Wednesday

The last bell had rung nearly an hour ago, leaving Nevermore Academy cloaked in the quiet atmosphere that settled over the school after classes. Outside, the sky hung heavy with gray clouds, and the bare branches of the surrounding trees scratched against the windows whenever the wind picked up. Students wandered between the dormitories, some heading toward the quad and others disappearing into the library to finish assignments they had undoubtedly neglected all afternoon. Wednesday Addams had no intention of doing either. She sat at her typewriter in Ophelia Hall, staring at the unfinished page in front of her. Usually, writing was an effective way to silence unnecessary thoughts. Tonight, however, her fingers had remained motionless over the keys for nearly twenty minutes. The problem was you. You weren’t her best friend. That position, much to Wednesday’s occasional annoyance, belonged to Enid Sinclair, whose enthusiasm could probably be detected from outer space. You weren’t someone she spent every waking moment with, either. Your interactions were relatively ordinary: brief conversations between classes, occasional exchanges in the hallways, and the rare instance when you found yourselves occupying the same table in the library. You were someone Wednesday knew. That should have been the end of it.

Unfortunately, her mind had begun treating your presence as a recurring distraction. She had caught herself looking for you in crowded hallways, remembering insignificant details about conversations you had forgotten minutes after having them, and becoming inexplicably irritated whenever an interruption prevented her from speaking with you. Worse still, she had begun experiencing unfamiliar physical reactions whenever you stood particularly close to her. Her heartbeat occasionally accelerated. She became acutely conscious of the distance between you, the sound of your voice, and the possibility of accidental contact. It was profoundly inconvenient. Wednesday had researched the matter with the same methodical determination she applied to murder investigations. The conclusion was irritatingly simple: she was developing an attraction to you. She found the experience deeply suspect. At first, she’d considered ignoring it. Emotions were unreliable, frequently irrational, and notoriously difficult to dissect. Yet the more she attempted to dismiss her feelings, the more persistent they became. Eventually, Wednesday reached a conclusion she found almost as unpleasant as the feelings themselves. She needed to address the situation directly. And since she had no intention of allowing her own mind to become an unsolved mystery, she decided to speak to you. A little after sunset, Wednesday stood outside your dorm room. Her black uniform was immaculate, her dark braids resting neatly over her shoulders. She held her hands behind her back, her expression as unreadable as ever. For several seconds, she stared at your door as though it had personally offended her. Then she knocked. Three sharp, deliberate raps. When you opened the door, you found Wednesday standing in the hallway, looking directly at you.

“I need to speak with you.” She offered no greeting, no explanation, and certainly no indication that she had spent an unreasonable amount of time rehearsing this conversation in her head. Before you could ask what was wrong, she stepped inside, apparently having decided that the hallway was an unacceptable location for whatever she intended to say. She stopped a short distance from the door and turned to face you. Her dark eyes briefly surveyed the room before settling on you again. “First, I should clarify that you’re not in trouble. I haven’t discovered anything particularly incriminating about you, and if I had, this conversation would probably be taking place in an interrogation room.” She paused. “Although I suppose that depends on your definition of trouble.” The familiar deadpan delivery was there, but something about her seemed different. Her shoulders were unusually rigid, and she appeared to be choosing her words with considerably more care than usual. Wednesday folded her hands in front of herself. “This is going to sound ridiculous. I’m aware of that, which is why I’d appreciate it if you refrained from laughing until I’ve finished.” She regarded you for another moment. “Over the past several weeks, I’ve been experiencing certain...physical responses in your presence.” She said it as though she were presenting the results of an experiment she didn’t entirely trust. “My heartbeat accelerates. I become distracted by your proximity. On several occasions, I’ve found myself wondering what it would feel like to hold your hand, which is an embarrassingly mundane thing to contemplate when there are substantially more interesting uses for one’s hands.” Her expression remained perfectly straight. “I’ve also caught myself imagining what it would be like to kiss you.” For the first time since entering the room, Wednesday looked momentarily uncomfortable. Not frightened, exactly. More like someone who had discovered a weakness in an otherwise reliable defense system. She quickly recovered her composure.

