Chapter Eight: Fates Entwined

There are moments in life where you find yourself standing at the edge of a cliff, staring into the abyss, only to discover that the abyss is staring back—and it's laughing. It is in such moments that one may be tempted to leap, not in fear, but simply to end the dreadful noise.

This, I believe, perfectly encapsulates the feeling one gets when walking through the halls of any high school.

The scene I entered that afternoon was, unfortunately, one I had predicted many times in my head. There, crammed into a locker not meant for living things—though that depends on your definition of "living"—was my brother, Pugsley. His eyes, wide and tear-filled, reminded me of a fish gasping for air, utterly out of place, hopelessly desperate, and entirely unaware that such weakness is offensive to the natural order.

He whimpered, ropes tight around his arms and legs, and though I love my brother in the way one might love a particularly dull but loyal pet, I felt no sympathy.

"Emotion equals weakness," I reminded him coolly, as one might remind a student not to touch a hot stove for the third time. "Pull yourself together."

Pugsley could only whimper more. His face was streaked with tears, a most inconvenient substance that serves little purpose other than to muddy one's resolve.

Naturally, I felt compelled to act—not out of compassion, mind you, but out of sheer irritation. A brother in a locker reflects poorly on me, and I could not abide such an insult.

"I want names," I said.

"I... I don't know, Wednesday. It happened so fast." His voice cracked, and I nearly sighed.

His uselessness, while infuriating, was no surprise. It was clear that these bullies had no fear of me. Not yet. Still, as my hands brushed the ropes binding him, something far more curious occurred. A sharp, electric sensation ran up my spine, as though I had been jolted awake from a particularly dull dream. My vision swam, twisted, and reformed into something far worse.

There they were—his tormentors—chest-puffed, cruel-eyed, and utterly void of intelligence. I watched them shove my brother into the locker with the kind of glee only the weak-minded seem capable of.

The vision ended as abruptly as it had begun, and I was back in front of Pugsley, whose face was still creased with terror. There was something pathetic about it, really, but also instructive. He lacked the backbone to handle this himself, which meant I would have to do it for him.

"Leave this to me," I told him.

"Wednesday, what are you going to do?"

I met his wide-eyed look with the kind of calm you only see in the truly dangerous, for I knew exactly what I was going to do.

"What I do best."

//=//

There are many forms of justice in this world, but none so swift or satisfying as the natural kind. A crocodile in a river. A spider in a web. Or, as I preferred, piranhas in a swimming pool.

If you have never heard the delightful sound of a school whistle combined with the blood-curdling scream of an arrogant jock, you have not truly lived. I had made quick work of Dalton, who learned too late that it's better not to swim in the deep end of the pool when there are hungry creatures awaiting a snack. His arrogance, like his appendage, was swiftly devoured. The other boys—the cowards—watched in horror as chaos descended into the chlorinated water.

As I watched from the pool's edge, Édith Piaf's Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien played perfectly in my mind. No, I regret nothing.

I would have allowed myself the smallest smile if it weren't so terribly cliché.

But naturally, the world is populated by people who are, for lack of a better word, short-sighted. The school administration, for example, did not appreciate my efforts to even the playing field, so to speak. They bandied about words like "expulsion" and "psychological evaluation," as if they had the power to tame me with labels.

And so, I found myself sitting in the back of my family's hearse, staring out the window at the dull blur of trees as we made our way to my next prison: Nevermore Academy. My mother and father, ever the optimists, seemed to believe this new school for "outcasts" would be a perfect fit for me.

My father, Gomez Addams, a man so infatuated with my mother that he'd practically dissolve into a puddle whenever she looked his way, was practically giddy. "It's a magical place," he gushed. "It's where I met your mother."

I felt my stomach turn. Not in a good way.

They had, of course, filled the ride with their usual sentimental drivel. My mother, Morticia, assured me that Nevermore would be different. "Finally, you will be among peers who understand you," she purred. The false optimism was as cloying as the scent of my father's cologne.

I could not stop myself from speaking. "You are making me nauseous," I said flatly. "Not in a good way."

Their eyes met in that insufferable way of theirs, as if they alone held the secret to happiness and were keeping it just out of my reach.

"Darling," my mother said, "We aren't the ones who got you expelled."

