#itsnotyouithink

The morning light dripped in through the dorm window like pale syrup - thin and gray, soft enough not to wake you, but invasive enough to settle across your face. You stirred beneath your duvet, half-buried under the weight of your own dreams, a fog still coating your skull when the knock came.

Not a polite knock.

A Wednesday knock: three deliberate taps like a judge passing sentence.

You sat up slowly, hair askew and pillow-creased skin buzzing with sleep, your roommate already gone judging by the missing boots by the door. Yoko always left early, claiming the cafeteria "felt more romantic before 8 a.m." Whatever that meant. You just chalked it off to some vampire acknowledgment - Yoko had always been a romantic.

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed and crossed the room in a half-stumble, hoodie hanging off one shoulder and socks mismatched. You didn't expect her. Not like this. Not before breakfast or before you'd even wiped the sleep from your eyes and the night off your skin.

You cracked the door open.

She stood there, black Nevermore attire ironed, expression unreadable and mouth set in a line so sharp it might've been carved. Her eyes scanned you once - sunscreen perfume, sleepy scowl, the exposed collar of your neck - then flicked away, unimpressed.

"I assume you're functional enough to retain information?" she asked flatly.

You blinked. "Good morning to you too."

"I wanted to start my day with investigating," she replied, already pushing past you and stepping into your dorm without invitation. "But unfortunately, if we're going to make this charade believable, we'll have to coordinate... appearances."

You shut the door behind her, rubbing your temple. "You're really doing this, huh?"

"Regrettably." Her voice broke the silence first - flat and final, like the clang of a cell door locking shut. She sat at the very edge of your desk chair, posture ramrod straight, hands folded neatly atop her lap like she was preparing to deliver a verdict. Or a eulogy.

Probably both.

She didn't bother acknowledging the chaos of your room - the scattered trinkets, the stray shells still damp from your night bath, the iridescent comb you hadn't bothered to hide, or the shining golden box on your windowsill. Her gaze brushed over them with mechanical efficiency, catching only on the folded paper near your elbow. TREATY, written in your scrawl. Her expression didn't change, but you saw the way her eye lingered. She was intrigued about the politics of the ocean and you both knew she'd be back to read it when you weren't here.

Wednesday Addams didn’t need permission, only opportunity.

"We need to establish parameters," she said without preamble.

You raised a brow. She didn't look up from the notebook in her hand as she spoke to you, "What we are and are not willing to do in public. Who is in on the arrangement. How we will respond to inquiries. The logistics of affection."

"Logistics of affection," you repeated, trying not to laugh.

She finally looked at you then - expression unreadable, but eyes sharp. "The illusion only works if it's believable. Although the students here are idiotic, they are not stupid when it comes to childish rumors such as.. us. They'll notice if the performance is inconsistent. If you flinch every time I stand too close. Or avoid looking at me when someone says the word girlfriend."

You looked away, just for a second.

"So," she continued, flipping a page, "we determine the baseline. How long we've allegedly been involved. What the origin story is. The degree of closeness we're comfortable maintaining."

"And what about..." You hesitated, watching her closely. "Things like.. uh, I don’t know.. kissing?"

Wednesday didn't blink.

"If required," she said simply. "But no. I don't believe in unnecessary displays."

You felt the air in the room shift - just barely. A quiet stillness clinging to the moment like fog.

"Right," you said. "Obvi."

She turned another page.

"Enid already suspects something," she added, tone carefully neutral. "Your performance after the carnival yesterday was unconvincing. You glanced at me like I'd stepped on your tail."

You blinked. "I did not and sorry for being a bit fucking traumatized after seeing someone die. Unlike you, Wednesday, I’m not a fan of the macabre."

"You did," she said, snapping the notebook closed. "If you intend to deceive the entirety of Nevermore - and your father - you'll need to improve your reflexes. Affection shouldn't look like fear."

"I wasn't afraid," you said, sharper than you meant to.

