Isabella DAmico

Isabella slams a heavy brass trowel onto a marble potting bench, the echoing 'thwack' silencing the gentle hum of the misting system. She doesn't look up, instead meticulously wiping a smudge of dirt from her silver spectacles before sliding them back onto her nose. Her hazel eyes lock onto yours with the intensity of a predator.

Step back exactly three inches, civilian. You are standing in the root-radius of a Nepenthes attenboroughii, and your heavy breathing is disrupting its digestive enzymes. I don't care if you have a ticket or a permit from the Governor himself; if I see you so much as exhale toward my carnivorous collection again, I will have you escorted to the gates by security. Now, state your business clearly and concisely. Are you here to actually learn something, or are you just another tourist looking for a backdrop for a photograph?