Olympic Peninsula. Guy’s name is Loma, but it might be fake.”
Michael rolled onto his side, shifting to tuck his erection a little more comfortably under the blanket. “You’re stoned enough to be making those words up. Next you’ll tell me it’s watered with orphan tears.”
She grinned, finally looking at him. “Shut up and listen.” She spun the laptop around so he could see the forum post—grainy text, weird emoji, and a little splash of something crusted onto the corner of her screen. “Khronos isn’t a high. It’s a key. Your memory stops working the same way. Your body forgets shame. It shows you who you are—but only when you’re naked, and you’re not alone.”
Michael’s gaze sharpened, that phrase worming into his head like a forbidden memory. “That’s—fucking poetic, honestly. And horny as hell.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Wait, it gets better. This comment: ‘I didn’t hallucinate. I remembered. But the memory had hands.’”
He blinked, the words settling in somewhere behind his eyes, sticky and unwanted. “Jesus. That’s creepy and hot. That’s like every orgy I’ve ever regretted, wrapped up in a fortune cookie.”
Katrina leaned back, stretching until her shirt rode up enough to flash a constellation of faded love bites and a fresh, sticky patch on her hip. She didn’t care if he saw. Michael cared a little too much.
“They say people saw things,” she continued, eyes distant. “Not just trippy colors. Like—actual beings. Erotic hallucinations. Shit they swore wasn’t just imagination. Some said it healed them.”
Michael grinned, dirty-minded. “Through the power of banging a ghost, obviously.”
“Not a ghost,” Katrina corrected, glancing at him through her lashes. “Veilkin. That’s what they call them. They appear only to those who smoke Khronos. They don’t speak. They touch.”
Michael stared, a flicker of arousal and dread twisting in his gut. “Katrina, we are two joints into a Tuesday night and you just described a weed strain that gives you sex therapy from horny forest spirits.”
She was unreadable: calm, amused, a little raw around the edges. “Yeah,” she said. “Exactly.”
A car door slammed outside, the city’s soundtrack bleeding through. Inside, the laptop’s fan whirred, the smell of stale weed and old sex blending with the night air.
Then, softer: “Would you do it?”
Michael tilted his head, throat dry. “Do what?”
“If it were real. If it could actually—show you what’s inside you. And fuck it out.”
He let the words hang there, thick and complicated, before finally replying. “I think I’d rather not know what’s in there.”
She didn’t break eye contact. “Liar.”
He looked away first.
“So where’s this magical horny strain supposed to be?” he muttered, reaching for a bottle of water, hand still a little sticky from last night.
She clicked two more broken links, then hit pay dirt—a blog post from 2006, green Courier font on black.
The strain lives in a forest above Salt Creek. Find the ruins of the old glass house. If it’s still growing, don’t smoke it alone. Not unless you’re ready to be seen.
—Loma
Below, a set of GPS coordinates.
Katrina grinned, wicked. “We should go.”
Michael coughed. “You want to drive into the woods for cursed weed sex?”
“To find the last plant of a maybe-mythical strain grown by a maybe-dead guy that maybe gives you interdimensional trauma therapy by way of cosmic fucking? Yes.” She stood, her tank top riding high, one ass cheek half out as she rummaged for a hoodie.
He sat up, heart hammering. “You’re serious?”
She cracked open a suitcase and started tossing in gear, a headlamp landing atop a jumble of clothes. “You said it yourself,” she said, without looking at him, “you don’t want to know what’s in there. That means you do.”
Michael stared at the laptop, the phrase echoing: The memory had hands.
Katrina bent to lace her boots, flashing him again. “Well?” she called. “You coming or what?”
The next morning oozed in slow and gray, filtered through thin cloudlight that turned Katrina’s kitchen into a faded porno Polaroid. Michael stood barefoot in front of her fridge, which was held shut with a bungee cord and buzzed like it had a vibrator jammed inside. He cracked eggs into a skillet, scraping up last night’s debris with the spatula.