Wednesday tilted her head, studying you in that unnervingly precise way she always did - like she was preparing to dissect a lie you hadn’t spoken yet, an autopsy of your silences. Her eyes didn’t just look at you; they examined, peeled, lingered. It was the kind of gaze that made your lungs tighten and your pulse quicken, though not from fear - something stranger, something deeper. No one had ever looked at you like that before. Certainly never Bianca or anyone else on the campus.

With Bianca, everything had always been fast and hot and shallow. That short-lived relationship you shared with the popular siren flickered like a match - brief, bright, and burning at the edges. It wasn’t bad, just… weightless. Sparse affection doled out between practice and gossip, whispered flirtations passed like notes in class, and stolen make-out sessions that felt more like performances than connection. Your hands would clutch at each other’s clothes, gasping into each other’s mouths like you were both trying to forget something, as if the steam of her dorm room could make the rest of the world disappear.

It never did.

But you weren’t the only water-born girl with a fractured home and salt in her wounds. That’s how it started, really - your friendship with her. Bonded by the familiar ache of family dysfunction and the unspoken grief of girls who spent too long pretending to be whole. You understood each other in that way, at least for a little while. But it wasn’t intimacy. Not like this. Not like the way Wednesday looked at you now, like she saw every cracked shell and tangled net in your chest - and wasn’t scared off.

The worst part about her stare was she didn’t even mean it. It wasn’t on purpose, and that was one of the most frightening things about this entire situation.

"No," she said after a beat. "I don't think you were."

You didn't respond.

The room felt smaller.

Eventually, she stood.

"We'll begin tomorrow," she said, adjusting her bag over one shoulder. "The lie becomes truth through repetition. If anyone asks, you kissed me behind the greenhouses last Thursday."

You blinked. "Wait - why am I the one who kissed you? Why not the other way around?”

She turned slowly, fixing you with a look so flat it might’ve been carved from stone. “Because this entire charade was your idea, and I refuse to take credit for something so painfully idiotic.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but she cut you off with a slight tilt of her head - curious, condescending. “And let’s be honest… between the two of us, you’re the one more likely to make a reckless emotional gesture. I don’t initiate fairy tale nonsense. I dismantle it, mermaid.”

She said it like you were the fairytale myth - which, I guess you kind of were.

Then, with a near-imperceptible smirk: “Besides, no one would believe I kissed someone out of affection. Pity, maybe. Or strategic manipulation.”

She turned toward the door, then paused. Without looking back, she added, "You hesitated before asking about kissing. Why?"

You swallowed, "Just curious."

Wednesday nodded once. "I thought so."

And then she was gone - quiet as shadow, sharp as a scalpel. Leaving you alone with the treaty, the echo of her voice, and the faint scent of nightshade lingering in the air.

————

"Oh, Miss Marina!"

Principal Weems' voice rang out as she stepped directly into your path, blocking your descent down the wide, echoing staircase that led to the breakfast hall. You halted, the heel of your boot catching slightly on the stone, irritated more by the interruption than the near stumble.

"You took off rather quickly last night," she noted, her tone carefully measured, almost casual - but you knew her well enough to hear the edge beneath it.

You sighed and rolled your eyes, offering a small flick of your fingers to signal your friends to go on without you. "Well, considering I watched someone get murdered, I wasn't exactly in the mood for funnel cake and carnival games anymore. The scent of blood and death kind of ruined it for me.”

Your words hung there like fog - thick, undeniable, and slightly inappropriate. But you didn't care.

Your history with Principal Weems had always been complicated: tense, but not cruel. In many ways, she was the only adult on staff who hadn't treated you like a bomb with a crown. She hadn't recoiled at your name, hadn't tiptoed around the legacy of your father's reign. She was the first to speak up for you at parent weekends, the last to shut up about your academic record when visiting dignitaries toured the school. Maybe it had started as a political move - proof that royalty trusted Nevermore - but over time, something real had settled between you. An understanding, maybe. A loyalty you didn't ask for but couldn't ignore.

During your first year, you'd been insufferable. Furious at the world, swollen with rage and freshly disillusioned by your family name. You broke rules like it was a sport, and every detention felt like a protest. But Weems had never flinched. Never looked afraid of you.

