Mrs. Ortega

There was truly everything in there, even though half of it gave her chills in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

She slowed her pace and spotted a small bottle containing a thick purple liquid. A layer of dust veiled the glass of the ampoule, enhancing its ancient and mysterious appearance. The warm amber light of a lamp hit it at an angle, distorting its reflections and making the contents look even more unsettling. She hesitantly ran a finger along its contours, her gaze lingering on the label of the bottle: Elixir Break-the-Curse.

What did that mean? Break curses? she thought.

If this breaks curses, there should be another one that casts them… or something like that, she mused.

I wonder if there’s something that makes people fall in love… she wondered with a faint smile, immediately followed by a wave of guilt for the thought.

No, this is wrong.

She let go of the ampoule and walked toward the front of the shop.

“Good morning! How can I help you?” asked a middle-aged woman with dark skin and a warm smile on her lips.

Y/n returned the smile and slipped her hands into her pockets, tilting her head to the side.

“Honestly, I don’t even know why I’m here,” she murmured softly, slightly embarrassed by the confession.

The woman didn’t seem surprised and only softened her smile.

“You’re back at Nevermore, right? The holidays are over,” she said. Y/n nodded. “Were you looking to buy something for a boyfriend? A… girlfriend?”

Y/n felt her cheeks heat up at the implication. She looked away, her attention suddenly caught by a small box inside a basket: One Wish Willow. She picked up one of the triangular cartridges and turned it between her fingers. You only get one wish… yeah, it said it right there. Spark the middle and break it in half…

What did “spark” mean?

She ran her thumb over the red writing and turned the cartridge over again in her hands.

Will it work? she wondered skeptically. Of course it won’t… for heaven’s sake, Y/n, you can’t actually believe something like this works, she scolded herself.

Her tongue slipped out slightly, wetting her lips as she bit down on them in concentration.

“It’s been flying off the shelves, you know,” the shopkeeper said. Y/n quickly pushed her hair out of her face, snapping her head up toward the voice. She smiled and nodded awkwardly.

“Just don’t come complaining if it doesn’t work,” the woman warned her, half-joking.

Y/n brushed a strand of hair from her face and couldn’t help but chuckle. “Does anyone actually come back here to complain?” she asked, amused.

Her amusement was obvious, as was the implied question beneath her words.

Did anyone actually believe this nonsense?

She tightened her grip on the box with one hand while the other fumbled for the money in her pocket.

(---)

The drive back to Nevermore Academy was quiet.

The engine hummed softly beneath her. Her right hand held the steering wheel firmly while her left elbow was propped up so she could rest her head in her palm. Her fingers absentmindedly brushed her lips, and her eyes never once left the empty road surrounded by forest.

She lightly bit the tip of her index finger and a small smile formed on her lips.

I wonder what Wednesday did this summer… probably one of her macabre adventures she thought, amused.

Her heart skipped at the mere mention of Wednesday’s name, warmth flooding her cheeks. God, she had missed her so much.

How did she survive three months without seeing those obsidian eyes?

She blew a strand of hair off her nose and pressed her lips into a thin line.

Calm down, you sound obsessed.

She drummed her nails on the steering wheel and tried to push Wednesday Addams out of her mind. But the more she tried, the more her imagination summoned the slim, dark figure: Cupid’s bow lips, eyes black as tar, that sharp jawline, her monotone, expressionless voice and even her black-and-grey uniform that accentuated her curves when she straightened her posture and—

Y/n.

Wednesday’s voice echoed in her mind and she found herself smiling faintly.

God, I need a distraction

She swallowed loudly and gripped the wheel until her knuckles turned white. She sighed through her nose and reached for the radio, but just as her hand moved toward the dial, the ringing of her phone cut through the air.

Without taking her eyes off the road, she fumbled for it and answered without even checking the caller ID.

“Y/n.”

Wednesday’s neutral voice sent shivers down her spine, her stomach tightening into a bundle of nerves.

She cleared her throat, trying to sound normal.

“Wednesday! How are you?” she exclaimed enthusiastically. Maybe a little too enthusiastically.

She frowned at her own awkwardness and bit the inside of her cheek, alternating her gaze between the phone and the road.

“I didn’t call to talk about me,” Wednesday said curtly. “It’s about Enid.”

“Enid?” she asked uncertainly.

Her hand instinctively moved to the gear shift and she changed gears. “What happened?” she asked, her voice worried, tinged with a hint of jealousy. Not the time to be jealous. She forced a smile, even though Wednesday couldn’t see it and prepared herself to listen.

“A few weeks ago I had a vision… she’s in danger,” Wednesday said in her usual monotone, though Y/n could detect a trace of concern.

She clenched her jaw and nodded to herself.

“I’ll give you the details later. I’m hanging up now,” Wednesday concluded coldly.

“Wait!” Y/n found herself saying.

There was no reply on the other end, but she could hear Wednesday’s calm breathing. She bit her lower lip and almost smiled, imagining Wednesday with the head slightly tilted, waiting for her to continue.

Her blood rushed to her ears and she started breathing harder. The fear mixed with adrenaline gave her a push that—

“I missed you… a lot” Y/n whispered, her heart pounding so hard it blurred her thoughts.

A moment of silence. Then the call ended.

Y/n stared at the phone and puffed her cheeks in frustration. You idiot, what did you expect? Rage flared in her chest and her vision blurred with tears. In a burst of frustration, she pulled over and turned off the engine.

She slammed her palm repeatedly against the steering wheel and yelled in frustration. What had she been thinking? I wonder what Wednesday thinks now…

She leaned her head back against the seat and bit her lip, trying to suppress the sob rising in her throat.

Y/n sniffed and looked at the Uriah’s Heap bag on the passenger seat.

To hell with it.

She wiped her cheeks, erasing every trace of tears from her face.

She leaned over the passenger seat, fumbling with the plastic bag until she finally pulled out the cardboard box. She turned it over in her hands the same way she had done in the shop, then rotated it counterclockwise to read the warning.

Users assume full responsibility for the outcome of their wishes.

What nonsense.

How could a children’s toy even be dangerous?

She shifted on her seat, uncertain. She stared at the red lettering and ran her finger over the printed image of a little girl. She sighed and opened the box, pulling out a cylindrical object. The moment she removed it, an awful jingle filled the car and Y/n looked inside the box with curiosity.

So that’s what they meant by “spark it.”

She turned her attention to the stick and thought about what to wish for. Guilt coiled in her stomach, knowing she was about to wish for something deeply wrong and immoral.

But it was just a game.

With renewed determination, she took the stick in her hands.

“I wish Wednesday Addams loved me more than anyone else in this damn world.”

The Seine flowed slowly beneath the Pont Alexandre III. The reflections of the street lamps trembled across the dark surface, distorted with every subtle movement. The summer wind gently tousled Y/n’s hair and her eyes lingered in quiet admiration on the Eiffel Tower, rising with quiet majesty just a short distance away.

Paris at night was beautiful.

Y/n blinked and her attention snapped to a statue. The figure of the Seine loomed over the parapet of the bridge, the light from the streetlamps caressed its features making the laurel crown gleam as if it were made of living gold.

“Where do we start?” she asked softly.

Her breath condensed in the air, forming a small fleeting cloud that dissolved almost instantly.

Her attention shifted to her companion.

Wednesday stood a few meters away, her gaze fixed on the Seine. Her facial features were hardened into an indecipherable expression, lips pressed into a line. Her hair, slightly longer since the start of this journey, fell over her shoulders in two immaculate braids. Between her slender fingers she held a newspaper with crumpled edges.

Y/n’s heart skipped a beat the moment Wednesday turned to look at her.

“From this” Wednesday said in a cold, monotone voice.

The goth girl tightened her grip on the newspaper, her knuckles whitening. The jaw tensed, sharpening her cheekbones and in her onyx eyes a flash of determination appeared, mixed with something she still couldn’t quite decipher. Wednesday relaxed the jaw and stared at her without blinking. She seemed older than she actually was—the stubbornness and exhaustion from searching for their werewolf friend were weighing on the little crow more than she would ever admit, and that, to Y/n, was devastating.

It had been three months since the night Enid had sacrificed her humanity to save Wednesday from the Galpin family (again, one might say). Three months since she had last seen those bright blue eyes sparkling with enthusiasm that always managed to infect her. Her colorful clothes, that overwhelming energy and even her easygoing chatter that she most often dismissed with a smile and an eye-roll. Even her common sense, that constant fear of anything she didn’t understand, so at odds with her strength and her ability to take care of herself. Y/n suspected Addams would never admit it out loud, but she knew she missed her roommate with the questionable taste in pastel colors.

With all her heart, she hoped Enid was okay—safe and sound—and, above all, that she would remember them when they found her. After all, they wanted to keep their promise to look for her.

That night, Wednesday had ordered her little shadow, Agnes, to follow the blonde as far as she could. The result was that the werewolf was somewhere in the Canadian forests. Addams had dragged Y/n along on that search, probably because she needed someone to drive Uncle Fester’s Harley. In fact, for months they had combed through every corner of the forest, chasing a creature that did not want to be found. Cold, rain, nights spent outdoors and encounters with animals—or something worse—that seemed to demand something from them.

And then, suddenly, the trail had moved to Paris.

How, she didn’t know. She had no idea how Enid had managed to cross an entire continent to reach France without drawing attention. After all, a werewolf doesn’t exactly go unnoticed. And she certainly wasn’t small.

Definitely within the blonde’s taste, she thought amusedly. All that fashion, sweets… she thought, a hint of nostalgia in her mind.

“Y/n.” The voice pulled her out of her thoughts.

Y/n swallowed loudly, her stomach twisting with agitation, suddenly aware of Wednesday’s scrutinizing gaze on her. Her palms were sweaty and the heart hammered violently against her ribcage, almost betraying her because of how close she was.

Apparently, Wednesday had been speaking to her.

She bit her lower lip and forced herself not to blush, irritated by how her body reacted to Wednesday (especially in a situation that was far from ideal). She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and forced her gaze away from Wednesday’s Cupid’s bow lips—which she had apparently been staring at unconsciously while lost in thought—and shifted it to the newspaper between them.

Wednesday’s pale fingers held it in a way that revealed the bold headline: The Beast of Paris! The image showed a werewolf howling at the moon.

But the photo was two weeks old.

“Mmmh…” Y/n weighed the photo, trying to ignore Wednesday’s scent that, at this distance, felt almost oppressive, making her dizzy. Unconsciously, she inhaled. The scent of sandalwood mixed with something indescribable—so very Wednesday Addams—filled her nostrils, forcing her to press her lips into a thin line.

“Well, it’s definitely a werewolf,” she observed. A stupid statement, but in her defense, she was… distracted.

She looked up at Wednesday and her breath caught in her throat.

Addams looked at her from beneath lowered lids, chin slightly raised. Jaw flexed subtly, lips tightening into a harder line than before, while coffee-dark eyes remained locked—too still, too intense—until it felt impossible to breathe properly.

Y/n’s fingers twitched with the sudden urge to brush her fringe away from Wednesday's eyes. She pressed her hands against her sides, restraining herself.