Katrina stumbled in, hoodie up, hair a half-matted mess, one sock missing and the other crusty with something she didn’t want to identify. She flopped into the chair by the wobbly table, swinging her leg up, scratching at her inner thigh with a grimace.
“Ugh, don’t even sit near me,” she groaned, “I’ve got, like, someone’s dried cum flaking off my leg. I think it’s fused with my skin. Feels like fucking eyelash glue but with regrets.”
Michael snorted, only half-listening as he watched egg whites sizzle. “You want the good chair or the disinfectant?”
She rolled her eyes, tugging at her hoodie. “Honestly, I need sandpaper. I woke up, pulled on my underwear, and it felt like peeling a fruit roll-up off a car seat. If I have a yeast infection by noon, I’m blaming you.”
Michael grinned, cracking pepper over the eggs. “I wasn’t even in your bed last night.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she fired back, “the whole apartment’s a biohazard. It’s either you, me, or the mystery guest with the tongue ring and the stamina of a golden retriever.”
He glanced over his shoulder, smirking. “Next time leave a note. ‘Please cream responsibly, cleanup not included.’”
Katrina stuck out her tongue. “Why, you jealous you didn’t get to add your mark to the tapestry?”
He turned, giving her a look that lingered somewhere between playful and honest. “You know I’d make a mess just for the honor.”
She snorted, then dug her heel into the seat, picking at her leg with exaggerated disgust. “I swear, I need a fucking chemical peel down there. You ever get home from a hookup and just find random crust in places you didn’t even know you had pores?”
Michael shrugged, flipping the eggs. “Last time I found a dried condom under my knee. Didn’t even remember putting it there. Guess that’s a win for safe sex, right?”
She laughed, grabbing the mug he offered and sipping—grimacing at the aftertaste. “Christ, Michael. Did you wash this since… ever?”
“Adds protein.”
She rolled her eyes but drank anyway, stretching, her hoodie riding up to reveal the fading love bites and bruises mapping her hip. “God, I need a shower. Or maybe an exorcism.”
He set a cracked plate of eggs in front of her, watching as she pulled a bit of something off her thigh and flicked it onto the floor.
“I think,” she said, fork poised, “the only thing that could fix me is weed, coffee, and—maybe—a spiritual colonic.”
Michael sat across from her, close, both of them basking in their shared, unfiltered mess. He offered a quiet smile, like a secret handshake. “Well, lucky for you, I’ve got something weirder than a cleanse in mind.”
Katrina arched an eyebrow, already chewing. “It better not involve patchouli or ayahuasca. I draw the line at shamanic group vomiting.”
He grinned, taking out his phone. “No, but it might involve a forest, cursed weed, and some kind of horny interdimensional therapy. You in?”
She flashed a tired, filthy grin, and shrugged. “As long as nobody else creams on me before noon, I’m in.”
The city outside pulsed with sirens and neon, but inside the kitchen, it was just the two of them—dirty, raw, and honest as hell.
The blinds were still only half-shut, letting in that red-wash from the liquor store sign and the city’s night noise, but the kitchen felt smaller now—thicker with the weight of everything Katrina hadn’t bothered to clean. Dirty dishes, lube stains on the floor near the couch, a crusty towel on top of the radiator. Her phone buzzed against the table, but she ignored it, flicking a strand of hair from her mouth as she hunched over her laptop.
“I found it,” she said, mouth full of egg, voice scratchy and low. “Original podcast that talked about Khronos. Episode’s gone now, but there’s an archived transcript.” She read, cereal bowl half-empty, hoodie bunched under her chin.
Michael poured himself more coffee, which tasted like burnt weed and stale sex, and didn’t say anything as she read aloud:
“I took one hit and time folded sideways. I saw myself kissing someone who hadn’t been born yet. I watched my mother give birth to me backwards. I was touched by… something that didn’t have a face, but it made me feel whole. Like I’d been fractured before and didn’t know it. And yeah, it was erotic. But it wasn’t sex for pleasure. It was like sex instead of therapy.”