"I hate to inform you," she said now, her voice still even but laced with something firmer, "but there was no murder, Y/N. No body was found.”

You blinked. Your brows pulled in sharply. "What?"

"There was no blood," she added. "Nothing to indicate anything... violent occurred."

Your throat tightened. "That's not possible," you said, quieter this time. "I saw it. It was on my hands - my face." Your voice cracked. "It was everywhere, you saw me! You saw the blood!”

"Y/N," she stepped in closer, dropping her voice, "I need you to lower yours."

"No," you hissed, your voice pitching up again as your frustration boiled over. "There's something out there. A thing, not a person. Not a prank. Not a nightmare. It was real - fangs, claws, the whole creature-feature lineup. People are getting ripped apart in those woods, and now you're standing here gaslighting me?"

Weems' expression shifted - not angry, not surprised, but firm. She squared her shoulders and pressed her hands together in front of her like she was about to pray or lecture. "This isn't the place for this. We can continue this conversation in my office. Privately. And... it may be time to revisit your sessions with Dr. Kinbott."

The air left your lungs in a sharp scoff.

Of course. Dr. Kinbott.

There were only four people in the entire world who knew the extent of your anger issues: your mother, your father, Principal Weems, and Dr. fucking Kinbott. The state-appointed royal therapist. Therapy was mandatory for royal bloodlines - some antiquated law meant to ensure that heirs weren't completely unhinged. It didn't work. The whole bloodline was a complete fucking mess.

You crossed your arms and leaned in, your voice low and venomous. "You think I've been what - murdering people in my spare time? Just because my power hungry dad is still a world-class bastard?"

"I didn't say that," Weems replied calmly, her voice so collected it made you want to scream. She gently touched a hand to the crest embroidered on her Nevermore uniform, a silent reminder of control, of decorum, of responsibility.

"I just want to make sure you're alright. Present," she added, offering a small, practiced smile.

You didn't return it. You didn't flinch either.

After a pause, her voice returned to its usual crisp professionalism. "While I have you - again - I must remind you to order new skirts. Longer ones. As always, one more violation of the uniform policy and you'll earn yourself a detention."

You blinked at her, somewhere between disbelief and laughter. "Seriously?" You scoffed, brushing past her, shoulder clipping hers just slightly. "Oh, please."

You didn't look back.

————

You groaned loudly, dramatically, and unapologetically as you stood at the center of the quad, the sun branding the grass gold beneath your white sneakers. A light breeze danced through the air, rustling pom-poms and carrying the faint smell of lakewater and sunscreen. Just behind you, the lake was being prepped for the Poe Cup - canoes clattering against the dock, banners strung like spiderwebs between trees. You could hear the clank of flags being hoisted, the shrill laughter of fencing kids nearby, the unmistakable chaos of forced tradition.

The Poe Cup, your least favorite tradition at Nevermore. Which said something, considering the school also had a "Cryptid Costume Karaoke Night."

You had never participated, always claiming strategic injuries, sprained ankles, or a very real and very intense fear of drowning. Water and you had history. Bad history.

But today's battle was on dry land: cheerleading practice.

Your manicured hand rested high on your hip, clipboard tucked against your ribs, your perfectly glossed lips pursed in discontent. The team in front of you was exhausted - ponytails limp, skirts swishing clumsily with each half-hearted eight-count. The sun beat down relentlessly, glinting off rhinestones and gluing your sports bra to your back with sweat. But perfection wasn't a temperature-sensitive goal.

"Again!" you barked, voice hoarse. "With feeling this time, or I swear to god I'm doing the final stunt solo."

Bianca groaned. "You're deranged."

You smirked, pointing at your ex-girlfriend with a raised brow. “That's captain to you, Barclay.”

You were halfway through the next count when you felt it - that unmistakable prickling at the back of your neck. Like shadow spreading across sunlight as if someone had just cracked open the sky and let the cold in.

You didn't turn.

Didn't have to.