Wednesday’s lips twitched into a fleeting smile before she looked away, her expression already returning to impassive. She blinked and, with a mechanical gesture, brushed her fringe away from her eyes. black nails grazed temples in the movement.

“We should go to sleep,” she whispered, her voice hollow. “There’s a place Uncle Fester recommended,” Wednesday said coldly, glancing sideways at her.

Addams walked past her, posture rigid, steps measured. Y/n turned and quickened her pace, grabbing the motorcycle keys.

Wednesday straightened her shoulders and got on the bike, fastening the helmet with methodical movements.

Y/n barely held back a smile at the dalmatian ears, and when Wednesday turned to look at her, she realized that with those glasses she looked even…

cute.

She shook her head and put on her helmet, glancing at the two suitcases in the sidecar.

She settled in front. A moment later, arms were already around her waist, hands steady against her stomach. Breath caught instantly, heartbeat thundering in her ears—so loud for a moment she feared Wednesday might hear it.

Y/n held back a smile. Her breath caught in her throat and the heart pounded in the ears.

“Weren’t you against physical contact?” she teased, starting the motorcycle. The roar of the engine filled the air, briefly distracting her from the sensation of Wednesday’s presence against her back.

Addams’ grip tightened slightly, her nails brushing the fabric of Y/n’s hoodie.

“Shut up and move” Wednesday replied venomously.

(...)

“I don’t understand why I keep listening to you,” Y/N muttered through her teeth, suppressing a shiver of disgust as she walked down the corridor of said hotel.

The famous place recommended by Uncle Fester was, in reality, a shabby one-and-a-half-star hotel located in an area of Paris frequented by criminals and prostitutes.

And she wasn’t all that surprised.

After all, she knew well that Fester Addams’ tastes were at the very least peculiar,worse than Wednesday Addams’—and that said a lot. She sighed, tightening her grip on the Addams family coffin-suitcase, as an unmistakable flush colored her cheeks at the sound, far from muffled, of moans coming from various rooms. She swallowed loudly and followed Wednesday, who was walking ahead of her, apparently unfazed by her surroundings.

Just endure one night, she encouraged herself mentally.

She nearly tripped when Addams stopped in front of her.

Y/n immediately regained her posture and waited for her to open the door. A moment later, she wished she hadn’t.

The walls were an awful dirty yellow; in some places the paint had peeled off and collected on the floor. A stain that looked far too much like dried blood marked the carpet, and the smell of stale air mixed with something she couldn’t identify tickled her nostrils unpleasantly. The warm light from the bedside lamp bathed part of the room in an intense orange glow. The shadows stretched across the walls, reshaped by the new brightness.

Y/N desperately wanted to run away from that place.

Wednesday simply observed the room.

“I like it here,” she said calmly, her gaze moving with that usual investigative attention.

Even that didn’t surprise her, considering Wednesday’s trip the previous summer to a damp basement belonging to a serial killer.

Her pale fingers unfastened the belt of her long leather trench coat, and the goth placed it without ceremony on the edge of a chair. Y/N set the two small suitcases in a corner of the room, mentally crossing off the option of taking a shower—if the room was in that condition, she didn’t even want to imagine the bathroom—and opted to rest her eyes, clinging to the idea of the next day.

Her breath caught in her throat when she noticed there was only one bed.

And a single one at that.

She opened her mouth, turning toward Wednesday, but found her busy opening her shoulder bag.

Thing emerged from it with some urgency, its fingers moving quickly. Y/N watched it, unsure whether it was communicating or simply stretching, before seeing it disappear into a drawer as if nothing had happened.

Wednesday let out a small sigh and placed the bag on the desk.

“Wednesday?” Y/N said, her voice weaker than expected. “There’s… only one bed.”

Addams turned.

A flash of annoyance crossed her brown eyes, too quick to be caught by anyone who didn’t truly observe her. But Y/N, not used to these revealing gestures, noticed it immediately. Her lips tightened slightly, returning at once to their neutral line, while her gaze drifted toward the bed. Y/N swore she saw a faint blush color her pale cheeks.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” Wednesday muttered, in a low tone but full of intent.

Y/N opted for silence and watched Addams approach the bed with measured steps. Her slender fingers lifted the blanket—fortunately clean. That was all she needed: it being stained with blood or… something else.

She sighed and followed her sitting hesitantly on the mattress, which gave slightly under her weight.

Wednesday barely glanced at her, then lay down on the sheets without changing. The braids were still perfectly intact. She settled in with almost unnatural precision, arms immediately finding their position.

A moment later, she reached for the light switch.

The room plunged into darkness.

Y/N imitated the gesture with far less elegance, her hands clasped over her stomach.

The moans beyond the wall were the only sound filling that tension-laden room. Y/N swallowed hard, her eyes stubbornly fixed on a stain on the wall, avoiding looking at Addams. Next to her, Wednesday remained still—too still. Her arms crossed over her chest, rigid, like a perfectly composed corpse. A faint blush colored her cheeks.

Y/N shifted slightly; but the cramped space caused her leg to brush against Wednesday’s.

She shivered. “Damn, you’re freezing.”

“Then don’t touch me,” Wednesday replied monotonously, without moving.

Y/N rolled her eyes and turned onto her side, one hand slipping under the pillow. Inevitably, her attention focused on Wednesday’s profile: the small nose, the thick eyebrows, the sharp jawline, the Cupid’s bow lips pressed into a thin line. Moonlight filtered through the half-broken window, landing just on her pale skin and outlining the aristocratic cheekbones.

Y/N found herself enchanted by the gothic girl’s beauty, her traitorous heart beating hard against the ribcage.

“If you keep staring at me, I’ll gouge your eyes out.” Wednesday’s voice abruptly broke her contemplative state.

Addams slightly turned her chin toward her and Y/N found herself observing the freckles dotting her pale cheeks, faintly illuminated by the moonlight.

A particularly loud moan came through the wall, breaking the tension between them.

Y/N bit her lower lip, but it was useless. A laugh escaped anyway, muffled but uncontrollable. Her eyes narrowed, her nose scrunched upward as she tried to hold it back. She buried her face in her forearm, shoulders trembling as she continued to laugh silently.

Wednesday watched her closely, motionless.

For a moment, the corner of her lips twitched slightly upward—an hint of something dangerously close to amusement.

A small smile crept onto her red-painted lips. The 2026 Milan–Cortina Olympics was giving her the chance to bury in her subconscious the silver medal that for so long she had seen as tangible proof of her failure.

How can a second place at the Olympics be considered a failure? Being second in the world?

For many it would have been a trophy to display with pride, a milestone to remember every time their eyes fell on the small display case at home next to the family photographs

A symbol of success to celebrate near those you love.

But for her, it was nothing more than worthless metal, a bitter memory that had haunted her for four years.

Alexandra sighed, and from her lips formed a small cloud of condensation. It was cold that morning, she told herself mentally, but fortunately she could handle it. A gloved hand rested on the railing and green eyes observed, without much interest, a couple of athletes training.

She hated sharing the rink, she thought bitterly. She didn’t want anyone in her way.

She straightened her back and the high collar of the sports jacket — in white, red, and blue, recalling the Russian flag — brushed against the pale skin of her neck. With her other hand, she grabbed the zipper and pulled it down, opening the fabric under the lights of the arena. Alexandra lifted the corners of her lips slightly in a smile and, almost without realizing it, brought a hand to her face. The black glove moved aside a reddish-copper strand that had escaped from her bun.

A firm hand rested on her lower back — warm, decisive, familiar.

Alexandra turned abruptly, green eyes met two dark, impenetrable pools. Her shoulders instantly stiffened under the severe gaze of her coach, her chin slightly tilted downward as if already evaluating posture, energy, discipline.

"Ты уже знаешь, что делать, Саша" (You already know what to do, Sasha) said Eteri Tutberidze in a hoarse voice.

She never raised her tone. She didn’t need to.

Alexandra swallowed and nodded. There was still a week before the competition and already she felt the pressure tightening in her chest. She can’t start now, she thought, annoyed, while the distant sound of other athletes skating filled the arena.

The coach took her jacket with a quick, almost mechanical gesture, placing it over her forearm without really looking at her. She gave her a subtle smile — one that never quite reached her eyes. Then she brushed a blonde strand out from her face, a movement practiced, repeated thousands of times in thousands of competitions.

"Ты должна быть лучшей."(You must be the best) she whispered.

The wrinkles around her eyes deepened as she smiled.

Sasha clenched her jaw.

Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Anna Shcherbakova. She was standing nearby, skates carefully tied, hands clasped in front of her body to keep warm. Shoulders slightly curved, gaze gentle but tired. She gave her a small smile — polite, almost shy — but it didn’t reach her eyes.

Sasha sighed through her nose.

She won’t steal the gold from me again, she thought, feeling anger rise warmly under her skin.

She straightened her posture out of habit, pushing her shoulders back. She watched Anna cautiously, expecting that flash of confidence, that silent smile saying «I won, I’m the reigning champion»

But Anna seemed terribly exhausted: slight dark circles under the cold lights, lips pressed into a neutral expression.

Sasha looked away.

She didn’t hate her. Not really. She had forgiven herself long ago.

But her competitive streak prevailed, as always.

Perhaps she should speak to her. She didn’t want to ruin the atmosphere before the competition even began. The Olympics had already welcomed the Russians with coldness and tension; there was no need for the athletes to become enemies.

And yet she didn’t understand that hostility.

What did they have to do with political decisions?

The sound of the ice under her blades brought her back to the present. She inhaled slowly and leaned on the railing to remove her blade covers. Before entering the rink, she gently placed the blade on the ice and made a small forward glide — a light test, almost a check of the surface. She felt the ice beneath her skates: solid, smooth, ready.

Then she entered with a fluid motion, first the left foot, then the right, as if it were an instinct carved into her muscles. She stiffened her left leg and struck the blade against the ice.

She straightened her shoulders and, meanwhile, could hear Anna entering behind her.

She tilted her neck slightly to loosen it. She made a few slow ankle movements, bending and extending her knees to “feel” the blade’s grip. Alexandra pushed forward and began with a crossover — legs crossing in steady rhythm, one push after another, to gain speed along the edge of the rink. The blades cut the ice with precision, leaving thin white lines behind.

The movement was clean, controlled.

Her body leaned slightly into the curve, arms open for balance.

Then she slowed, shifted her weight onto one foot, and transformed the accumulated energy into a simple spin — a centered, stable rotation with her torso upright and head steady.

It wasn’t a difficult element.

She exited the spin with an elegant line, extending her leg backward in an arabesque, forming a long, clean line — her body almost horizontal, like a T suspended over the ice.

She resumed her glide.

Satisfied, she continued her routine.

As usual, the smile disappeared. Her chin lowered slightly, her eyes grew darker, focused. Now there was no arena, no audience. Only the sound of the blades and the rhythm of her breathing.

While performing another lap around the rink, she noticed in the distance two American athletes.

She frowned.

There was a tall blonde girl with sharp, athletic features, direct gaze and flushed cheeks from the cold. The other girl had Asian features and hair of strange and, above all, unacceptable appearance: shoulder-length hair with three yellow streaks alternating with dark brown.