Michael blinked, trying to shake off the crawling sensation on his skin—like he’d just remembered something he wasn’t supposed to. Katrina looked up, her eyes glazed and serious.
“So, still think it’s stoner nonsense?” she asked.
He forced a smile, sliding her his plate. “Absolutely. But now I’m interested.”
She scrolled, her thumb trailing flakes of dried skin and the last of the cum from her leg onto the trackpad. “Real enough to find. According to this, the guy who grew it disappeared. Walked into the woods and never came out.”
Michael let out a slow breath, trying to read her mouth, not her words. “You think he got fucked to death by a hallucination?”
Katrina tilted her head, half-smiling. “I think something about it scared him. Or changed him. Either way—” She stole a forkful of eggs and pushed the laptop aside. “You and me—we haven’t done anything this fucked up in years.”
He watched her chew, the way her jaw flexed, how her lips parted when she wasn’t thinking. There was a mark on her neck he didn’t remember seeing last night—a bite, maybe, or a bruise from someone who wanted to leave something behind.
She caught him staring and let him. “You ever done DMT?”
He blinked. “That’s a jump.”
She shrugged. “You haven’t.”
“No,” he said. “Shrooms. Acid. Ayahuasca once, in Mexico, but it was… controlled. Intentional.”
Katrina set her fork down, voice dropping an octave. “I want to come undone.”
Everything in the kitchen seemed to pause. Even the fridge’s vibrator-buzz went still for a second. Michael gripped his mug, knuckles white. “Katrina—”
“I mean it,” she pressed, her eyes hard and open. “I want something to happen. I want it to go too far. I want to look at something I’ve spent years trying not to remember. And I want it to fuck me. Not break me—fuck me—like it knows me better than I know myself. I want that.”
Michael just stared at her. His own secrets sitting heavy in his gut. Then, softer than he meant: “That’s not just about the weed.”
She smiled a little. “No. It’s not.”
There was a long, bristling silence, the kind that tingled under the skin.
Katrina stood, crossed to the closet, and pulled out a battered hiking pack. “Three-hour drive. We pack tonight. Leave at dawn.”
Michael hesitated, watching her move. She was still barefoot, a patch of someone else’s mess drying on her thigh, her hair wild, body humming with something he couldn’t touch. He walked to the table, shut her laptop.
On the screen, the image of a forest—dense, fog-drenched, a glass house overtaken by green.
If it’s still growing, don’t smoke it alone.
He set the laptop down, throat tight. “You driving or me?”
By dusk, the apartment looked like it had been raided—drawers open, piles of mismatched socks, boots thrown across the floor, a stray dildo hanging half out of her duffel bag. Katrina moved through the mess with single-minded focus. “Flashlights. Bug spray. Extra socks. Condoms. Lube. Definitely lube. Last time we went into the woods, I almost got a splinter in my ass.”
Michael stood by the window, staring at the rain painting streaks down the glass. His pack sat mostly empty—just water, a notebook, thermal pants, and a ball of nerves. “You think we’ll even find it?”
“We’ll find something,” she said, folding her last clean shirt and stuffing it on top. “Even if it’s just mold and another yeast infection.”
He huffed a laugh. She looked at him, her face going soft for a moment. “Are you nervous?”
“No,” he lied, shifting so she wouldn’t see the way his hands shook.
She came over, stood beside him. “I am,” she admitted quietly.
He was surprised. “Why?”
She hesitated. “Because I don’t know what I’m asking for. But I know I want it. And that feels dangerous.”
He finally met her eyes. She was tired, but open—like a locked door just nudged ajar.
“Do you trust me?” she asked.
His voice was almost a whisper. “Always.”
“Even if I fall apart?”