"I wouldn't call it a failure," I replied. "I consider it a missed opportunity to finish the job."

The silence that followed was thick, yet familiar. They couldn't argue with the truth.

//=//

Nevermore Academy stood on a hill, a Gothic monstrosity of stone, iron, and dread. It loomed over the landscape like a vulture, waiting patiently for its next meal. The students, I assumed, would be no different.

"We're here," my father said, his eyes twinkling as if this pile of bricks and misery was some enchanted castle.

My mother, ever the romantic, placed a delicate hand on mine. "You'll fit in beautifully, my little viper," she assured me.

The words stung more than they soothed. Nevermore was their legacy, not mine. It was the school where they had met, fallen in love, and, I imagined, danced under the moonlight like fools. I had no intention of repeating their mistakes. Love, after all, is a temporary condition—a disease, if you will—that warps the mind and dulls the senses.

I stepped out of the hearse and into the shadow of the school, my mind already calculating the quickest route to escape.

That, dear reader, was the plan. Escape.

But as I would soon learn, plans have a nasty habit of unraveling at the most inconvenient times.

Upon entering the hallowed halls of Nevermore Academy, I was immediately confronted by what I can only describe as an affront to my very existence: a blur of pastel colors, and worse, enthusiasm. These things tend to come together in life, the way oil and vinegar do—not to enhance each other but to exist in a kind of swirling, nauseating opposition. This blur, I soon learned, had a name: Enid Sinclair.

Enid, my new roommate, introduced herself with a smile so blinding that I had to repress the urge to reach for my sunglasses. She seemed to be constructed entirely out of energy and color, neither of which I find particularly useful. If anything, they are weaknesses best avoided.

"Howdy, roomie!" she exclaimed, her voice an assault on my eardrums. "Are you feeling okay? You look a little pale."

I stared at her, unblinking, and allowed a single, heavy pause to hang in the air between us. "I always look half-dead," I replied. "It's a condition I cherish."

She laughed, though I hadn't intended it as a joke.

Our room, I noticed, was split perfectly down the middle, like a poorly designed crime scene. On her side, an explosion of rainbows, soft toys, and things I could only describe as offensive to the senses. On my side, thankfully, there was none of that. The space reflected me perfectly: monochrome, devoid of excess, and suitably cold. Still, the mere proximity to her abominable half was unsettling.

"I'm allergic to color," I informed her, hoping to set clear boundaries early on.

"What happens to you?" she asked, still smiling, unaware that she was speaking to a girl who could end her life with nothing more than a well-placed stare.

"I break out in hives," I said, deadpan. "Then my flesh peels off, bone by bone."

Her smile faltered for only a fraction of a second before it returned. "Wow," she said with an air of genuine curiosity, "you're funny."

I'm not. But humor, like fear, is subjective. I allowed the matter to drop. Enid continued to prattle on about the "social scene" at Nevermore, a concept I found as appealing as death by paper cuts. She explained how the students divided themselves into cliques—Fangs, Furs, Scales, and Stoners, each name more ridiculous than the last.

She gestured towards a group of vampires lounging in the courtyard. "Those are the Fangs. Some of them have literally been here for decades."

"Fascinating," I said, though I found the existence of vampires about as interesting as watching bread rise.

"The Furs are over there," she continued, pointing to a group of werewolves. "Like me!"

I blinked. Her enthusiasm for her own condition was deeply unsettling. I considered the irony that someone so excitable and saccharine could ever hope to "wolf out."

Enid, however, was not finished. "And those," she said, nodding toward a group of particularly sleek students, "are the Scales—sirens."

One of them, a girl named Bianca, was apparently the reigning queen of Nevermore. "Her crown's been slipping lately," Enid whispered conspiratorially. "But she's still kind of a big deal."

I glanced at Bianca, noting her arrogance from a distance. Her gaze swept across the courtyard like a predator's, as though daring anyone to challenge her dominance. Interesting, I thought. But not worth my time.

"Then there's the Stoners," Enid said, pointing to a group of students whose eyes were glazed over, apparently from some recreational form of indulgence that I had neither the patience nor desire to understand. "They're Gorgons. You know, like Medusa?"

I nodded, though I wasn't particularly interested. If I was going to survive Nevermore, it wasn't going to be by learning about adolescent cliques. It would be by maintaining a strategic distance from such nonsense.