What on earth are they doing? How are they dressed? She thought with disgust.

Her face twisted into a dark, accusatory expression, a flash of anger seeing how these athletes were treating figure skating with contempt. A sweatshirt and sweatpants? Really? Hair loose, no makeup, and dancing?

Where was the education? The respect for this noble sport?

She stared at the girl with the strange hair.

She seemed… to be having fun. She was dancing, joking with her blonde companion, proudly wearing the USA sweatshirt on her chest. Her brown eyes sparkled at something her teammate had said and she gave her a playful elbow in the side.

Alexandra boiled with anger.

The posture, Sasha! Chin up, Sasha! Makeup on, Sasha! Tie your hair, don’t smile, Sasha!

Memories of countless reprimands tightened her stomach. She clenched her jaw. The pressure of being perfect had been pressing on her all her life. She couldn’t stand seeing someone so carefree… someone who seemed to truly love skating.

That girl looked like a damn princess for being able to do whatever she wanted.

And Alexandra couldn’t stand those who didn’t respect her sport.

A flash of defiance crossed her green eyes and she pushed her blades harder, skating with more force.

She passed near them and intentionally made a sharp stop, slightly lifting the ice under her blades. She tensed her muscles and, with a quick push, performed a nearby spin — a controlled rotation — making her blades almost brush the blonde’s sweatpants.

Sasha smiled to herself and lowered her arms along the dress she was wearing.

The blonde skated toward her angrily.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” said the blonde, brows furrowed and lips tight.

Alexandra blinked and looked the girl up and down with a superior expression.

“If you want to dance, this isn’t the right place,” she said in English, but with a strong Russian accent.

The blonde made an incredulous face and was about to confront her when her companion stopped her.

“Amber, there’s no need,” she whispered calmly.

Then her brown eyes fixed on Sasha. Naturally dark, well-shaped eyebrows, fair skin slightly flushed from the cold, light freckles on her nose and small moles scattered across her face. The American girl smiled artificially and Alexandra was irritated when she noticed the small silver ring in the center of her upper frenulum. Thin, delicate. Just a metallic flash that made her smile even more annoying.

Alexandra sighed loudly through her nose.

“None of your business, принцесса"(princess) she muttered between her teeth.

The girl looked at her strangely, tilting her head not understanding what she had said in Russian. Amber opened her mouth to defend her but the girl interrupted again:

“I have no idea what you just said and frankly I don’t care.”

Her tone lowered and her playful, social demeanor was replaced by something Alexandra was used to seeing in Russian arenas.

“Let’s go, Amber.” The girl with Asian features said to the blonde and gave Alexandra an annoyed look before turning her back and skating toward the railing.

Alexandra didn’t even know her name.

But she already couldn’t stand her.

Y/N casually lifted her gaze and her lips curled upward at the sight of the other athletes already on the ice focused on their warm-ups. The sound of blades scraping across the smooth surface reached her clearly, rhythmic, almost hypnotic: the sharper scrape of a side stop, the sudden tap of toe picks touching the ice to prepare for a jump.

She rested on her knees and pushed herself up, letting one hand brush the barrier for balance before removing the blade covers with the other. The blade responded with a light, familiar, reassuring crunch. Then she brought the other foot onto the ice as well, bending her knees slightly to find stability. Y/n began with a slow stroking: long, deep pushes, first with the right foot, then the left, transferring her weight from one blade to the other. Her knees bent and extended in a steady rhythm, her arms relaxed along her body, then slightly opened for balance. She felt the outside edge bite into the ice as she gained speed.

Y/N Y/L/N was considered a prodigy: the Italian girl who could seriously challenge the American and Japanese skaters, especially since the Russians were not allowed to compete in this Olympic edition.

She exhaled softly and increased pressure on her left edge, bringing the right foot behind her for a crossover in the curve. The right foot crossed in front of the left, then moved behind again in a smooth, continuous motion. Her shoulders stayed parallel to the curve, her torso slightly leaning inward to maintain balance on the outside edge. She repeated the crossover two, three times, naturally increasing her speed.

She tried to relax, to stop thinking about having all eyes on her for the competition that would take place in a week.

Beating the favorites seemed like a mirage.

Speaking of America.

Alysa Liu was speaking quietly with her coach, nodding. The base of her hair was dark brown, almost black under the arena’s cold lights. But along the length, three clearly visible horizontal bands stood out — a sort of growth-ring effect. The first, closest to the roots, was a cool honey blonde; the second, in the middle, leaned toward light sand; the last — the ends — was softer, almost golden. They were not random shades: they were intentional, sharp lines that followed the natural movement of the strands.

When she began a fast spin, entering from an outside edge with a small three-turn, the bands separated and recombined with each rotation, creating an almost hypnotic effect. For a moment, it seemed as if she had an aura expanding and contracting with the speed.

Y/N didn’t realize she had slowed down until her coach called her. She regained speed with two strong pushes, then entered a short step sequence: edge change, counter-curve, small back cross step, the blades drawing invisible arabesques on the ice.

But her gaze kept returning there.

Alysa adjusted her Team USA sweatshirt and lifted an arm to brush her fringe away from her forehead. Then she performed a light Ina Bauer, still high, just to loosen her back: skates pointing in opposite directions, knees bent just enough, her torso arching slightly. She hummed to herself and seemed to dance to notes only she could hear.

She lifted her gaze and her eyes locked with Y/N’s.

Y/N felt her cheeks turn red and tried not to panic at being caught admiring the number one favorite in figure skating. Alysa curled her lips upward and, with two gentle pushes, skated toward the Italian skater, entering a controlled inside edge to slow down in front of her.

Y/N felt her heart flip and her nerves tighten. To stop, she executed a small side stop, turning both blades sideways relative to her direction of travel.

“Ice feels… softer today,” Alysa said casually, slightly tilting her head.

A slightly strange way to break the ice.

Y/N blinked and nodded. “Yes. Softer. More… ehm…” She paused searching for the right word. Her brain ran in Italian while her mouth waited for the translation. “More… gentle?” she tried with an embarrassed half-smile.

Alysa observed her for a second too long, but there was no judgment in her eyes. Only attention.

“Gentle works,” she replied, and her lips curved.

That was when Y/N noticed the piercing.

When she smiled her lips lifted enough to reveal the small silver ring at the center of her upper frenulum. Thin, delicate. Just a metallic flash that made her smile even more personal.

“Your English is good,” she added.

Y/N felt the warmth rise to her cheeks. “No, it’s… it’s not very good. I… sometimes I forget the words.” A nervous laugh escaped her. “My brain is… how you say… in traffic.”

Alysa laughed softly, and when she laughed, the piercing shimmered again.

“Brain in traffic,” she repeated. “I like that.”

Up close, her beauty was even more evident: naturally dark, well-shaped eyebrows; fair skin slightly flushed from the cold; light freckles on her nose; small moles scattered across her face like tiny stars.

“You’re staring,” she said suddenly, without malice.

Y/N straightened abruptly, her blades sliding a few centimeters on the ice. “No! I mean— yes— no, I was just… your hair is very… very beautiful. The lines. They are…” The words tangled. “They are like… trees. No! Not trees. Like—” She closed her eyes for a second, mortified. “Sorry.”

Alysa giggled, her cheeks turning slightly pink.

“Tree rings,” she suggested quietly.

“Yes! Yes, that!” Y/N lit up. “Like when you cut the tree and you see the… the years.”

“That’s kind of the idea,” Alysa admitted, casually touching a strand of hair. “Different versions of me.”

Y/N remained silent, processing that sentence.

“I think… it’s very brave.”

Alysa looked at her as if she hadn’t expected that answer. She blinked, brushed a strand away from her face. Her lips curved again and the smile piercing appeared with a small glint.

“Alysa!” one of her teammates called her.

Jenna bit her lower lip as her eyes skimmed over the messages y/n had sent her in the last three days. Her heart tightened in a painful squeeze at the thought of having ignored her after that video call.

She felt terribly guilty.

And yet, at the same time, she needed space.

She couldn’t bear to see her like that. She couldn’t accept that her girlfriend was losing, day after day, that light that had always made her unique.

That natural glow of hers.

That desire to live, to smile and joke with everyone.

Her stomach twisted even more with guilt and she felt bile rise up her esophagus, that bitter and disgusting aftertaste—acidic—that prickled her throat with an irritating insistence. Fortunately she hadn’t eaten anything that morning otherwise she would have surely thrown up.

Her fingers tightened around the phone and her eyes lingered on the last message she had received.

She knew what she had to do.

She had to let her go.

She pressed the side button and darkened the screen. A trembling sigh slipped past her lips and she lifted her head, fixing her gaze on the door of her house in Los Angeles. Jenna had asked Tim if she could—because of family reasons—take a day off and return to America to deal with something important to her. After all, she was fairly sure that if she didn’t face the situation with y/n she wouldn’t be able to focus on work.

Her stomach churned and her fingers curled into fists, her nails carving small half-moons into her palms.

She was nervous.

She let her bag fall onto the porch and, hesitantly, opened the door knowing that her girlfriend never locked it when she was home (unless it was night). Blood rushed through her veins, her heart pounding—almost excited—at the thought of seeing again the one who made it beat so hard.

Her feet moved on their own toward the living room while anxiety and anticipation sent her body into overdrive.

When Jenna entered the room her dark eyes immediately fell on y/n sitting on the couch: the tired expression, the dull gaze, an aura of sadness that seemed to wrap around her. The young actress swallowed with difficulty, the knot in her throat making the gesture almost painful.

Y/n blinked and noticed her out of the corner of her eye. She did a double take, as if to make sure she wasn’t imagining her, then sprang to her feet. A smile lit up her face, and that was painful for Jenna to see: the dark circles were deeper than the last time, the pallor more evident. Her lips were thin, chapped and every now and then her tongue darted out to moisten them, without much effect.

And that clenched, tense jaw, which had become all too familiar.

Jenna sighed, feeling her heart hammer furiously in her chest while her mind screamed at her to go on, not to back out. Y/n reached her before she could even form a coherent thought.

Her arms wrapped around her waist and Jenna found herself trapped in a needy embrace. She blinked as she felt tears burn at the corners of her eyes and allowed herself that moment of vulnerability. She squeezed her eyes shut as if trying to memorize the moment.

Her head dipped forward and she pressed her lips to y/n’s collarbone.

Y/n's scent—so familiar, perhaps even stronger than she remembered—shot through her like an electric shock, making every nerve vibrate.

She swallowed again.

Y/n tightened her hold and brushed her temple with a gentle kiss.

That gesture made the last defenses crumble. Tears clouded her vision, thick and heavy, streaking down her cheeks, passing over her mouth and finally slipping from her chin. Jenna sniffed, biting her lower lip.

The pressure in her throat was becoming unbearable.

Y/n noticed.

Y/n pulled back slightly to look at her, eyes full of confusion as she tried to understand what was happening.

Jenna wiped her tears with the back of her hand.

“Hey, are you okay?” y/n murmured in that soft, velvety voice she used to calm her. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, almost in a whisper.