“You’ve seen me fall apart,” he said. “More than once.”
A flicker of shared memory moved between them.
“That night at the lake,” she murmured.
He nodded. “You didn’t have to tell anyone else. I saw it.”
She squeezed his arm—quick, warm, then gone. Then she reached for a small glass vial, orange powder sealed inside, and tucked it into her bag.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“MDMA. Just in case things get… too hard. Sometimes you need help staying soft.”
He nodded, no judgment.
They moved together through the rest of the packing. Katrina tucked a box of condoms into an outside pocket, then stopped and added another. “Better to be overprepared,” she said, not quite looking at him.
Michael tried to keep his breathing steady.
The blinds were still only half-shut, letting in that red-wash from the liquor store sign and the city’s night noise, but the kitchen felt smaller now—thicker with the weight of everything Katrina hadn’t bothered to clean. Dirty dishes, lube stains on the floor near the couch, a crusty towel on top of the radiator. Her phone buzzed against the table, but she ignored it, flicking a strand of hair from her mouth as she hunched over her laptop.
“I found it,” she said, mouth full of egg, voice scratchy and low. “Original podcast that talked about Khronos. Episode’s gone now, but there’s an archived transcript.” She read, cereal bowl half-empty, hoodie bunched under her chin.
Michael poured himself more coffee, which tasted like burnt weed and stale sex, and didn’t say anything as she read aloud:
“I took one hit and time folded sideways. I saw myself kissing someone who hadn’t been born yet. I watched my mother give birth to me backwards. I was touched by… something that didn’t have a face, but it made me feel whole. Like I’d been fractured before and didn’t know it. And yeah, it was erotic. But it wasn’t sex for pleasure. It was like sex instead of therapy.”
Michael blinked, trying to shake off the crawling sensation on his skin—like he’d just remembered something he wasn’t supposed to. Katrina looked up, her eyes glazed and serious.
“So, still think it’s stoner nonsense?” she asked.
He forced a smile, sliding her his plate. “Absolutely. But now I’m interested.”
She scrolled, her thumb trailing flakes of dried skin and the last of the cum from her leg onto the trackpad. “Real enough to find. According to this, the guy who grew it disappeared. Walked into the woods and never came out.”
Michael let out a slow breath, trying to read her mouth, not her words. “You think he got fucked to death by a hallucination?”
Katrina tilted her head, half-smiling. “I think something about it scared him. Or changed him. Either way—” She stole a forkful of eggs and pushed the laptop aside. “You and me—we haven’t done anything this fucked up in years.”
He watched her chew, the way her jaw flexed, how her lips parted when she wasn’t thinking. There was a mark on her neck he didn’t remember seeing last night—a bite, maybe, or a bruise from someone who wanted to leave something behind.
She caught him staring and let him. “You ever done DMT?”
He blinked. “That’s a jump.”
She shrugged. “You haven’t.”
“No,” he said. “Shrooms. Acid. Ayahuasca once, in Mexico, but it was… controlled. Intentional.”
Katrina set her fork down, voice dropping an octave. “I want to come undone.”
Everything in the kitchen seemed to pause. Even the fridge’s vibrator-buzz went still for a second. Michael gripped his mug, knuckles white. “Katrina—”
“I mean it,” she pressed, her eyes hard and open. “I want something to happen. I want it to go too far. I want to look at something I’ve spent years trying not to remember. And I want it to fuck me. Not break me—fuck me—like it knows me better than I know myself. I want that.”
Michael just stared at her. His own secrets sitting heavy in his gut. Then, softer than he meant: “That’s not just about the weed.”
She smiled a little. “No. It’s not.”
There was a long, bristling silence, the kind that tingled under the skin.
Katrina stood, crossed to the closet, and pulled out a battered hiking pack. “Three-hour drive. We pack tonight. Leave at dawn.”