My plan to remain on the periphery was quickly tested when Bianca made her entrance at the fencing match. Nevermore had a way of turning even mundane activities into competitions for dominance. As I watched her strike down opponent after opponent with clinical precision, I couldn't help but feel a pang of—what was it? Boredom? No, something closer to disdain.

"Anyone else want to challenge me?" she called, her eyes sweeping across the crowd like a queen surveying her subjects. Her arrogance was as palpable as it was irritating.

Before I could think better of it, my feet were moving. I stepped forward.

Her eyes narrowed in on me. "You must be the psychopath they let in mid-term," she said, her voice dripping with condescension.

I gave her a thin smile. "And you must be the self-appointed Queen Bee. Interesting thing about bees… pull out their stingers and they die."

A few onlookers gasped. Bianca, however, smiled coldly. She accepted my challenge with a nod, and soon we were squaring off on the fencing mat, swords drawn.

I hadn't fenced in a few months, but like any skill worth having, it came back to me with ease. Our blades clashed, the sound of steel on steel reverberating through the air. Her attacks were quick, calculated, but I met each one with equal precision. We were evenly matched, but I could sense her frustration growing.

It was in the second round that she decided to up the stakes. "No masks," she said, pulling hers off and tossing it aside. "Winner draws first blood."

I didn't hesitate. I removed my mask as well.

The final point was swift. I lunged forward, my rapier slicing cleanly across her cheek. A thin line of crimson appeared, and for the first time, I saw her composure crack.

"Your face finally got the splash of color it so desperately needed," I said, my voice dripping with venom.

Her hand shot to her cheek, her eyes burning with fury, but she said nothing. I had won the duel, and more importantly, I had planted the seed of doubt in her mind.

//=//

There are few places in life more unsettling than the office of a therapist. It is a room where emotions, long repressed, are expected to be dragged into the open like carcasses on display, where strangers with degrees feel entitled to ask deeply invasive questions under the pretense of "healing."

For me, the office of Dr. Valerie Kinbott was no exception. Her walls were painted in a shade that I'm sure was meant to be soothing, but in reality, resembled the skin of someone suffering from a light case of jaundice. The furniture was soft, beige, and seemed to swallow anyone who sat in it. The faint scent of lavender hung in the air, a desperate attempt to convince me that I was somewhere safe.

I, of course, knew better.

Sitting across from me was Dr. Kinbott, a woman whose very presence seemed designed to extract secrets. Her smile was warm, her eyes were kind, and her voice had the cadence of someone who had mastered the art of talking to children without ever understanding them.

"Wednesday," she said, the syllables of my name carefully drawn out, as if I were a skittish animal that might bolt at any moment. "I'm glad you're here."

I raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Her gladness was as meaningless to me as the motivational posters hanging on the wall behind her, bearing phrases like "You are enough!" and "Embrace your inner light!" I had no inner light to embrace, and even if I did, I would have smothered it years ago.

"Why don't you tell me a little about yourself?" she said, her voice dripping with false warmth. "How are you adjusting to Nevermore?"

The obvious answer would have been to inform her that I had no intention of adjusting to this school, or any other, for that matter. But I had learned long ago that the quickest way to end such conversations was to play along—just enough to avoid further questioning, but never enough to let them in.

"It's a waste of time," I said, my voice flat. "This school, this session, all of it."

Dr. Kinbott didn't flinch. If anything, her smile grew slightly wider, as if she had been expecting such a response. "I see," she said, nodding thoughtfully. "But that's interesting, isn't it? Why do you think it feels that way?"

"I don't think it feels that way. I know it feels that way," I replied. "This is a place for outcasts, freaks, and monsters. They haven't built a school that can contain me, and they certainly haven't built one that will change me."

She hummed softly, a sound meant to convey understanding, but which instead made me want to claw at my own ears. "You know, Wednesday," she said after a moment, "therapy is not about changing who you are. It's about understanding yourself better, and finding new ways to deal with the challenges life throws your way."

I leaned back in my chair, unimpressed. "I don't need help dealing with life's challenges," I said. "I find that piranhas and a well-placed trapdoor work just fine."