Jenna took a deep breath but the air got stuck in her lungs as if her own body were rebelling. Every muscle was tense, her arms still around her, instinct and habit refusing to let her go. Her heart was beating so hard it hurt, yet she couldn’t find the courage to pull away even by a single inch.

She lowered her gaze for a moment, fighting that desperate urge to hold her tighter, to pretend that nothing was changing.

But she couldn’t be that selfish.

“I…” Her voice came out broken, hoarse. She cleared her throat, swallowing several times. “I can’t pretend everything is fine anymore.”

Her body wanted to stay.

Her heart wanted to stay.

But her mind knew what was right.

Y/n remained still, as if she feared that even the slightest movement might break something fragile. “What do you mean?”

Jenna slowly lifted her eyes finally meeting hers. There was exhaustion, yes, but above all there was that love that was destroying her with guilt. How can you leave someone you love, and who loves you this much? she asked herself. Her gaze returned to y/n’s eyes, vision still blurred by tears, yet she could see the feeling behind those irises.

And she could also see the physical consequences her girlfriend’s body was suffering because of her job as an actress.

“I look at you…” her voice came out faint, her throat so tight it made speaking difficult.

“…and I don’t recognize you anymore,” she finished in a thread of a voice, her jaw trembling.

She felt another wave of tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

Y/n’s lips parted but no sound came out.

“I see you forcing yourself to smile, to be strong for me…” Jenna went on, her voice breaking more and more. “But your eyes give you away. Every day you seem a little more tired, a little more empty. And I can’t… I can’t keep watching you waste away like this.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Y/n shook her head slowly. “I’m trying to get better. You know that. For us.”

“I know.” Jenna let a tear slip. “And that’s exactly what breaks me."

She moistened her lips.

“It’s clear you can’t handle my job, love” Jenna murmured gently.

Y/n’s hands clenched into fists as if she needed something solid to stay standing. “So what are you saying?”

Jenna closed her eyes for a second, then reopened them, shining with tears. “I’m saying that maybe.. maybe we have to break up”

Even if I don’t want to she told herself.

Those words fell between them like lead.

“No.” Y/n instinctively took a step forward. “You can’t be serious.”

Her hand gently took Jenna’s with a tenderness that clashed with the pain that was breaking her apart before the young actress’s eyes.

“I wish I weren’t.” A sob shook her chest. “But staying, pretending that love is enough to fix everything… it’s only hurting us.”

Tears began to stream down y/n’s face.

“I need you, Jenna.”

Jenna cupped her face in her hands, brushing her wet cheeks with her thumbs. She allowed herself a moment to take in her features, wanting to burn them into her memory: every line, every curve, the shape of her eyes, those small imperfections that, precisely because of that, made her unique and irreplaceable. Jenna sighed and, with two fingers, traced the outline of those lips she had kissed countless times and longed for every day she had been away for work.

She drew her closer and their foreheads touched, their breaths mingling, both trembling.

“I love you” Jenna whispered. “Damn it, I love you to death” she added in a shaky voice. A dull ache pressed against her chest, conflicting feelings screaming at her NOT TO LET HER GO, YOU’RE HURTING YOURSELF, tearing her apart.

But reason prevailed.

Jenna blinked and tried to distract herself by thinking about the next scene she was about to film. The wig designated for the character of Wednesday Addams itched at the back of her neck in an irritating way, a constant discomfort that made her fingers tingle with the urge to get rid of it.

Not to mention the wires inside the wig, pressing oppressively against her scalp.

Jenna pressed her lips together and wrinkled her nose at the ticklish sensation. You just have to endure a couple more hours, she encouraged herself mentally. Then I can focus on fencing and cello lessons… they’ll keep me busy until late, she realized with a hint of dismay.

And yet, even as she tried to distract herself by listing everything she would do after the day’s shooting (especially taking off the damn wig) a name kept slipping into her mind, insistent and sweet: Y/N.

A gentle warmth bloomed in her chest; the corners of her mouth lifted on their own, betraying her feelings. Her heart fluttered, caught in that pleasant vertigo. It felt like floating, weightless.

Hopelessly in love.

A soft shiver ran through her body at the mere thought of her girlfriend. Jenna chuckled quietly to herself and earned a reproachful–curious glance from the makeup artist who was applying blush over her freckles.

“Sorry” Jenna murmured, biting her lower lip to hide her smile.

The phone vibrated again and coffee-colored eyes returned to the device resting on the makeup station. Jenna squinted slightly and her heart did a somersault when she saw the ID:

Love 👑♥️

She bit into the soft flesh of her lower lip and her black-painted nails lightly scratched the fabric of the Nevermore Academy uniform provided by production. Brown eyes darted toward the makeup artist, then back to the phone. Almost without realizing it Jenna leaned forward to grab it.

“Jen—” the makeup artist called out.

Jenna interrupted her almost immediately.

“It’s Y/n… it’ll take ten minutes.”

Her voice was calm, controlled, but her gaze betrayed an urgency she could no longer hide.

The woman rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile.

“Ahhh, young love” she muttered, leaving the room to give her privacy.

Jenna smiled to herself and immediately accepted the video call. Her free hand rose to her Cupid’s bow lips and she began to nibble at her nail in a nervous habit. She leaned forward, squinting slightly to focus on the image on the other side: a completely dark room, lit only by a lamp that faintly illuminated the desk—open books, scattered papers, handwritten notes.

Her lips stretched into a smile that revealed her dimples, and for a brief moment a golden glimmer surrounded her eyes at the sight of her girlfriend sitting on the desk in her bedroom.

“Hi, Darling.”Jenna’s voice came out soft, almost caressing.

“Are you still awake?”

Her girlfriend was at their house in Los Angeles and Jenna knew all too well about the ten-hour difference caused by the time zone between America and Romania. Talking was complicated, between her packed schedule for Wednesday and y/n’s university commitments. Still, she always tried to carve out every possible second. For her, just seeing or hearing her on the phone was enough to keep going—even though she knew that a long-distance relationship, no matter how much they loved each other, wore them both down.

Y/n’s voice pulled her back to the present.

“I’m studying” y/n replied, trying to sound light. “I’ve got my Cinema and Audiovisual exam in a few days.”

The voice was tired. Too tired.

Jenna smiled and tilted her head slightly. “Did you sleep?” she asked gently.

Y/n hesitated. Just for a moment.

“Not much.”

Jenna felt a dull ache bloom behind her sternum.

She sighed softly through her nose and leaned a bit closer, allowing y/n to see the Wednesday wig. Y/n chuckled and leaned in as well, tilting her head with a mischievous smile while pointing at the hairstyle with her index finger.

“It suits you.”

Jenna shot her a look—more theatrical than genuinely annoyed. Then she composed herself and turned her head toward the door, checking if anyone was about to come in.

Y/n watched her profile: the sharp, defined jawline, sculpted enough to cut paper.

When Jenna’s gaze returned to her, she really looked this time. Y/n’s eyes were reddened, glossy with exhaustion. Dark circles hollowed out her face. Her skin looked pale, dull under the artificial light. Her cheeks were more sunken than usual. Every so often, she clenched her jaw—a nervous tic that repeated itself, as if her body were in a constant state of alert.

Something sank inside Jenna.

“Love…” she began softly. “You know I love you, but… shouldn’t you rest?”

Concern cracked her voice. She tried to hide it, but failed.

Y/n clenched her jaw and furrowed her brows, confused. A flash of panic crossed her eyes. Her posture stiffened, shoulders lifting slightly.

“NO!” The answer came out too fast, too charged. “I miss you, Jenna… you have no idea how long I wait just to talk to you.”

Y/n swallowed hard. Her hand trembled slightly as it gripped the edge of the desk. Her breathing grew shallow, uneven.

“I’m fine” she added immediately, too quickly. “It’s just… the exam. And you work so much.”

Jenna drew her shoulders in, lips pressed tight. Her chest tightened painfully and the awareness of her girlfriend’s physical and mental state sent a sharp ache through her heart—she wasn’t okay. A knot formed in her stomach, her eyes stung.

She was gripping the phone so tightly her knuckles had turned white.

How could I have been so blind?

Was I really so absorbed in my work that I failed to see how my girlfriend was slowly wearing herself down?

She didn’t seem like herself anymore.

“I have to go, okay?” Jenna murmured softly. “We’ll talk later.”

She tried to smile but this time it didn’t reach her eyes.

On the other side of the screen, Y/n let out a trembling sigh. Jenna felt a sharp pain in her chest at the sight of that expression—pure fear, fear of abandonment—etched into her features. Y/n opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out; her jaw visibly trembled.

Jenna ended the video call unable to bear seeing her like that any longer.

The silence of the room crashed down on her.

She lifted her chin, forcing herself to hold back tears, breathing still uneven. Jenna brought a hand to her mouth and stifled a sob, the lump in her throat growing harder to manage.

None of this was healthy.

Percy gestured toward the notebook with his chin.

“Instead of constantly drawing Aliyah, you could… I don’t know… talk to her?”

His voice was calm, almost bored, like he was stating the most obvious thing in the world.

Aliyah Ortega.

The crush of her life.

Basically since she could remember.

And honestly? Who could blame her. Aliyah was beautiful: hazel eyes with a warm, gentle shape; a slightly crooked smile that brightened her whole face; long—brown-blonde—hair, soft and glossy.

Y/n bit the inside of her cheek.

Her blood pounded in her ears and that familiar warmth crawled over her skin, settling on her cheeks.

“Are you insane?” she replied, crossing her arms. “I’m a ball of nerves. And she’s… she’s taken.”

Percy snorted and started the car. “And besides… you draw her all the time.”

“I do not!” she protested, even though she definitely did. “I’m just reviewing my old sketches. This one, for example, is from when we first met.”

As she said it, her eyes grew distant, pulling her into a memory from years before.

– FLASHBACK –

The science classroom buzzed with excited voices and colorful backpacks scattered everywhere. The teacher clapped her hands cheerfully to get everyone’s attention.

“Today we’re doing a special experiment!” she announced with a wide smile.

In front of each student sat a perfectly white egg. Y/n stared at it with a mix of fear and curiosity, wondering what exactly she was supposed to do with it.

“You’ll form pairs and take care of your egg as if it were your child!” the teacher explained, voice bright as if this were the most fun activity ever.

Y/n turned toward her desk partner: Jenna Ortega.

The girl sat calmly, focused on the sheet of paper in front of her. At ten years old she already had soft, harmonious features: big brown eyes, shiny black hair brushing her shoulders, cupid-bow lips and lightly tanned skin. The pencil moved between her fingers with natural ease, like the outside world didn’t exist.

Suddenly, the tip of her pencil snapped.

“No…” Jenna whispered with a soft sigh and stood up quietly to look for a sharpener.

Y/n stayed alone. Nervous, hands slightly trembling, heart pounding. She leaned closer to the egg, uncertain, then lifted her gaze.

“Wanna work together?” The voice was gentle, shy.

Y/n turned—and saw Aliyah Ortega.

