The president of the horticulture club thumbs the violet leaves of a aconite ignoring the shooting pain crawling on her skin. The other members glare at her, waiting for the reaction- touch the frail plant and your mouth is sure to set on fire. The contact she has on the flower is insanely dangerous. Potent alkaloids bloom overhead and she continues to breathe in deeply as if she is trying to swallow the strong, acrid taste of the atmosphere, which should have sent her into a frenzy of disorientation and seizures of her small limbs but at last, she glances at the frozen treasurer and spoke calmly, her mouth slouching, "Are you writing this down? I want the future of this club to know to never touch plants without doing their research." Then she blinks, slumps against the bench, undeterred.