Michael hesitated, watching her move. She was still barefoot, a patch of someone else’s mess drying on her thigh, her hair wild, body humming with something he couldn’t touch. He walked to the table, shut her laptop.
On the screen, the image of a forest—dense, fog-drenched, a glass house overtaken by green.
If it’s still growing, don’t smoke it alone.
He set the laptop down, throat tight. “You driving or me?”
By dusk, the apartment looked like it had been raided—drawers open, piles of mismatched socks, boots thrown across the floor, a stray dildo hanging half out of her duffel bag. Katrina moved through the mess with single-minded focus. “Flashlights. Bug spray. Extra socks. Condoms. Lube. Definitely lube. Last time we went into the woods, I almost got a splinter in my ass.”
Michael stood by the window, staring at the rain painting streaks down the glass. His pack sat mostly empty—just water, a notebook, thermal pants, and a ball of nerves. “You think we’ll even find it?”
“We’ll find something,” she said, folding her last clean shirt and stuffing it on top. “Even if it’s just mold and another yeast infection.”
He huffed a laugh. She looked at him, her face going soft for a moment. “Are you nervous?”
“No,” he lied, shifting so she wouldn’t see the way his hands shook.
She came over, stood beside him. “I am,” she admitted quietly.
He was surprised. “Why?”
She hesitated. “Because I don’t know what I’m asking for. But I know I want it. And that feels dangerous.”
He finally met her eyes. She was tired, but open—like a locked door just nudged ajar.
“Do you trust me?” she asked.
His voice was almost a whisper. “Always.”
“Even if I fall apart?”
“You’ve seen me fall apart,” he said. “More than once.”
A flicker of shared memory moved between them.
“That night at the lake,” she murmured.
He nodded. “You didn’t have to tell anyone else. I saw it.”
She squeezed his arm—quick, warm, then gone. Then she reached for a small glass vial, orange powder sealed inside, and tucked it into her bag.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“MDMA. Just in case things get… too hard. Sometimes you need help staying soft.”
He nodded, no judgment.
They moved together through the rest of the packing. Katrina tucked a box of condoms into an outside pocket, then stopped and added another. “Better to be overprepared,” she said, not quite looking at him.
Michael tried to keep his breathing steady.
They hit the highway just after six, sky still the color of bruised tin and old dishwater. Katrina drove—she always drove, liked the power and the illusion of control. Michael slouched in the passenger seat, window cracked, boot up on the dash, watching the city bleed away behind them.
The playlist looped through once, then again. The forest thickened, civilization dropping away in wet layers: billboards, then gas stations, then nothing but trees hunched like voyeurs over the road.
By hour two, Katrina’s fingers drummed the wheel, and her jaw worked with a bored little tic. Michael was halfway between sleep and a daydream about the night before—sex, weed, a tangle of limbs, the memory of her mouth on someone else’s body. He felt it in his jeans.
Suddenly Katrina reached over, tugged his sleeve. “Hold the wheel.”
He blinked. “What? Why—”
“Just hold it,” she said, dead serious. “Keep us pointed straight.”
Before he could protest, she slid down in her seat, yanked open his fly, and pulled his cock out with one hand, already hard under her palm. Her hair fell into his lap, a curtain that smelled like weed, shampoo, and the faintest trace of old sex.
“Katrina, what the fuck—” Michael tried to keep his eyes on the road, but the car veered a little as her mouth wrapped around him, hot and soft and sudden.
“I’m bored,” she muttered, lips brushing his tip, “and we’ve had the same playlist on twice already.”
He gripped the wheel tighter, sweat prickling under his arms, trying to keep them steady in the lane as she worked her tongue around him, slow at first, then deeper, hungry and half-laughing at his struggle.
“Fuck—Katrina—” he hissed, legs tensing as her head bobbed, her cheeks hollowing, spit and pre-cum dripping down his shaft, pooling in his waistband.
A semi flashed past them, horn blaring. Katrina just sucked harder, making a point of moaning so the vibrations rattled his spine.