Jenna’s twin. Similar features but completely different energy: brighter, more outgoing, more radiant. Her brown-golden hair was soft and shiny, her warm smile lit up her face, and her hazel eyes sparkled with curiosity. A thin strawberry-gloss made her lips look shiny.

“Y-yeah…” Y/n murmured, voice trembling. Her heart thudded in the chest.

Aliyah sat next to her, eyes drifting to the egg. “What should we name it?” she asked with a little spark of excitement.

Y/n swallowed. “Eggy?” she proposed timidly.

Aliyah giggled. “Eggy… I like it.”

Then, almost instinctively, she took Y/n’s hand.

“Your moms love you, Eggy.”

Y/n’s heart stopped for a second.

Right then and there, she realized she was gay.

END OF FLASHBACK

“Hey!”

Percy’s voice dragged her back to reality.

“You okay? You’ve been staring into space for ten minutes.”

Y/n blinked. “Yeah, okay… let’s go.”

She opened the car door and got out, slamming it a bit too hard.

Percy caught up.

“You’re coming to the meeting today, right? I’ve gotta work on the presidential campaign with Joy.”

Y/n nodded half-heartedly.“Yeah, yeah.”

They reached the front of the school.

A vandalized wall immediately caught their attention. An upside-down eagle, painted in quick, meaningful strokes. Simple, yet intense. The style was unmistakable: Poison Q. The mysterious artist filling the school with cryptic messages.

Y/n tilted her head, studying the paint lines.

“Nice work, Y/n,” Georgie said as he walked past.

She groaned. “How many times do I have to say it? I’m not Poison Q.”

He smiled, not convinced at all. “Sure. Of course. See you later, Poison Q.”

“Idiot,” she muttered.

Percy laughed and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.“Come on.”

They walked a few steps—then Y/n froze.

Ahead of them, in the crowd, was Aliyah.

Walking with her friends gorgeous as always. Her brown-blonde hair, tied in a high ponytail, bounced at every step. hazel eyes caught the sunlight, glowing warmly. She smiled—that smile that made Y/n forget the world existed.

“It’s in slow motion, isn’t it?” Percy asked, needing no real answer.

“Yeah…” Y/n murmured, smiling like someone hopelessly in love.

“And is there background music?”

“Mmh.”

Percy sighed dramatically.“You’re hopeless.”

He walked ahead. Y/n went to follow—

BAM!

A harsh shoulder-check made her stumble. Her backpack hit the floor with a thud.

“Shit…” a girl groaned.

Y/n turned, rubbing her aching shoulder. She saw Jenna Ortega sitting on the floor, one hand on her elbow, face scrunched in a grimace. Oversized hoodie, black shorts, hood pulled low. Her big brown eyes looked at Y/n with embarrassment and concern.

Jenna hurried to fix her hood.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t see you.”

“It’s fine,” Y/n said with a shy smile—even though she was dying inside.

At her feet lay Jenna’s skateboard. She picked it up, feeling the rough surface under her fingers.

Jenna stood and handed her the backpack.

“Thanks.”

“I’d say that’s a fair trade,” Y/n replied, noticing the little dimples that appeared when Jenna smiled.

Y/n handed back the skateboard. Jenna set it down, one foot already on it, ready to go.

She turned once more.

“So… you’re okay?” she asked softly.

Y/n nodded.“Yeah.”

Jenna smiled briefly, then disappeared into the crowd on her board.

Y/n remained frozen, blinking as if waking from a dream.

(---)

Y/n still couldn’t believe the principal suspected her just because she’d been seen entering the art closet. The whole situation was ridiculous. How could she think she was Poison Q? Yet, as punishment, she’d told her to join a club and, at the same time, investigate the real culprit.

Absurd.

“Hey… it might be your chance to spend time with Aliyah,” Percy teased, smirking.

Y/n glared. “Sure. Because me and sports are best friends.”

Joy laughed and nudged her.“Maybe it won’t be that bad.”

The problem?

The club she’d been assigned to was volleyball.

And the team was led by the Ortega twins: Aliyah—the bright, popular captain— and Jenna, at least ten centimeters shorter but infinitely more intimidating.

When Y/n entered the gym with the newcomers, Coach Méndez looked genuinely surprised.

“Y/n? Didn’t think… well, that you were interested.”

She sighed.“I’m not.”

Her eyes immediately fell on the twins. Standing side by side at the court’s edge, they were impossible to ignore: Aliyah, taller, hair tied up, naturally smiling; Jenna, shorter, black shorts, kneepads, a loose shirt hanging on her small but athletic frame. Her dark hair pulled into a low, neat ponytail.

The coach leaned toward Aliyah, “Keep an eye on her.”

Aliyah followed his gesture, scanning Y/n with simple curiosity, no judgment—like she was observing an interesting phenomenon.

Y/n blushed instantly and turned away.

“Okay guys!” Aliyah clapped. “Let’s start with setting drills.”

Emma Mayers—one of the team starters—stood before Y/n holding the ball. Her blue eyes fixed on Y/n as if trying to silently reassure her: it’s fine.

Y/n took a deep breath, raised her hands and attempted the pass. The ball slipped a little, but she still managed to send it back to Emma.

A few steps away, Jenna was taking notes. Every so often she’d lift her head toward the newbies, eyebrows slightly knit in focused evaluation. When she spotted a mistake, her nose twitched. When she saw something done correctly, a tiny half-smile flickered at the right corner of her lips—for a second.

Emma gave a small, surprised nod.

“Okay. Now the bump.”

She tossed the ball.

Y/n bent her knees, ready.

But the ball hit her right arm and flew wildly off course—straight toward Jenna.

The brunette didn’t even flinch. She tracked it, leaned out of the way and wrote something down. Her lips lifted just barely, expression unreadable.

“Sorry!” Y/n yelled, face burning.

Jenna didn’t reply, but the corner of her mouth rose the tiniest bit.

“Let’s try her as libero?” Aliyah suggested.

Emma nodded. “Jen, spike for a second.”

Jenna didn’t argue. She closed her notebook, set it aside and gave a small nod.

She warmed her shoulders with quick, precise movements.

Aliyah approached Y/n.

“Get into position. Breathe.”

Y/n nodded, though her heart raced from Aliyah’s closeness.

Emma grabbed the ball. “Ready.”

She tossed it high—almost too high.

But Jenna didn’t hesitate.

She waited.

Calculated.

Then sprinted.

Her run was surprisingly light. She jumped, strong and clean, back arched, right arm pulled like a drawn bow. For a moment, Y/n swore she hung in the air.

Jenna’s eyes met hers.

Just for a heartbeat.

Then the spike came.

The ball slammed into the floor with a sharp crack echoing through the gym.

Y/n ducked instinctively.

“…wow,” she whispered, still half-crouched.

Emma took the notebook, jotting something down with a faintly impressed smile.

Practice went on—and for Y/n, it was pure torture. Sprints that burned her lungs, crooked serves, spikes she didn’t even attempt to imitate. When the coach finally blew the whistle she looked pale and disheveled.

“I’m dying,” she wheezed to Joy.“I have no oxygen left.”

Joy tried not to laugh.“You did your best.”

The coach called attention.

“Alright! Results will be posted this afternoon.”

Y/n raised a hand.

“Do I… have a chance?”

The coach stared for a moment.“Honestly? You’re terrible.”

Y/n groaned, while behind her Aliyah bit her lip to hide a laugh.

She had to make this team.

“But… if someone trained me, I could get better, right?” Y/n asked, refusing to look at either twin.

The coach considered it.

“Actually, that’s not a bad idea.”

Then he turned to the twins.“Jenna, you’ll be training Y/n.”

Jenna’s eyes widened.“What? No. I—”

“It’s decided,” he cut her off, already walking away. “No complaints.”

Jenna froze for a couple seconds, then turned to Y/n.

No words.

Just that stare—cold, direct, sharp.

“What do you mean, help you with what!?” Y/n squeaked in disbelief.

The nurse’s eyes widened comically at Wednesday’s reckless proposal, and every fiber in her body went rigid. Her arms tightened around Addams’ waist; nails dragged lightly over the fabric, hesitant, as if battling against her own instincts.

Wednesday pressed her lips into a line so thin it looked like a cut, discomfort carved into that usually unreadable face.

A jolt ran through Y/n — had she hurt her?

The idea stabbed her.

Her teeth clamped down on her lower lip, sinking into soft flesh until a metallic tang reached her tongue. A trembling breath escaped her nose, chest rising unevenly. Wednesday’s gaze fixed on her, unblinking, a flicker of something unreadable passing through those black irises.

Was that amusement?

Or just expectation?

The scent of body wash mixed with warm skin clouded her mind, dissolving rational thought and leaving only the frantic thud of her heartbeat echoing in her ears.

Wednesday tilted her head, the small movement sharpening the angles of her jaw. A slow glide brought Addams’ hand from Y/n’s shoulder down to her sternum, forearm settling as support. Fingers hung in the air near her face.

Close, but not touching.

A black-painted nail hooked a strand of Y/n's hair, brushing it aside.

The jolt snapped through Y/n’s jaw; muscles tensed, the fog lifting just enough for instinct to kick in. Her grip around Wednesday’s hips loosened, then slipped away entirely.

She stepped back.

“I can’t do it,” the whisper barely formed. Her heart hammered hard enough to hurt.

Instinct wanted to trust Wednesday’s words.

Maybe Addams wasn’t capable of something so grotesque — not on her own mother.

But believing and acting were distant worlds.

And getting involved…

If suspicion fell on her?

If someone thought she’d helped?

Her career would evaporate.

Every hospital would blacklist her.

She might end up institutionalized herself.

Or in prison...

Maybe rotting there.

“What do you mean you can’t?” Wednesday’s voice sliced the air, cold enough to burn.

Y/n’s head snapped up. Addams stood with arms crossed, gaze cutting through the room. The tension in her jaw said everything her mouth didn’t. Hidden fists pressed beneath her arms; her posture bristled with barely restrained fury.

A shaky sigh slipped from Y/n, followed by a hard swallow.

“I believe you… but helping means risking my job,” she admitted, trembling. “I could end up in prison.”

Wednesday didn’t blink. Her stare sharpened like a blade. Lips compressed into a thin line. Even the minimal shift of her foot, the near-invisible tightening of her forearms, radiated contained anger.

“I’m sorry, Wed,” Y/n murmured, the nickname falling out coated in a strange sweetness.

The sudden recollection of the breakfast tray struck her — she’d forgotten the medication.

Her hand moved on its own, searching the pocket of her coat until fingers closed around the pill container. The cap twisted off with a small click. Bianca’s prescribed pills for Wednesday rattled inside.

The tension thickened as Wednesday continued watching her.

“I’m sorry too, Y/n,” came the soft reply — but her eyes told a different story: disappointment, frustration, fury layered beneath the calm tone.

Y/n froze, frown deepening… until Wednesday moved.

Too fast.

Instinct tried to pull her backward, but her limbs lagged behind her thoughts.

An arm locked around her, fingers gripping her jaw with controlled precision. A cold ripple slid down her neck as Addams’ hand approached her face — and the pills slipped past her lips.

Her throat seized in shock. Wednesday forced the swallow.

Shit ! Panic flared.