Her eyes flickered—just for a moment. Most likely recalling the incident that had led me here, to this godforsaken office, in the first place. I could tell she was about to bring it up, the infamous "incident," and I braced myself for the inevitable question.

"So," she said, crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap, "let's talk about what happened at your previous school. Why do you think you felt the need to—"

"Release the piranhas?" I interrupted, cutting her off before she could finish. "Because they were the appropriate tool for the job."

"The job of…?" she prompted.

"Defending my brother," I said, with a bored sigh. "He was being bullied. They deserved what they got."

Dr. Kinbott nodded again, the way one does when trying to appear thoughtful while internally struggling to maintain their composure. "And you didn't feel any remorse for what happened?"

"No," I said simply. "Remorse is a wasted emotion."

She blinked. "I see," she said, though it was clear she didn't. "And how do you think your brother felt about what happened?"

I stared at her. "Grateful," I replied. "Though I doubt he would admit it. He has an unfortunate tendency to cry instead of express gratitude."

"I see," she said again. "It sounds like you care a lot about your brother."

I shrugged, disinterested. "Pugsley is weak," I said. "But he's my responsibility. No one else gets to torture him but me."

Dr. Kinbott nodded, scribbling something in her notebook. "And what about your parents?" she asked, changing tactics. "How do they feel about what happened?"

"They're not concerned about me," I replied coolly. "They just want to maintain appearances. This whole therapy session is their way of ensuring that I don't cause any more 'scandals.'"

"You believe that?" Dr. Kinbott asked.

"I know that," I corrected her. "I'm not interested in being a puppet for their outdated traditions."

She set her notebook down, her expression softening in a way that made my skin crawl. "Wednesday, this is a safe space," she said, leaning forward slightly. "You can talk to me about anything. Whatever you're feeling, whatever you're going through, you don't have to hide it."

I met her gaze, unblinking. "I'm not hiding anything," I said. "And I don't feel anything."

Her smile faltered, just for a moment, before returning in full force. "That's okay," she said softly. "We can work on that."

I stood up, effectively ending the session. "I don't need to work on anything," I said, heading for the door. "But you should."

And with that, I walked out, leaving Dr. Kinbott and her lavender-scented office behind. I had no intention of returning, court orders be damned.

//=//

Escaping Nevermore required cunning, strategy, and, unfortunately, a ride out of town. Since I had neither the time nor the inclination to walk all the way to civilization, I found myself standing in The Weathervane, the local coffee shop, surveying my options. It was there that I first encountered Tyler Galpin, a boy who, for reasons I could not yet comprehend, seemed to lack the usual desire to avoid me.

I ordered a quad over ice, an emergency dose of caffeine that was necessary if I was going to endure the rest of this miserable day. "That's four shots of espresso," I said, watching Tyler fumble with the coffee machine as though it were an ancient artifact.

He nodded. "Yeah, I know what a quad is," he said, but there was a slight twitch in his eye that suggested the machine did not share his knowledge. "Unfortunately, this thing is having a meltdown, so all we've got is drip."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Drip is for people who hate themselves," I informed him, "and know their lives have no purpose."

Tyler's lips twitched into what I assumed was meant to be a smile. "Not a fan of drip coffee, huh?"

"No," I said. "I'm not a fan of mediocrity."

He raised an eyebrow. "You could just wait a few minutes while I try to fix it."

"I could," I agreed. "Or I could fix it myself." I glanced at the machine, then back at him. "All I need is a tri-wing screwdriver and a four-millimeter Allen wrench."

Tyler blinked. "Wait—you know how to fix espresso machines?"

"Of course," I replied. "It's the same basic mechanics as a steam-powered guillotine. I built one when I was ten."

He stared at me, processing that information in a way that only someone accustomed to the safety of suburban life could. After a moment, he stepped aside and gestured to the machine. "Be my guest."

I leaned over the machine, diagnosing the issue with a glance. "Valve's loose," I muttered. "Typical."

Tyler crossed his arms, watching me with a mix of curiosity and amusement. "You're the first Nevermore kid I've met who actually gets their hands dirty."

I tightened the valve and gave the machine a quick test. Steam hissed out, and then, with a satisfying gurgle, it sprang back to life.

"Done," I said, stepping back.

Tyler looked genuinely impressed, which only furthered my suspicion that he was not particularly bright. "Wow," he said. "That was fast."