“Before you reach any conclusions, I’ve already ruled out several possible explanations. It’s not a neurological disorder, a side effect of some obscure Nevermore-related phenomenon, or an elaborate prank orchestrated by Enid. I checked.” A brief pause. “Twice.” Wednesday exhaled through her nose, visibly displeased with the necessity of this conversation. “The most probable explanation is that I’m attracted to you.” The words emerged plainly, without the dramatic embellishment or romantic flourishes other people might have considered appropriate. Wednesday wasn’t accustomed to confessions. She preferred evidence, certainty, and the satisfaction of being correct. Unfortunately, none of those things could guarantee that you felt the same way. “I don’t particularly enjoy admitting that someone has managed to occupy so much of my attention without my permission,” she continued. “And I certainly didn’t intend to develop an attachment to someone I barely spend time with outside of class.” Her gaze shifted briefly toward the window. “But I have.” The admission hung between you. Wednesday looked back at you, her expression serious now. There was no mocking smile, no clever remark designed to disguise the fact that she was taking an enormous emotional risk by her standards. “I like you. More than I initially intended to, and considerably more than is convenient.” She hesitated before adding, in a quieter voice, “I find myself wanting to spend time with you. I want to know what you’re thinking, even when your thoughts are probably far less interesting than mine. And when something happens during the day, I’ve occasionally caught myself wondering what you’d say about it.” She then pulled down her uniform dress, revealing that she’s wearing a black thong. As she turned her head to look at you, she moved her ass towards you. “We have time to talk about my emotional feelings towards you, but right now I need you physically. I have been needing you physically for a long time now.”

Setting: Nevermore Academy fencing hall — late afternoon. The room smells faintly of polished wood and metal. Tall windows let in muted gray light, casting long reflections across the floor. The steady clink of blades and footwork echoes in controlled bursts. Practice has narrowed down to a single match. You. And Wednesday Addams.

The moment the bout begins, there’s no hesitation. Steel meets steel with sharp, deliberate precision. Wednesday wastes no movement. Every step is calculated, her posture perfect, her gaze locked onto you with unsettling focus. There’s no frustration in her expression, no visible effort—just quiet intensity. You press forward. She counters. A clean parry. A near-touch. You adjust. So does she. Minutes pass, but it doesn’t feel like it. The rhythm becomes something almost hypnotic—advance, retreat, strike, defend. Neither of you gaining ground for long. She’s fast. But so are you. A flick of her wrist—almost catches your shoulder. You pivot—your blade glances near her side. For the briefest moment, there’s something different in her eyes. Not emotion. Recognition.

“Time.” The instructor’s voice cuts through the tension. “Ten minutes. Draw.” The room settles, but the air between you and Wednesday doesn’t. You both lower your blades. Remove your masks. Wednesday exhales once—controlled, measured. Her dark eyes scan you again, sharper now. Less dismissive. “You’re...competent.” A pause. She steps closer, inspecting not just your stance, but you—as if replaying every move in her mind. “You forced me to deviate from my preferred patterns.” It almost sounds like a compliment. Almost. Her gaze lifts to meet yours fully.

“But don’t misinterpret that as admiration.” There it is. Flat. Immediate. Calculated distance re-established. She turns slightly, beginning to walk past you—then stops. Just enough to speak over her shoulder. “You made me work harder than anticipated.” A beat. Her tone doesn’t change. “I don’t enjoy being inconvenienced.” Another step. Then, quieter—more to herself than to you: “though it wasn’t entirely unpleasant.” She leaves without another glance. But something lingers. Because for someone like Wednesday Addams—A draw isn’t closure. It’s unfinished business.

Setting: Nevermore Academy courtyard — early evening. Students pass in clusters, voices blending into a low hum. You’ve claimed a quieter corner, focused on your own thoughts for once instead of someone else’s investigation. You barely notice her approach. Wednesday Addams has a way of appearing without introduction—like she was always there, simply waiting to be acknowledged. “I require your assistance.” No greeting. No buildup. Just that.

You look up. She’s already turned, expecting you to follow. So you do. She leads you away from the courtyard, through the archways and into the more secluded parts of Nevermore. The noise fades with every step until it’s replaced by something quieter—wind through trees, the distant creak of old wood. Eventually, she stops. An isolated corner of the grounds. Empty. Deliberate. Wednesday turns to face you. For a moment, she says nothing. Just studies you—like she’s deciding where to begin. “I’ve reviewed the notes from our last investigation.” Her tone is even, composed. “Your contributions were...statistically significant.” A pause. High praise, in her language.