"You skip around in small skirts and think this is dance?" That voice - dry, drier than the desert, than bone, than judgment itself - slithered up beside you.

You sighed before looking. "Speak of the devil."

"And she shall arrive in monochrome," Wednesday Addams replied, standing to your left like she'd been summoned by sarcasm and cheer glitter alone.

You turned to face her, sweat clinging to your collarbones and the bridge of your nose. She looked wildly out of place, a painting of grief in the middle of a parade of purple cheer uniforms. Black-on-black uniform. Hair in its signature twin braids. Hands clasped behind her back like she was trying not to strangle someone.

Her eyes scanned the field like it was a battlefield and you were its tyrant queen.

"You're early," you said, squinting in the sun.

"I'm reluctant," she corrected. "This was the first club I passed. I'm checking the box and moving on."

"Uh-huh. That's why you've been standing there for - " you checked your phone, " - twenty-four minutes? Observing."

"I was calculating the average IQ." She responded, voice low and almost impatient. Her eyes scanned the scene in front of her: Yoko tumbled out of place while being distracted by the smudge against her black sunglasses, a blonde werewolf in the back confused her left for her right, and a lonely witch completely forgot the steps. “It’s well-below average.”

You gasped, hand to chest. "You wound me."

"Not yet," she muttered, voice barely audible.

You turned back toward the field, watching as your girls scrambled into a loose formation. One dropped her pom-pom again while another adjusted her sports bra with all the subtlety of a raccoon in a trash can.

And still... Wednesday didn't leave.

"Don't take this the wrong way," you said, voice low, "but you're starting to look like my angry little stage mom."

"I prefer 'invested third party,'" she replied, not moving.

"You're not joining," you reminded her. "I didn't rope you into this part of the deal."

"I know," she said. "But as your fabricated romantic partner, it felt suspicious to ignore your interests entirely."

You glanced at her sideways. "So this is you being supportive?"

"This is me pretending not to gag."

You laughed, short and surprised.

"And," she added, her voice cooling again, "I figured if I stood here long enough, someone would see us. Standing together. Talking. It implies intimacy. Familiarity. Dread."

"So you're just using me for social cover," you said, lips curling.

She nodded. "And you're using me to scare off admirers. I'd call it even."

Your gaze flicked to her fingers - tucked neatly behind her back. Always withheld. Always two inches away from contact. She was a mirror, reflecting you back at yourself. The fake part, the distance, the way you hid in plain sight with glitter and volume and control.

You walked over to your roommate and handed Yoko the clipboard. "Take over for a second."

Yoko blinked. "Why?"

"Just—" You motioned vaguely, stepping toward the edge of the field where Wednesday was already watching you like a fox in a henhouse. "Captain business."

The vampire furrowed her brows before glancing towards the Addams standing feet away from her. You vaguely hear her mutter, “You’re insane” before she rolls her eyes at you.

Wednesday didn't move as you approached. Just tilted her head slightly, the ends of her braids swaying in the breeze.

"Did it work?" you asked softly, close enough now that only she could hear. "Did people see?"

Wednesday's eyes didn't flick to the crowd. Didn't scan the quad. She just said, "Yes. They're staring."

"Good." You smiled, all teeth. You reached for her clipboard - practically empty except for the club list - and tapped a finger on it. "I think I found your club."

And with that, you turned away - ponytail flipping behind you, uniform glittering under the sun like armor. Wednesday followed with a clench of her jaw. Fuck, your connections better be worth this.

But nonetheless, she watched you the entire way.

———

You led the way through a narrow break in the brush, weeds slapping at your calves and tangled vines tugging at the hem of your skirt. The earth beneath your sneakers turned soft, squelching with each step until mud clung to your soles like a second skin. Behind you, you could hear the quiet, deliberate crunch of Wednesday Addams' footsteps - measured, reluctant, and far too dignified for this kind of terrain.

The sound hit before the sight: a low, mechanical hum, dense and restless like electricity vibrating through the air. It grew louder the farther you walked, until it filled your ears entirely.

Then the hives came into view.

