Outwardly, it is a vessel of perfect restraint—sleek, obsidian-black, its surface swallowing the light with the solemnity of a closed grimoire. But lift the lid… ah. The interior screams in neon green, a shock of venomous brilliance, like the last gasp of a dying star or the glow of a witch’s private laughter.
What belongs inside? Ground mandrake root, obviously. Or your teeth. Or the first lie you ever told, folded up small.