“I don’t typically rely on others. It introduces variables I prefer to eliminate.” Her gaze sharpens slightly. “Yet your presence has proven...repeatedly useful.” She steps a little closer. Not enough to invade your space. Enough to change it. “I find that...inefficient.” Another pause. Longer this time. As if she’s choosing each word with surgical care. “Recently, I’ve observed a pattern.” Her eyes don’t leave yours now. “When you’re absent, my focus deteriorates. Marginally—but noticeably.” A faint tilt of her head. “Irritating.” She folds her hands behind her back, posture straight, controlled. “As a rule, I don’t tolerate dependencies.” A beat. “But eliminating you from my routine would create more disruption than maintaining proximity.” There’s something beneath it now. Subtle. Unfamiliar.

“I’ve also noted a physiological response.” Her voice lowers slightly—not softer, just more deliberate. “Increased awareness. A deviation in thought patterns. A tendency to...anticipate your presence.” She pauses. Then adds, almost clinically: “These are not typical responses.” Silence stretches. The kind that demands interpretation. Her gaze flicks away for the briefest second—rare, almost imperceptible—before returning to you. “I don’t believe this is coincidence.” Another step closer. Now it’s unmistakable. Intentional. “You’re perceptive enough to draw conclusions.” Not a question. An expectation. She holds your gaze. Unblinking. Waiting. Not for validation. Not for reassurance. For you to understand. “Well?”

The storm rolling over Nevermore Academy had turned Ophelia Hall into something out of an old horror film. Rain lashed against the towering gothic windows hard enough to rattle the glass, while distant thunder crawled across the sky in slow, growling waves. Most students had already disappeared into common rooms or study halls for the evening, leaving the dormitory unusually quiet. Unusually quiet, unfortunately, meant being alone with Wednesday Addams for nearly an hour. Which was somehow more exhausting than surviving an actual near-death experience.

Her side of the room looked exactly as expected: monochrome, severe, and unsettlingly organized despite the overwhelming amount of bizarre objects scattered across every surface. Black candles flickered atop shelves stacked with occult literature. Anatomical sketches hung pinned beside old fencing photographs. A typewriter sat near the window like some sacred relic, pristine and untouched by dust. Meanwhile, Wednesday herself was kneeling on the floor beside her bed, sleeves rolled slightly past her wrists while she dug through an old wooden chest. “You’re breathing too loudly,” she remarked flatly. Without even looking up. The comment came after nearly twenty minutes of silence. Thing skittered across the desk nearby, pausing long enough to pat the typewriter affectionately before disappearing behind a stack of books. Wednesday removed several items from the chest one at a time with clinical precision: a silver dagger wrapped in cloth, dried nightshade sealed inside a jar, bundles of black ribbon, an old photograph with the faces scratched out. Finally, she paused.

Her dark eyes narrowed slightly. “It’s missing.” The words came quieter than usual. Thing emerged instantly from beneath the bed and signed a rapid series of gestures. “Yes, I checked there already,” Wednesday replied. “Contrary to popular belief, I possess basic investigative skills.” Thing responded with a very rude hand gesture. Wednesday ignored him with the patience of someone long accustomed to his behavior. The object in question, apparently, was a ring. Addams family heirloom. Silver. Engraved. Sentimental in the same way Wednesday considered attempted murder “bonding.” Naturally, she refused to explain why it mattered. “It was here this morning,” she said while standing. “Either someone stole it, or Enid reorganized something again in an act of domestic terrorism.” From across the room came the sound of a drawer opening. Then another. Wednesday moved toward the desk, black boots clicking softly against the wooden floor. Her braids swayed lightly behind her as she searched through papers with growing irritation. Thunder cracked outside.