I shrugged. "I don't waste time."

He looked at me for a moment, then gestured to the counter. "How about this—I'll get your coffee, and you tell me what the hell a Nevermore student is doing in town."

I met his gaze evenly. "That's on a need-to-know basis."

Tyler nodded. "And you're not telling me, huh?"

"No," I said.

He smirked. "Okay," he said, handing me my coffee."But if you ever feel like sharing your evil plans, let me know."

"I don't share anything. Least of all my plans." I took the cup from him, cold condensation already dripping down its side, and prepared to leave. But something tugged at the back of my mind—a single fact I hadn't yet dealt with: my need for a ride. I turned back toward him.

"Tyler."

He looked at me, his expression still carrying the faintest hint of amusement. "Yeah?"

"I require a favor," I said, though the word "favor" left a bitter taste in my mouth.

"I'm listening," he said, leaning against the counter.

"My train leaves in exactly one hour. You're going to drive me to the station."

He raised an eyebrow, looking intrigued but far from ready to acquiesce. "I'm still on the clock for another hour."

"Not my concern," I replied. "And in exchange, I'll pay you… twenty dollars."

Tyler laughed softly, a sound that grated against my nerves. "You think you can just buy me off? I'm not that easy. But," he added, with a glint in his eye, "I'm curious. Why the sudden need to escape? Nevermore not living up to expectations?"

I didn't answer. Explaining myself to anyone, let alone a boy I barely knew, was something I refused to indulge in. "Are you helping me or not?" I asked, my voice a blade cutting through his meandering curiosity.

He tapped his fingers on the counter, pretending to consider it. "Sure, Wednesday," he said at last. "I'll give you a ride. But I'm doing it for free."

I narrowed my eyes. No one offers anything for free without expecting something in return. "Why?"

"Because," he said, "I'd love to get out of this town too, even if it's just for a few minutes."

I studied him for a long moment, searching for the catch. There always is one, buried beneath the surface of even the simplest of favors. But for now, I had no choice. I gave a short nod, the closest thing I'd offer to a thank-you, and turned to leave.

"Meet me behind the parking lot when the fireworks start," I said over my shoulder. "And don't be late."

//=//

The night air was thick with the smell of burning sugar and damp leaves, as the so-called Harvest Festival unfolded in the town of Jericho. If there is anything more tedious than a school event, it is a town event, where people gather in the name of some long-forgotten tradition, pretending that frivolous entertainment can distract from the inevitable decay of life.

It was at this nauseating spectacle of mediocrity that I found myself, watching the locals mill about, their faces lit by the flickering glow of cheap carnival lights. Children shrieked with joy as they ran past, clutching oversized stuffed animals and cotton candy, their smiles wide and oblivious to the looming dangers of the world. It was, in short, a place designed to erode the soul.

Enid bounded beside me, her face alight with excitement, as though this festival held some great significance beyond the piles of hay and brightly painted pumpkins. She had, of course, tried to convince me to enjoy it, as though joy were something one could summon on command.

"So, what do you think of the Harvest Festival so far?" she asked, practically bouncing on her toes.

"I think it's a waste of resources and a testament to humanity's inability to cope with the inevitability of death," I replied, scanning the crowd for any sign of Tyler. "But if you enjoy it, by all means, indulge."

Enid laughed, but there was an edge of nervousness in her voice. She hadn't quite grasped the extent of my indifference, and I doubted she ever would. She was too full of life, too concerned with trivial things like making friends and fitting in. I, on the other hand, had no such inclinations.

As the sky darkened, the first crack of fireworks echoed above, a series of brightly colored sparks exploding into the air. A convenient distraction, I thought, as I slipped away from Enid's chatter and made my way toward the parking lot where Tyler would be waiting.

I navigated the crowds with ease, moving like a shadow through the throngs of people who were too absorbed in their own petty joys to notice my departure. The noise of the festival faded behind me as I neared the outskirts of town, where the lights were dimmer and the night stretched on, cold and endless.

//=//

I should have expected it—if there is one constant in life, it's that something will always go wrong when you least desire it. My escape plan was simple, flawless even. But the universe, it seemed, had other ideas.