For a single second, their eyes met. Then Y/n staggered toward the door.

The hallway lurched. The floor pitched. Vision fractured in two.

Hands shook violently; legs dragged like dead weight. Breaths came short, urgent.

Her tongue turned thick and stiff, saliva drying instantly.

A thin line of drool slipped from the corner of her mouth. Sweat dotted her forehead as her pulse pounded wildly.

Her body no longer obeyed.

A trembling hand stretched out in desperation. Fingertips scraped the rough wall, grounding her for an instant.

Then her arm slid downward, colliding with someone’s shoulder.

Her breath hitched.

“Y/n?” A woman’s voice, far away, muted by distance.

She tried responding but the tongue lay trapped against her palate.

Saliva accumulated too quickly; panic choked her.

Sweat dripped down her temples.

“Y/n!” The voice neared, sharp and urgent.

An arm wrapped around her waist, catching her collapse.

Her body sagged into a soft support. A hand tilted her chin down, forcing hazy eyes to focus. A light slap tapped her cheek.

Her mind screamed but her limbs stayed useless.

Brown, almond-shaped eyes — terrified, familiar — locked onto hers.

And then everything vanished.

Darkness swallowed her whole.

No sight.

No sound.

(---)

A faint twitch beneath her eyelids signaled the slow return of consciousness.

Her jaw tightened, carving the shape of her bone structure; lips pressed together until they almost fused.

Her tongue felt like stone.

Thoughts drifted behind a heavy fog, unreachable.

Like fragments of a fever dream.

What happened? she wondered silently. But even the question sounded empty. Painful. A distant echo.

And the worst thing about an echo?

The repetition.

The repetition banged inside her skull, each wave sharper than the last.

Her throat contracted reflexively; saliva slid down without easing the burn. A grating sensation scraped her airway, triggering a hoarse cough.

Unused vocal cords protested violently.

A fragile whimper escaped.

“Y/n?” The voice reached her again — closer this time.

She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again, only to close them immediately, unable to endure the harsh brightness. Her lips curled into an expression of discomfort as the light flickered rapidly across her face.

“Thank God you’re awake,” Yoko murmured, rattled.

Dr. Tanaka clicked off the flashlight, worry etched across her features.

Y/n blinked repeatedly, drowning in the cottony fog muffling her thoughts.

Yoko’s gaze narrowed, sharp with reprimand.

A shiver rippled across Y/n’s spine.

Not fear.

Anger.

A buried, throbbing anger cracking through the drug-induced haze.

Her hand dragged over her face, fingers icy against flushed skin.

Tanaka observed with clinical patience.

“Your job is to hand the pills to Wednesday, not to make her take them,” the doctor chided firmly.

The words struck like a slap.

Her pupils tightened, her expression shifted — just barely — a microsecond of ice in her eyes.

It wasn’t the reprimand that got to her.

It was the memory.

Wednesday’s hands on her jaw.

The weight.

The strength.

The controlled, surgical violence.

And above all… that expression. That calm.

Y/n clutched the bedsheets in her fist, her knuckles turning white.

Her breath short. Sharp.

“I…” she began, but her voice died in a whisper.

She couldn’t say anything.

She couldn’t allow herself to say anything.

As angry as she was — and God, she was — something held her back from the truth.

Fear?

Instinct?

Or that damn irrational trust she felt toward her?

She didn’t know.

And she didn’t want to find out right now.

Y/n slowly ran a hand through her hair, brushing a damp strand from her forehead. fingertips still trembled lightly. The world was less blurry than before, but every movement made her temples pound like drums.

She inhaled deeply.

Then, with a tired huff, she pushed herself into a sitting position.

“Ah… shit…” she hissed, pressing two fingers to the throbbing vein near her eye.

The nausea was almost gone, but the headache pierced straight through her skull.

Yoko approached, arms crossed but eyes worried. “You should lie down a bit longer, Y/n.”

“I’m fine,” the nurse lied, though her voice came out softer than intended.

She shifted to lower her legs off the bed…

…but Yoko’s next sentence hit her like a punch to the stomach.

“Oh, by the way… Wednesday was sent to isolation.”

Y/n froze Instantly.

Her breath locked between her ribs.

Her face darkened, eyebrows curving downward in a sharp, shadowed line.

She wasn’t surprised.

She wasn’t relieved.

She was… something more complicated.

A bitter pang, like a nail driven under her skin.

“ok,” she murmured.

And she stood up.

Too fast.

As soon as her feet touched the floor, a violent wave of dizziness clouded her vision. The world tilted 45 degrees. Her heart skipped, knees buckled.

“Whoa— Y/N!”

Yoko grabbed her arms and caught her, then placed a firm hand on her shoulder, pulling her back down with determined gentleness.

“Sit down!” she ordered, her voice firm as steel.

Y/n collapsed back onto the bed, breath short, pupils dilated as if someone had dimmed the lights.

A shiver ran across her shoulder blades.

Yoko sighed deeply, letting her shoulders drop.

“If you stand up like that, you’ll end up fainting on the floor again, and honestly I have no intention of picking you up a second time.”

Y/n tried to steady herself, swallowing hard. “I need… to check the patients… I have the shift…”

“Your shift will start after you stop wobbling like a drunk puppet.”

Yoko pushed her gently toward the pillows.

“Stay here. Rest at least ten minutes. Then you can move.”

Y/n opened her mouth, ready to argue.

But her body betrayed her: another sharp, pounding throb at her temples made her squeeze her eyes shut.

Yoko looked at her with a half-ironic smile.

“See? You can’t even argue properly with me, let alone go to the ward.”

Y/n exhaled weakly.

Tired.

Frustrated.

And with a sharp, twisting discomfort in her stomach at the thought of Wednesday in isolation.

Alone.

Restrained.

Watched.

Did she deserve it? Probably yes.

But the feeling was far from pleasant.

“Ten minutes,” she muttered, almost growling.

“Good girl.” Yoko tapped her shoulder lightly. “And don’t even think about running off. I’m watching you.”

Y/n closed her eyes for a moment, her chest still unsettled.

The thought of Wednesday came to her and a shadow of worry — small but real — crossed her face.

Why did she do it?

Y/n’s eyes stared at the cherry tomato she held between her fingers, but her gaze was empty, distant. Her mind was stuck on the conversation with Wednesday from a week ago — a memory that kept replaying on loop, like a scratched record.

Y/n furrowed her brows, made a grimace and exhaled softly through her nostrils, placing the tomato with the others in the bag.

She weighed it, then put it in the cart.

Her heart pounded fiercely against her ribcage, and a heaviness gripped her chest, making it hard to breathe deeply. The nurse rested her forearms on the bar of the cart and pushed it forward.

The wheels screeched against the supermarket floor.

Her eyes darted quickly to a young mother shopping with her small child. An unconscious smile touched her lips as she met the child’s gaze; he couldn’t have been more than two years old. The little boy returned the smile, a thin line of drool running down his chin as he flailed his arms happily, delighted just to be noticed. Y/n looked away, gripping the cart handle, and headed to the pasta aisle. She grabbed a couple of packs and arranged them with the rest of the groceries, trying to shake off the weight of the thoughts still pressing on her chest.

She trusted Wednesday.

Or at least, that’s what she kept telling herself.

But the more she thought about it, the more that thought seemed fragile, thin as a thread that could snap at the slightest doubt.

A part of her wanted to believe her — wanted to believe that cracked voice, those jet-black eyes that had glistened with tears while telling her, the flushed cheeks, the way she sniffed and the slight tremble of her chin.

That image tormented her.

It was impossible not to see the pain, the genuine fear that had crossed Wednesday’s face in that moment.

Yet another part — the colder part, the one that had learned not to be fooled by feelings because of her work — kept whispering that she shouldn’t trust what Addams had said.

What if she was just telling a story?

That thought hurt but it stayed there, persistent, like a thorn she couldn’t remove from her heart.

She sighed and got in line, thanking heaven that no one was ahead of her.

She took the products out of the cart and placed them on the conveyor belt, watching the cashier pass them one by one with the bored expression of someone dreaming only of the end of her shift.

Y/n looked at the name tag pinned to the red shirt: Vicky.

She swallowed, her palms damp with nervousness.

Then her gaze slid to the shelves next to the checkout — gums, candies, chocolate bars. Her tongue brushed the inside of her cheek and clicked lightly against the roof of her mouth.

What if I got her something?

A wave of heat rose to her cheeks and the lump in her throat made it hard to swallow. It was a silly thought, she knew, but at the same time it was a way to make amends, to say “I’m sorry” without using words.

Maybe even to ask for forgiveness.

For a week, Wednesday had hardly spoken to her, except for short, sharp replies during routine checks. Y/n knew she should focus solely on her job as a nurse, but inevitably, she felt the distance like a sentence. She had tried talking to her, reading again for her, but every time Wednesday seemed to close off a little more as if her voice had become unwanted background noise.

And maybe it really was.

After all, Wednesday had opened up to her, confided in her, and she had met that with a doubtful look?

She couldn’t blame her if Wednesday was angry.

But these days of silent treatment had allowed her to think more, to analyze the situation from an outside perspective. Y/n wanted to trust her instincts, and her instincts told her to believe Wednesday’s words.

Innocent until proven guilty, she told herself mentally.

Two fingers snapped in front of her face. Y/n jumped, finding herself facing the cashier, who looked at her impatiently.

“Cash or card?” Vicky asked, her voice flat but tinged with annoyance.

“C–card,” Y/n stammered, forcing an awkward smile.

The warmth of embarrassment lingered stubbornly. Y/n lowered her head, letting her hair fall like a curtain over her face, and pretended to focus on finding her wallet in her bag.

She bit her lower lip and unzipped the wallet to pull out the card.

Y/n lifted her head, senses slightly blurred from the rapid movement, and offered the card to Vicky with two fingers. Then her gaze returned to the chocolate bar on the shelf. She inhaled slowly, as if gathering courage.

“Can you add this too, please?” she whispered, her tone hesitant but determined.

A small gesture, perhaps pointless.

But trying doesn’t hurt, does it?

(...)

The next morning, Y/n crossed the threshold of the hospital with a mixture of excitement and nervousness that made every step vibrate.

The regular sound of her nurse clogs on the floor echoed in the bright corridors of Nevermore. She walked quickly, her arms swinging lightly by her sides while her fingers brushed absentmindedly against the smooth fabric of her light blue pants — cotton and polyester, rough under her fingertips from repeated industrial washes.

Her heart pounded, hammering in her chest as if it wanted to be heard more than her mind. Her palms, already damp, wiped instinctively on her pants.

In the side pocket, the chocolate bar seemed heavier than it should — a tiny object, yet capable of making her hands tremble.

She turned the corner and the metallic sound of wheels made her glance up. An OSS was pushing the breakfast cart, the steam rising from the small holes in the steel lid drifting through the air.

“Good morning, Tayler!” Y/n exclaimed, her voice brighter than usual.

The boy — brown-haired, tousled, with a lazy smile — raised an eyebrow at her unusually cheerful tone, but then returned the smile. “Good morning, Y/n… You’re in a good mood today, huh?” he muttered, dragging the words with curiosity.