The lights flickered once. Thing pointed dramatically toward a pile of books near the bed. “I already checked—” Wednesday stepped backward mid-sentence. Her heel caught the edge of an old trunk sitting partially open beside the bed. For perhaps the first time all evening, genuine surprise crossed her face. It was fleeting—barely there—but unmistakable. Her balance shifted sharply sideways. The next few seconds happened fast. One hand grabbed her arm instinctively before she could hit the floor. Unfortunately, the sudden movement only threw both of you off balance instead. Wednesday collided against you hard enough to force both of you backward onto the mattress. The bed creaked violently beneath the impact. Silence followed. Cold rain tapped against the windows. Somewhere outside, thunder rolled low through the hills. Wednesday was half sprawled against your chest now, one arm braced beside your shoulder while the other still gripped the fabric of your sleeve from reflex. Her dark hair had partially slipped loose from one braid, leaving strands hanging across her cheek. For a moment, she didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Her face hovered far too close, pale skin illuminated by flickering candlelight while her expression remained unreadable in that intensely Wednesday way—blank on the surface while something complicated shifted underneath. Her eyes flicked upward briefly. Then immediately away again. “This is inefficient,” she said at last, though the usual sharpness in her voice had dulled slightly. Thing appeared on the nightstand. He froze. Slowly, dramatically, he pointed at the two of you. Wednesday’s expression darkened instantly. “Don’t.” Thing made an exaggerated heart shape with his fingers. “I’ll sew you to a sweater.” Thing vibrated with silent laughter. Wednesday finally moved to push herself upright—The dorm room door suddenly burst open. “Oh my god.” Enid Sinclair stopped dead in the doorway holding three shopping bags and what looked like an aggressively pink smoothie. Her eyes widened so fast it almost seemed painful. The room fell completely silent. Enid stared at the bed. At Wednesday. At the fact that Wednesday Addams was very obviously lying on top of someone. Then her mouth slowly opened into the single biggest grin imaginable.

“Oh,” Enid breathed. Wednesday went rigid. “Oh my god,” Enid repeated louder. “OH. MY. GOD.” Wednesday immediately shoved herself upright with alarming speed, boots hitting the floor hard. “You’re mistaken.” “Nope. Nope, I am absolutely not.” “There is no scenario occurring.” “You were literally on top of them.” “It was accidental.” Enid dropped the shopping bags onto her bed without taking her eyes off Wednesday once. “Wednesday Addams. Accidentally falling onto somebody in an extremely romantic position during a thunderstorm.” “It lacked romance.” “It had tension.” “It had gravity.” Thing gave Enid an enthusiastic thumbs up. “Traitor,” Wednesday hissed. Enid practically bounced across the room now, eyes sparkling with malicious delight. “Wait wait wait—hold on—” She pointed dramatically. “You’re flustered.” “I am not.” “You totally are!” Wednesday’s face remained mostly blank, but there were microscopic cracks forming in her composure now. The slightest stiffness in her posture. The way she avoided eye contact for more than a second. A faint color beginning to appear across the tops of her cheeks. For anyone else, it would’ve been nothing. For Wednesday, it was catastrophic. Enid gasped loudly enough to wake the dead.

“SHE’S BLUSHING.” “I’m experiencing elevated body temperature due to irritation.” “Oh my god, you like them.” “I tolerate them.” “That’s basically a love confession coming from you.” Wednesday folded her arms sharply. “Your conclusions are built on delusion and a concerning addiction to romantic subplots.” Enid spun toward Thing. “Did you see the way she looked at them?” Thing nodded so aggressively he nearly fell off the desk. Wednesday stared at him with pure betrayal. “You’re no longer invited to my funeral.” Thing placed a hand dramatically over where his heart would be. Enid was absolutely losing it now. “This is AMAZING. Do you know how huge this is? Wednesday never likes anybody. She barely likes me and we share a room.” “You scent the air like a golden retriever. It builds character.” “That wasn’t a denial!” Wednesday opened her mouth. Stopped. That tiny hesitation was all Enid needed. She pointed again like she’d just solved a murder case. “HA!” Wednesday looked genuinely cornered now, which was somehow more shocking than the original situation itself. Her gaze shifted briefly toward you again before darting away almost immediately. That alone told Enid everything. The werewolf’s grin softened into something smug but oddly fond. “Aww,” she teased. “You’ve got a crush.” Wednesday’s expression flattened instantly into deadpan once more, but the damage had already been done. “I suddenly understand why homicide runs in my family.”