It was Rowan who appeared first, slipping through the trees like a wraith, his face pale and drawn, his eyes wild with fear and determination. I hadn't seen much of Rowan during my brief time at Nevermore, but from the moment I laid eyes on him now, I knew something was off.

He was muttering to himself as he approached, clutching something in his hand—a scrap of paper, it looked like, though in the dim light, I couldn't make out the details. His eyes, however, were fixed on me.

"You," he breathed, his voice hoarse and frantic. "You're the girl in the prophecy."

I stared at him, unimpressed. "I don't believe in prophecies."

Rowan didn't seem to hear me. His hand shook as he held out the paper, thrusting it toward me with a kind of desperate urgency. "My mother drew this," he said, his voice rising. "She saw it in a vision before she died. It's you. You're the one who's going to destroy Nevermore."

I glanced at the paper—a crude sketch of a girl who, admittedly, bore a passing resemblance to me. But it was nothing more than a drawing, a piece of someone else's delusions.

"Destroy Nevermore?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "You give me far too much credit."

Rowan's hand shot out, grabbing my arm with a strength that belied his otherwise fragile appearance. "I have to stop you," he whispered, his voice trembling with fear and resolve. "It's my destiny."

I had no time to reply before he lunged, his hand crackling with energy. In an instant, I was lifted off the ground, his telekinetic power pinning me in place as though I were nothing more than a ragdoll. I could feel the pressure building, squeezing the air from my lungs, and for a brief moment, I considered the possibility that he might actually succeed in killing me.

"You're becoming tiresome," I managed to say, my voice strained under the pressure that was slowly crushing my chest. The words came out clipped, forced, but I refused to give Rowan the satisfaction of hearing my breathless desperation.

His face twisted into something almost unrecognizable—a mask of fanatical zeal. "This is bigger than you," he spat. "Bigger than all of us."

It is a universal truth that when someone declares something to be "bigger than all of us," it is usually an attempt to justify actions that should never have been taken in the first place. Unfortunately, Rowan's delusions were impervious to logic.

"Your delusions of grandeur are noted," I said, though it was difficult to maintain my usual dispassion when the world around me was starting to blur, my vision tunneling under the weight of his telekinetic grip.

Rowan's hand lifted higher, and with it, the crushing force tightened around me. Black spots swam in my vision, but I would not look away. If this was to be my untimely demise—choked to death in a forest by a teenage boy on the verge of a nervous breakdown—then I would meet it head-on, glaring into the abyss.

"Goodbye, Wednesday," Rowan whispered, his voice tinged with the hollow certainty of someone who thinks they are fulfilling their tragic destiny.

But before he could claim his victory, something shifted. The shadows surrounding us—deep and impenetrable—began to ripple unnaturally, as though the darkness itself had become sentient. A cold wind swept through the clearing, carrying with it the scent of impending disaster. This was not the kind of wind that ruffles autumn leaves or stirs up pleasant memories. No, this was the sort of wind that causes shutters to bang ominously and candles to extinguish in drafty, forgotten rooms.

Rowan froze, his grip on me wavering as his attention was drawn to the movement in the black. He wasn't the only one who noticed. Even in my oxygen-deprived state, I could feel the air shift. There was something lurking—something far worse than Rowan's misguided sense of duty.

Out of the darkness, as if born from it, stepped a figure. His arrival was slow, deliberate, like a nightmare that knows you cannot outrun it. He wore a long, dark coat that billowed slightly, despite the absence of wind. His silhouette was sharp and commanding, the kind of presence that demanded attention without ever asking for it. His hair, dark as the shadows that still swirled at his feet, fell over his eyes, which seemed to drink in what little light remained. He moved with the casual grace of someone who knew the world would bend to his will.

"Interrupting something?" the stranger asked, his voice a smooth, sardonic baritone that sliced through the tension like a scalpel through flesh.

Rowan spun, his face pale and drawn. His eyes, wide with fear, flicked between me and the new arrival. Panic began to seep into his expression, cracking the mask of control he had so desperately clung to. "Stay out of this!" Rowan barked, his voice trembling.

The stranger arched an eyebrow, as if the very idea of someone telling him what to do was an amusing novelty. "Funny," he said, his tone casual, but carrying an undertone of quiet menace. "I was about to say the same to you."