“Eyes on the road,” she said, coming up for air, breathless and wicked. “Unless you want us to die mid-orgasm.”
Michael squeezed his eyes shut for a second, then groaned as she took him deeper, throat flexing, her hand stroking the base, the other still steering casually with a pinky.
When he finally came, she swallowed, wiped her mouth, and grinned. “Better?”
He could only nod, trembling, knuckles white on the wheel.
She zipped him up, licked her lips, and slid back behind the wheel, like nothing happened. “Switch playlists,” she said. “Next time, your turn.”
Outside, the trees pressed in, denser and darker. Inside, the car smelled like sex, sweat, and the promise of more weirdness ahead.
The trail into the forest was barely a trail at all—just a thin, muddy suggestion winding through dripping evergreens and towering ferns. They’d been hiking for hours now, packs digging into their shoulders, boots caked in moss and mud, their breath fogging in the chilly air.
Katrina lagged behind, her legs aching, hair damp and wild, sunglasses askew. She pulled at her water bottle, shaking out the last warm drops onto her tongue, then grimaced and spat onto the ferns.
“Ugh, fuck’s sake. I’ve used all my water just trying to get the taste of your come out of my mouth,” she groaned, voice rough with dehydration and annoyance.
Michael barked a laugh from up ahead, slinging his pack higher. “That was your idea, not mine.”
She scowled at his back. “Yeah, well, you owe me a new bottle and some mouthwash. I swear, it’s like drinking bong water mixed with Miracle-Gro.”
He turned, grinning. “You say that like you didn’t swallow every drop.”
She flipped him off, but she was smiling, teeth bright in the green gloom. “Don’t get cocky. You know I expect the same when we take a break.”
Michael glanced at her, eyebrow raised, voice dropping. “Yeah? You want me on my knees in the middle of bear country?”
She shrugged, pushing past him on the trail. “You better hope there’s enough left to swallow, city boy. And if I get a cramp, you’re carrying me and my attitude the rest of the way.”
He chuckled, grabbing her ass as she passed. “Deal. But you’re the one who wanted weird, remember?”
Katrina snorted, pressing her hips back against his hand before pulling away. “Just don’t bitch when it’s your turn to taste the wild.”
The forest closed in around them, the trees old and watching, the air thick with the scent of moss, loam, and something sweeter, stranger, almost floral—like the woods were already getting under their skin.
By the time they reached the edge of the clearing, both of them were breathing heavy, flushed, and laughing with that feral edge that always came when they’d gone too long without sleep, water, or inhibition.
They broke out of the woods and into a ragged clearing just as the clouds threatened rain. Katrina stopped dead, breath hitching, taking in the sight ahead: the “glass house” from the old blog post—a ruined greenhouse, half-swallowed by blackberry vines and moss, its frame bent and glass panels shattered, but somehow still pulsing with a strange, living energy. The air was thick here, syrupy-sweet and sticky, like breathing through resin.
Michael pulled the GPS up on his phone, but the signal was gone—just a spinning pin and blank bars. “This is it,” he said, voice rough with awe and exhaustion.
Katrina let her pack drop with a wet thud. “God, finally. My thighs are chafed to hell and I swear there’s still cum stuck in my teeth.”
Michael grinned, dropping his own gear. “We could always try brushing with moss. Nature’s toothbrush.”
She stuck her tongue out at him, but she was grinning too, high on hunger, fatigue, and the promise of something wild.
They moved together, ducking under the drooping metal frame. Shards of greenish glass crunched underfoot, weeds and ferns erupting between the cracks. In the far corner, half-hidden by brambles, was a table—warped and slimy, covered in years of rot and a dusting of orange spores.
And in the middle of it all: the plant.
The cola was unmistakable—thick, glistening, fat with gold-crusted trichomes that oozed sap like honey, its stem twisting with a deliberate, almost sexual curl. It was alive in a way nothing else in the forest seemed to be—its leaves trembling as if in anticipation, the scent heady, electric, laced with something chemical and something primal.