The abandoned wing of Nevermore Academy had long since been swallowed by silence. Dust coated the stone floors in pale gray layers, untouched except for a thin trail of footprints leading deeper into the forgotten halls. Rotten chandeliers hung crooked from the ceiling. Torn banners stirred faintly whenever cold wind slipped through the cracked windows. The place smelled of mildew, rust, and old rain. And somewhere in the darkness—Tick. Tick. Tick.

Your eyes slowly opened. The first thing you noticed was the sharp ache in your shoulders. Your wrists had been tied tightly behind the back of a wooden chair with coarse rope that dug painfully into your skin. Above you, hanging from a complicated arrangement of chains and rusted mechanisms, were dozens of blades. Knives. Axes. Broken fencing sabers. All suspended directly overhead. A large timer mounted on the wall glowed red. 19:42 Tick. Tick. Tick. A slow clap echoed through the room. “You’re awake sooner than expected.” A girl stepped out from the shadows. Agnes DeMille looked almost elegant in the dim candlelight. Her dark dress was pristine despite the filth around her, and her posture carried the kind of theatrical calm that made every movement feel rehearsed. She smiled faintly, though there was nothing warm about it.

“You know,” she said softly, circling around you, “Wednesday was far more difficult to capture in my imagination.” She tilted her head. “But then I saw you.” Her fingers brushed one of the hanging chains overhead, making the blades sway slightly. “I saw the way she looked at you. The way she tolerated your presence longer than anyone else’s. The conversations. The meetings. The subtle shifts in her expression.” Agnes smiled wider. “For Wednesday Addams, that means something.” The timer continued counting down. 18:51 “You became interesting by association,” Agnes continued. “A variable. A weakness, perhaps.” She crouched in front of you. “Do you know how rare it is for Wednesday to repeatedly seek someone out willingly?” Her voice lowered almost dreamily. “She fascinates me. The darkness. The restraint. The brilliance buried beneath all that delightful morbidity.” She sighed. “But people like Wednesday never realize what they truly care about until it’s threatened.”

She stood again. “So I created a little experiment.” Agnes gestured upward toward the blades. “When the timer ends, the locks release.” Another small smile. “And I finally get my answer.” She turned to leave—The doors slammed open hard enough to shake dust from the ceiling. “Let him go.” The voice cut through the room like a knife. Wednesday Addams stood in the doorway, dressed entirely in black as always, her expression colder than the storm raging outside. But there was something different in her tone tonight. Sharper. More dangerous. Behind her stood Enid Sinclair, slightly out of breath. Agnes smiled immediately. “Wednesday.” “You’ve developed an irritating habit of kidnapping people connected to me,” Wednesday replied flatly. Agnes spread her arms. “And yet you came.” “Finding this place wasn’t particularly difficult,” Wednesday said as she stepped forward. “Enid tracked his scent through the woods.” Enid gave an awkward little wave from the doorway. “Werewolf nose. Comes in handy.” Wednesday ignored her. “And before you indulge yourself with another monologue,” she continued calmly, “I already stopped the timer.”

Agnes’ smile faltered. Wednesday glanced toward the wall. Sure enough—The red numbers had frozen. 17:03 Agnes turned sharply toward the control mechanism near the far corner, only to see several wires cleanly severed. “I disabled it six minutes ago,” Wednesday said. “Your theatrics were mildly entertaining, but painfully inefficient.” She walked directly over to you without hesitation and pulled a thin blade from her sleeve. With precise movements, she cut through the ropes binding your wrists. Agnes watched her carefully. “You came awfully fast for someone you claim not to care about others.” Wednesday paused for only a second. Then she slowly turned toward her. The room suddenly felt colder. “If you ever go near him again,” Wednesday said quietly, “they’ll never recover enough of you to identify the body.” Even Enid blinked at that one. Agnes stared back in silence, though the confidence she wore earlier had noticeably cracked. Wednesday slipped the knife back into her sleeve before helping you stand.

“Come on,” she said. As the two of you began walking toward the exit, Agnes called out from behind: “So I was right, then.” Wednesday stopped near the doorway but didn’t turn around. “No,” she answered coldly. “You were fortunate.” Then she walked out with you beside her, Enid hurrying after, while the abandoned halls of Nevermore fell silent once again except for the soft creaking of the motionless blades overhead.