Rowan faltered, his concentration slipping just enough for me to gasp in a long-awaited breath. The crushing pressure around my chest eased, and though the air burned in my lungs, I refused to show any sign of weakness.

Still, I kept my eyes on the newcomer, assessing. He didn't look much older than me—sixteen, maybe seventeen—but there was something about him that felt different. He stood tall, unflinching, as though the shadows themselves had stitched him together. For a moment, I considered that he might be some dark manifestation of my own imagination, come to intervene at this particular moment. I quickly dismissed the thought—my imagination is rarely so cooperative.

"Who are you?" I demanded, my voice cold and even, despite the fact that I was still recovering from the near-strangulation.

He glanced at me briefly, his eyes dark and unreadable. "For now?...Just a passerby."

Rowan's hands began to tremble, and he took an uncertain step backward. "You don't know what you're dealing with," he warned, though his voice betrayed his fear.

The stranger smiled—a small, faint curl of the lips, barely noticeable but filled with an unsettling confidence. "Neither do you."

And then, as if answering some silent command, the shadows around us stirred. They came alive, coiling and slithering across the forest floor like a nest of serpents. They moved with purpose, dark tendrils of inky blackness wrapping themselves around Rowan's legs, rooting him in place. His eyes widened in terror as the shadows tightened their grip, dragging him down, inch by inch.

"What—what is this?" Rowan stammered, his voice pitching higher with every word.

"An intervention," the stranger replied, his tone still maddeningly calm.

The tendrils of darkness climbed higher, winding around Rowan's torso, his arms, his throat. He struggled, but it was futile. The more he fought, the tighter the shadows held him, until he was gasping for air. His pleas for mercy degenerated into incoherent babbling, his fear transforming into raw panic.

I watched with detached interest, my mind cataloging the scene. Shadow manipulation was a rare skill, one that required a deep connection with the darker aspects of oneself. It was also highly dangerous, often leading to madness if one wasn't careful. This stranger—whoever he was—seemed to wield the shadows with ease, as though they were nothing more than extensions of his own will.

With each measured step, the stranger approached Rowan. His boots barely made a sound on the forest floor, but the air around him seemed to hum with power. "Let this be a lesson," he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of a warning. "There are things in this world far more dangerous than you can imagine."

Rowan collapsed, his body limp as the shadows retreated, leaving him unconscious on the forest floor. His breathing was shallow but steady. He was alive—for now.

The clearing fell silent, save for the faint rustling of leaves and the soft retreat of the shadows. The newcomer turned to face me fully, his expression unreadable, though up close, I could see the faint traces of scars along his jawline.

"Thank you," I said, though gratitude was not the emotion swirling within me. Curiosity, perhaps. A flicker of something I rarely allowed myself to feel: intrigue.

He gave a single nod. "You're welcome."

I narrowed my eyes, studying him. "That was an impressive display," I continued. "Shadow manipulation isn't common."

"Neither is being attacked in the woods by a classmate," he replied, his tone dry, but with a hint of amusement. "I imagine."

"You'd be surprised," I said, allowing myself the smallest of smirks.

He considered this for a moment, his gaze drifting briefly to Rowan's unconscious form. "You have an interesting school."

"Interesting is one word for it," I replied, though I could think of several others that might have been more accurate.

We stood there in the silence of the forest, the tension still lingering like a distant echo. There were questions, of course—so many unanswered questions—but I wasn't one to hand out my curiosity so easily. Still, there was something about him that demanded more than passing interest.

Finally, I extended my hand. "Wednesday Addams."

He hesitated, but only for a second, before taking my hand in his. His grip was firm, cool, and surprisingly steady, given the display of power he'd just unleashed. "Adrian Corvus."

I filed the name away, letting it settle into the ever-growing list of people I would need to keep an eye on. "You're new here," I said, though it wasn't a question.

"Just arrived," he confirmed, his eyes flicking briefly to the shadows that still lingered at the edges of the clearing, as though they hadn't quite finished with us.

"Your control over the darkness," I said, watching him closely. "Does it always come so naturally?"

"It's a work in progress," Adrian replied, his lips curling into a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. There was something carefully guarded in his expression, a flicker of wariness, as if he was measuring how much of himself to reveal.

"Aren't we all," I said, matching his tone with my own flat cadence.