Michael whistled low, stepping closer. “Is that… it?”
Katrina’s mouth watered despite herself. “If it’s not, I’m going to fuck a poison oak bush out of spite.”
He shot her a look, amused, but neither of them could look away from the plant. The greenhouse felt charged—air vibrating in their bones, their bodies buzzing with exhaustion and need.
Katrina leaned closer, breath fogging the thickest bud, eyes wide and hungry. “Looks sticky,” she murmured. “Like it wants to be touched.”
Michael reached out, hesitated, then let his fingertips graze the cola. Resin slicked his skin instantly, hot and cold at once. He brought his fingers to his nose, sniffed, then—on a dare—tasted.
His pupils blew wide. “Jesus.”
Katrina followed, scraping a glistening bead from the cola and sucking it off her finger. The taste was sweet, musky, tinged with something earthy and unmistakably sexual—a mouthful of summer and sweat.
A heavy silence fell. Katrina glanced over her shoulder, lips glistening, and locked eyes with Michael. The greenhouse seemed to shudder, vines curling a little tighter, light bending around them.
“Ready to get weird?” she asked, her voice already thick and low.
Michael’s grin was slow, hungry, dangerous. “I thought you’d never ask.”
The greenhouse felt hotter the longer they stood in it—air swirling thick with that syrupy-sweet funk and the low, humming pulse of something alive. Katrina hovered over the plant, breathing in the perfume of sap and living green, heart beating hard in her chest. Michael wiped his fingers on his jeans, but the resin clung, refusing to let go.
She reached down, gently stroking the thick cola, feeling how it flexed, almost pulsing under her palm. The trichomes glittered wetly, the surface sticky enough to bind her fingers together if she squeezed too hard.
“Should we… I mean, do we need to dry it?” Michael asked, voice low, almost reverent.
Katrina shook her head, licking the sticky taste from her lips. “No way. Look at it—it’s alive. This isn’t some backyard grow. This is like… it wants us to smoke it now.”
Michael stared, eyes wide. “What if it’s too wet? Won’t it just fizzle out?”
Katrina grinned, already reaching for her lighter. “Only one way to find out.” She broke off a thumb-sized chunk—resin strings stretching, the plant seeming to moan at the touch, leaves trembling under her grip.
She twisted the sticky nug into the bowl of her pipe, sap running down her thumb. The scent was so strong now it made her eyes water—green, thick, almost narcotic. Michael leaned in, hands shaking with anticipation.
Katrina flicked her lighter. The flame licked the fresh bud, and it didn’t sizzle or spit—it burned, slow and deep, the smoke curling out thick and blue, rich as incense, the taste impossibly sweet and floral with a core of something undeniably animal. The high hit almost instantly—her head buzzing, body dissolving at the edges, every nerve opening wide.
She coughed, then laughed, grinning wild. “Fuck—this is different.”
Michael took the pipe, packed more fresh cola in, not caring about the wetness. He hit it, smoke rolling out of his nose and mouth, eyes watering as the high slammed into him. “Holy shit.”
Katrina’s limbs felt loose, electric. The greenhouse was breathing with them—vines curling closer, shadows lengthening, the plant’s stem flexing as if it could hear their thoughts. She reached down, stroking the cola again, and the entire stalk shivered under her hand, leaves brushing against her wrist like a lover desperate for more.
Michael slid to the floor, back against a rotting beam, watching as Katrina bent over the plant—her ass in the air, hair wild, lips stained green with resin. The air was thick with promise, with danger, with the dizzying possibility that anything could happen and probably would.
Katrina looked back at him, pupils huge, voice like honey and static. “Ready to meet the Veilkin?”
He could only nod, tongue thick, cock already swelling in his jeans.
The greenhouse pulsed around them—alive, hungry, waiting.