She nodded, letting out a nervous laugh.

A lock of hair fell in front of her face, and with a fluid — almost impatient — gesture she tucked it behind her ear.

“The Addams tray is here.”

Tayler tilted his chin down, pointing to a metal tray labeled with a small white tag.

Y/n followed the gesture, smiled, and let her finger slowly trace the label: W. Addams. Just the touch of the faded ink sent a wave of emotion through her.

“Thanks,” she murmured and Tayler gave her a distracted nod before moving away down the corridor.

With the tray steady in her hands, Y/n made her way toward room 77. Her steps slowed as she neared the door; she greeted colleagues with a smile, returned nods from a few patients, but her mind was already beyond — behind that closed door.

At the threshold, she took a deep breath.

She opened the door.

Wednesday was seated at the desk, her back straight, her profile sharp in the cold light filtering through the window. Her head was slightly tilted, gaze lost on an undefined point ahead, brows furrowed in concentration. Wednesday's fingers moved with the precise calm of a repeated gesture, braiding her raven hair. Each movement measured, exact — right strand over center, left strand over center — the braid taking shape: neat, severe, impeccable, like everything about her.

For a moment, Y/n froze in the doorway.

Watching her was like witnessing a ritual.

The nurse bit her lower lip and stepped slowly toward the desk. Wednesday’s dark eyes flicked toward her for a brief instant, then returned to the wall. Her jaw remained tight, a clear sign of irritation.

Y/n stopped and leaned slightly to place the tray on the table; the metal gave a dull thud that echoed softly in the silent room. Wednesday didn’t move, only tilting her eyes slightly toward the contents: warm milk, bread, strawberry jam.

She wrinkled her nose and exhaled through her nostrils.

Y/n swallowed loudly, the heart pounded against her ribcage. She moved closer, her breath brushing Wednesday’s ear.

Wednesday addams shivered.

Y/n exhaled softly and parted her lips. “I brought you something,” she whispered, low, almost timid.

Wednesday’s shoulders stiffened, jaw clenched. She exhaled again through her nostrils, glancing sideways to meet Y/n’s gaze.

Y/n looked away for a moment, then back up.

“It’s nothing,” she added in a whisper.

Y/n straightened and cast a quick glance at the door, ensuring no one was passing. Wednesday watched her, intrigued despite her distant air.

Y/n slipped her hand into her pocket and pulled out the chocolate bar, placing it delicately on the tray next to the milk and bread. The corner of Wednesday’s mouth twitched in a brief, restrained smile, her eyes betraying a hint of curiosity.

Wednesday slowly reached for the bar.

“I’ve been thinking,” Y/n said, low but steady. “And I believe you.”

Wednesday froze mid-movement. She tilted her chin toward her, studying her closely, searching for any sign of deceit. She found none.

A small smile tugged at her lips.

Then, without warning, she stepped forward and pressed herself against Y/n.

The nurse stiffened, startled by the sudden contact. Curiosity mingled with fear that Wednesday might hurt her at such close range, yet inevitably, feeling Wednesday’s warmth against her made her relax. Her stomach twisted pleasantly at the sensation. Slowly, she lifted her arms and wrapped them around Addams’ petite waist.

Addams paused briefly, then rested her head against Y/n’s neck, the tip of her nose brushing her carotid.

Her warm breath caressed the skin.

“But this doesn’t change anything,” Y/n whispered, her voice just trembling.

Her heart raced uncontrollably, impossible to ignore.

“You’re stuck here,” she added almost in a whisper, one hand moving palm-flat along Wednesday’s back.

Wednesday gently tightened her arms around Y/n’s neck and pulled back slightly. She wrinkled her button nose, her freckles shifting lightly, and let a genuine smile slip across her lips, a small dimple appearing on her right cheek.

“That’s why I need your help,” she whispered, her voice steady.

“Help me get out of here"

"Did you really kill your mother?"

The question fell heavy, dense as lead. Something in the air cracked: an imperceptible change, yet so sharp that Y/n felt as if the room had shrunk. The atmosphere thickened between them, opaque, still — you could almost cut it with a knife.

Wednesday blinked.

Her eyebrows rose, betraying surprise for a fleeting moment before the mask returned to close. She clenched her jaw imperceptibly, and an undefinable glimmer passed through her pitch-black eyes. Wednesday Addams wrinkled her nose, and her cupid's bow lips curved upward, marking a dimple on her right cheek. Y/n watched the other girl nervously, her heart hammering ferociously against her ribcage. Blood pounded in her ears, her palms were damp with sweat, and her breath came short and heavy. A knot in her throat made it difficult to speak, and her entire body was tense, as if waiting for a response capable of destroying her.

That shiver of anticipation before the painful realization.

"And what if I did?" Wednesday replied with a sly smile.

But Wednesday’s voice sounded small. It wasn’t the tone of someone who could hide their true thoughts or feelings behind a cold, indifferent facade. Addams clenched her jaw, lowered her eyelids, and her facial features relaxed into an expression of surrender.

"If I told you no… would you believe me?" she asked, dragging her words with effort.

Y/n tensed, her fingers clenching in a nervous gesture. Wednesday slowly lifted her gaze and stared at her without blinking, then lowered her eyes to her lap. Her eyebrows furrowed, and one corner of her lips lifted into a tired smile. Addams gently tugged at the cuff of her white uniform.

Y/n’s heart pounded in her chest, and her hands trembled slightly. For a moment, she closed her eyes, inhaling deeply to calm the knot in her throat. A trembling sigh escaped her lips, and she bit the inside of her cheek, the metallic taste of blood brushing her tongue.

"Then tell me what happened," Y/n said in a whisper.

"Why should I? You wouldn’t believe me anyway," Wednesday shot back, her tone sharp, as if stating a fact.

Wednesday pressed her hands to her knees and lifted herself off the windowsill, her bare feet clattering on the floor before she sat on the bed, a few meters from Y/n. The nurse followed Wednesday’s movements with her eyes, her breath heavy and uneven. She felt a strange knot in her stomach, making her nauseous.

For a moment, there was silence, and the only thing Y/n could perceive was the hammering of her heart in her ears.

"I came home late… around 11 PM. The house was silent, and the door was ajar… at that point I thought my father and Pugsley had returned from their trip, right?" Wednesday began, her jaw tightening.

Y/n looked at her face, concentrating intensely to not miss a single subtle reaction. Strands of her black hair fell across her face, and without breaking eye contact, Wednesday raised her hand automatically, her slender fingers brushing the bridge of her nose as she pushed them aside.

"But there was a strange silence…" Wednesday continued in a thin voice. "At that point I went upstairs to ask my mother what was happening… when… when…" She stammered, clenching her jaw.

Her high cheekbones became more pronounced as her jaw tensed, betraying the tension she tried to hide.

"I saw my mother in bed, covered in blood. I screamed, and my immediate reaction was to try to call her, shake her… But then I saw the wound on her neck…" She paused, her jaw trembling.

"It was inflicted with such force that it almost decapitated her," she admitted.

Wednesday blinked; her eyelashes fluttered as tears threatened to fall. One tear slid down her cheek, crossing her freckles, and slowly fell from her chin. Her eyes were glossy, and her jaw shook violently.

Wednesday sniffled and hiccupped.

"They found my fingerprints… but that’s because I was trying to save her, trying to call her!" she said, her voice trembling, broken by sadness.

Y/n swallowed audibly, her teeth biting the soft flesh of her lower lip in a nervous gesture.

The confusion was evident, almost impossible to hide. A person couldn’t react like this if they had killed someone in such a brutal way, Y/n told herself mentally — but what if she was so cunning she could fake it? Fake crying? Bianca’s words, warning her to be careful because Wednesday was a skilled manipulator, flashed through her mind like a blinding flash and her heart clenched in a vice.

Wednesday blinked and raised her arm to wipe away tears with the cotton sleeve of her psychiatric uniform. Her vision was still slightly blurred, her lips trembling, her cheeks flushed from crying.

When she met Y/n’s gaze, she saw the confusion and that barely perceptible doubt in her eyes. A flash of disappointment and anger crossed her face. She had opened up, shared something intimate and terrible… and now she was repaid with that uncertain expression? The thought made her furious.

She turned her head sharply to the other side, trying to control her frustration. "Go away," she said, her voice cutting.

Y/n froze, confused, and the silence that followed made her hesitate. "I told you to go away!" Wednesday repeated, more vehemently.

With a sigh, Y/n got up from the chair. She absentmindedly picked up the book Frankenstein and headed toward the door. Before leaving, however, she cast one last glance at Wednesday, who remained rigid on the bed, her shoulders tense, her gaze fixed ahead, tears still ready to fall. Y/n closed the door behind her, leaving the girl alone with her memories and her own anger.

(...)

What if she really was innocent?

Y/n bit her lower lip, lost in thought. She furrowed her brows and walked down the hallway of the psychiatric hospital, the rhythmic sound of her nurse clogs echoing against the white walls. Every step seemed to match the pace of her thoughts—fast, tangled, relentless.

She was clutching the book so tightly her knuckles had turned white.

Bianca Barclay slowed her pace and, hesitant, approached her colleague. Her expression creased into a mix of confusion and curiosity.

“Y/n? What are you still doing here?” she asked, genuinely puzzled. She blinked, glancing at her wristwatch. “Your shift ended half an hour ago.”

“I had some… complications,” Y/n muttered, grimacing slightly.

Bianca studied her for a moment, then her face softened with an expression that silently said, I get it. Y/n gave her a tired smile and headed toward the Nurses’ Station, silently thanking her for not asking any more questions.

A long, frustrated sigh escaped her lips.

She’d read that Wednesday had called the police after her mother’s murder. Who calls the authorities after committing murder? she wondered. And yet… the Menéndez brothers had done exactly that, after blasting their parents to death with shotguns.

A shiver ran down her spine.

She caught Divina’s gaze and handed her the book. “Would you mind holding this for me?” she asked softly.

Divina took it, puzzled. Her green eyes flicked over the title before she nodded and placed it beside her workstation.

Y/n gave her a small, grateful smile.

As she turned, her eyes fell on Room 68 — Isaac Night.

A wave of anger tightened her stomach. Just remembering the venomous words he’d thrown at Wednesday made her blood boil. And yet, seeing his swollen face, the split cheekbone, the bruises covering his skin, stirred a dark, shameful satisfaction deep inside her.

She blinked, almost annoyed at herself.

She stepped aside to let Marie pass, pushing a patient in a wheelchair.

Y/n gave her a mechanical smile, then scratched her temple nervously. A lock of hair fell in front of her face, and she brushed it away with her fingers, sighing.

The exhaustion of the day weighed on her shoulders like a wet blanket.

She reached the locker room, grabbed her jacket and bag, and left.

The cold evening air hit her square in the face. The chill stung her cheeks, making her shiver. She pulled the jacket tighter around her neck and looked up at the illuminated sign:

Nevermore Psychiatric Hospital.

The white letters glowed against the darkness, and for a moment Y/n thought the artificial light made the place look even more haunting.

Then she saw her. A figure standing by a second-floor window. Her breath caught in her throat.

Wednesday Addams.

The sterile light of the room cast a faint glow around her small frame. But her face… her face was different.

Wednesday was staring out, eyes fixed on something impossibly distant. The sadness softened her features as she gazed outside, longing for a world just out of reach.

Their eyes met.

Wednesday frowned, her jaw tightening in a sharp clench.

Instinctively, Y/n lifted a hand in a hesitant wave.

Wednesday blinked, almost in confusion. Then she brushed a strand of black hair from her face — her slender fingers grazing her forehead — and turned away, disappearing into the room.

Y/n’s hand lingered in the air for a moment before slowly falling back to her side. A wounded expression crossed her face. She stood there, motionless, as the wind tousled her hair and her heart pounded harder in her chest.

What if she really was innocent?

The rhythmic sound of her nurse clogs filled the hallway as she descended the stairs toward the lower floor: the isolation ward.

Y/n jaw was clenched, her eyebrows furrowed in a faint expression of annoyance. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, and her fingers gripped tightly around the canvas strap of her nurse’s bag. Y/n wrinkled her nose, then sighed softly, resigned. The thought of having to see Wednesday again twenty-eight hours after the incident in the patient's lounge brought up a subtle nervousness, amplified by the anger at what Weems had told her.

Flashback

“It’s… inconceivable.” Dr. Weems dragged out the words with effort, trying to stay calm while the anger was clearly visible in her eyes.

Y/n stood in front of her boss’s desk, her head lowered toward the floor as she listened, embarrassed, to the lecture of the imposing blonde woman. She swallowed, her heart pounding in her temples like a drum, and lifted her chin slightly, her jaw tight with tension. Her index finger absently twisted a loose thread on her uniform, winding it around her finger before pulling it tight until she felt a faint numbness at her fingertip.

A strangely reassuring pressure.

“I’m sorry,” she forced out, the knot in her throat so tight that the words came out flat and faint. Her jaw trembled, and the young nurse tried to hold back the tears that stung at the corners of her eyes.

Larissa’s expression softened.

“It could’ve ended much worse, you know?” she said weakly, without anger. “I worry about the well-being of the hospital staff.” She paused, her blue eyes searching Y/n’s.

“You had a mental blackout… You weren’t able to intervene,” she added, simply stating a fact.

Y/n exhaled through her nostrils and loosened the thread, allowing blood to flow back to the numbed area.

“Did I make a mistake assigning this task to you?” Weems asked, her voice tinged with disappointment.

Y/n’s head snapped up, her eyes widening as a growing panic coiled in her stomach. She bit the inside of her cheek, swallowed hard, trying to find her words.

“No,” she said firmly, surprising even herself.

“You ignored Bianca’s order three times,” Larissa exclaimed, arching a brow. “You were completely terrified of Wednesday,” she concluded, fixing her with an intense gaze.

Y/n held her breath. A fire burned in her chest—anger not only for having disappointed Larissa and Bianca, but also herself. She wasn’t the type to give up at the first obstacle, and she wouldn’t allow Wednesday to be the cause of her failure… or the reason she might lose her job—or worse, her chance to transfer to another ward, sealing her defeat.

“I’m not afraid of Wednesday,” Y/n whispered venomously, narrowing her eyes and clenching her jaw to control the rising fury.

“Then act like it.” Larissa sat down at her desk, ending the conversation.

End of flashback

The memory faded slowly, leaving Y/n’s mind slightly clouded. Without realizing it, she had already reached her destination. She took a deep breath, trying to clear the haze of thoughts and remain calm. She pushed open the heavy door leading to the isolation area; the metal creaked under the pressure, a low sound echoing down the corridor.

She lifted her gaze and saw Eugene standing in front of a door.

Presumably Wednesday’s, she realized.

Tightening her grip on the bag’s strap, she walked toward the guard. The man turned as he heard the sound of her footsteps and smiled politely, a flash of recognition lighting up his coffee-colored eyes.

“Sorry I’m late,” Y/n said, forcing a smile—but the expression looked more like a grimace than a smile.

“No problem…” Eugene raised a hand and adjusted his glasses, the index finger pushing the bridge of the Ray-Ban Clubmaster back up his nose. “Ready?” the man asked kindly, the smile revealing an unusual gentleness behind his braces.

Y/n exhaled audibly through her lips and gave a faint nod. A few strands of hair fell across her face, and she lifted a free hand to brush them aside. Her eyes drifted to the small reinforced plexiglass window in the door: through the thick pane, she could make out the faintly lit figure of Wednesday Addams.

The metallic sound of keys turning broke the silence. The guard opened the door slowly, casting a cold, contemptuous glance toward Wednesday.

“Good morning, Hannibal” he said sarcastically, his lips curling into a mocking smile.

Then, without waiting for a reply, he flung the door open and let Y/n inside.

Y/n stepped across the threshold, the sterile scent of the isolation room hitting her immediately: smooth beige walls with padded panels, an anti-slip floor, a bed bolted to the ground, and a small metal sink in the corner.

The room couldn’t have been larger than six square meters, she noted mentally.

Her eyes flicked upward, immediately noticing the neon light embedded in the ceiling, protected by shatterproof glass. She blinked and refocused on Wednesday Addams.

The girl didn’t look well, she realized.

Wednesday sat on the bed bolted to the floor, the stiff mattress sinking under her weight. Her black hair, stripped of any shine, fell across her face, forming a curtain that partly hid her pale skin. Y/n’s breath caught in her throat: a plastic mask covered the lower half of Wednesday’s face, from her cheekbones down, strapped tightly around her jaw, preventing her from moving her mouth.

Wednesday eyebrows were furrowed, her eyelids low, and her black eyes fixed on Y/n with intense focus, pupils slightly dilated.

“Let’s begin, then…” Y/n cleared her throat, a heavy weight pressing against her chest at the sight of Wednesday’s condition. She forced herself to ignore the feeling, tilted her chin toward her nurse’s bag, unzipped it distractedly, and pulled out a flashlight.

She leaned closer and turned it on; the beam illuminated Wednesday’s eyes. Her pupils constricted immediately, almost mechanically, then dilated again when Y/n turned the light off. The other eye reacted the same way, perfectly symmetrical.

“Pupils react well,” Y/n murmured, her voice calm and neutral, trying not to betray the tension tightening her chest.

She placed the flashlight back in her bag, her gaze falling on Wednesday’s wrist, bound by a leather strap. Wednesday immediately averted her eyes, as if embarrassed to be seen in such a vulnerable state. Y/n clenched her jaw slightly, exhaled softly, and took her wrist gently. Her fingers traced slowly along the skin, examining the area beneath the strap for abrasions or bruises. When she pressed her fingertips down, she felt a faint tremor under her touch, and Wednesday shivered. With her thumb, Y/n caressed a slight abrasion, noting the reddened skin and the imperceptible but clear reaction from the girl.

Y/n raised her hand and brushed aside Wednesday’s bangs, revealing a small scar on her pale skin. The girl flinched again, exhaling sharply through her nose, her breath fogging the plastic mask that covered half her face.

A muffled grunt escaped from beneath it.

Gently, Y/n’s hand moved toward Wednesday’s neck, brushing her jet-black hair aside. Her skin was smooth but tense beneath the contact; Y/n pressed two fingers against her pulse, counting the beats, feeling her heart steady but slightly accelerated.

“All right, everything’s fine,” Y/n murmured, trying to convey reassurance with a faint, encouraging smile.

Wednesday stared back at her with curiosity—motionless, unblinking.

(---)

She’s just a patient like any other, Y/n told herself mentally.

Wednesday Addams had returned to her room after two days spent in isolation.

In the meantime, Y/n had made herself a promise: to put an end to the power game Wednesday seemed intent on maintaining between them. She would no longer be the silent victim of her provocations, but instead, try to build a different balance — more peaceful, if possible.

She wasn’t afraid of her. And she had no intention of giving up.

She clenched her jaw, and a spark of determination appeared in her eyes.

Her fingers tightened around the metal tray as she crossed the threshold, the sharp sound of her footsteps breaking the room’s silence. Y/n’s gaze immediately found the figure perched on the windowsill, illuminated by the milky light streaming through the glass.

Wednesday didn’t seem to acknowledge her arrival, remaining still, staring out the window.

Y/n sighed audibly and walked toward the desk to set the tray down. She bit her lower lip, thoughtful and looked at the plate of rice accompanied by steamed vegetables drizzled with a touch of olive oil.

She blinked, and her attention shifted to the book she had placed on the tray along with the meal: Frankenstein by Mary Shelley.

She bit her lip again, the seed of doubt whispering that this was a terrible idea. But she wanted to do it, she told herself firmly.

She left the tray on the desk and picked up the book, her fingers closing around the hard cover before dropping into the chair.

She cleared her throat and began to read.

“I was born in Geneva, and my family is one of the most distinguished of that republic.”

Her voice was calm, steady.

Wednesday turned her gaze from the window to Y/n, confusion flickering across her features. The milky light illuminated one side of her face, giving her an almost angelic aura: pale skin, her right eye slightly lighter due to the sunlight. High cheekbones, a tense jaw, and her nose wrinkled slightly, making her freckles “dance”—even more visible from that angle. Her lips, shaped in a Cupid’s bow, were pressed into a hard line. Her hair fell in dark waves over her shoulders, the fringe clinging to her forehead.

“What are you doing?” Wednesday asked, her tone cold but with a hint of curiosity she couldn’t hide.

“Reading a book?” Y/n answered plainly, the corner of her lips curling slightly upward.

Wednesday frowned and drew her knees to her chest, folding her arms atop them.

“Why would you?” she asked, bitterness in her tone.

“I don’t think you’ve got much else to do. I’m keeping your mind occupied,” Y/n replied with a small shrug, her gaze returning to the book.

“My ancestors had been for many years counsellors and syndics, and my father had filled several public situations with honour and reputation.”

She continued reading, her tone calm and measured.

“He was respected by all who knew him for his integrity and indefatigable attention to public business.”

Y/n paused and bit her lower lip, glancing up at Wednesday.

Addams had rested her chin on her knees, her pitch-black eyes fixed on her.

“His indefatigable attention to public business…”

Wednesday repeated, her lower lip twitching in the hint of a smile she quickly suppressed. “I’m listening,” she muttered then, her tone neutral.

“He passed his younger days perpetually occupied by the affairs of his country; a variety of circumstances had prevented his marrying early, nor was it until the decline of life that he became a husband and the father of a family.”

Y/n kept reading for almost twenty minutes, but her mind began to drift elsewhere, forcing her to reread sentences or find the point where she’d lost track. Her voice remained calm but had lost its previous serenity; something was bothering her and it was clear she was fighting the urge to ask Wednesday what had been haunting her thoughts for days.

Apparently, Wednesday noticed.

“Say it,” Wednesday began, moving her legs until her feet touched the floor. “You want to ask me something—I can see it on your face.”

Y/n slipped a bookmark between the pages and closed the book.

Her eyes darted to Wednesday’s, and she intertwined her fingers in a nervous gesture.

“Did you really kill your mother?”