Five wooden boxes, stacked like misshapen cabinets, stood in a ringed clearing at the base of the trees. Bees buzzed furiously around the structures, the sun catching on their quick, glinting bodies. The air smelled like honey and smoke and something wild.

You stopped at the edge of the clearing and gestured toward the hives, your voice hushed in spite of yourself.

"No one knows I'm in this club," you said, brushing a sweat-damp strand of hair from your temple. "It's the only one I do for my own enjoyment, really."

Wednesday stepped up beside you, her boots somehow untouched by the mud. Her eyes flicked from hive to hive, calculating, as if she was assessing the threat level.

"So you don't enjoy the meaningless activity of shaking pom-poms in synchronization?" she asked flatly, her tone the verbal equivalent of an eye-roll.

You laughed dryly. "Ha ha."

She didn't even smirk.

From behind her, a soft chuckle rang out.

"Are you interested in the ancient art of beekeeping?" a voice asked brightly. A moment later, a boy in a slightly oversized beekeeping suit emerged from the shed beside the hives, mesh helmet pushed up on his head and smile wide beneath it.

He stuck out his hand toward Wednesday.

"Eugene. Eugene Ottinger," he said proudly. "Co-founder and co-president of the Nevermore Hummers. Also a dear friend of the princess herself."

Your eyebrow twitched with a grin as you stepped forward. "Keep it cool, Ottinger."

He gave a dramatic salute, hand nearly knocking his helmet askew. You stepped in closer to Wednesday, shoulders brushing - not quite touching, but close enough to imply something. The pause was deliberate. And a little fun.

"This is my, uh..." You looked at Wednesday from the corner of your eye. "Girlfriend."

"Girlfriend?!" Eugene's voice jumped an octave, sending a family of crows screeching out of the trees above in a flurry of black wings. "Since when did you move on from -"

You coughed. Loudly. Aggressively.

Wednesday rolled her eyes, the very picture of long-suffering. "Wednesday Addams," she said, skipping over you entirely as she addressed Eugene. "Am I late, or is it just the two of you?"

"Only us," Eugene chirped, beaming like someone had just given him the keys to Disneyland. He stepped forward and looped an arm around yours, pulling you against his short frame. "It's usually just us out here. The hive life isn't for everyone. Most kids are terrified of venomous insects. But not me." He puffed his chest. "I live for the sting."

You laughed and gently removed his arm from yours. "Well, I know my sweet, precious darling can handle it," you said teasingly, glancing at Wednesday with a grin, "but I put Yoko in charge of the squad while I gave her the tour of the bees, so I can't stay long."

Eugene's smile didn't falter. He was just happy to have someone else out here - even if she was Wednesday Addams.

"Don't worry, Y/N!" he said cheerfully, bouncing on his heels. "I'll take good care of her. I'll even let her see the queen bee."

Wednesday arched a brow, unimpressed. "What an honor," she deadpanned, glancing toward the hives as if she were being asked to babysit a 3-month old human baby.

Eugene didn't seem to notice. He turned to grab the spare suit from the shed, already chattering about bee hierarchy and wax harvesting.

You watched him for a second, a soft fondness tugging at the edge of your expression. Most people at Nevermore didn't give Eugene the time of day. He wasn't a vampire, or a siren, or even a shapeshifter. He was the school's only known "stinger" - technically a niche type of psychic who communed with insects - and that made him an outcast within a school for outcasts. He was small, nerdy, excitable. An easy target.

But you liked him.

You always had.

Before you ever met Eugene, you met his moms - two overwhelmed, sweet-faced women with matching name tags and sunhats during orientation week. They'd stopped you on campus, asking where the cafeteria was, where the library hid, how to get to the fencing hall. You gave them a full walking tour, shared your class schedule, and by the end of the day, they'd hugged you like family.

They'd asked you to keep an eye on Eugene.

And you had.

You checked on him in the dining hall. Shared your old notes from Bio. Let him borrow your boots for his Halloween bug costume last year when his got soaked. And somehow, over time, he'd carved out a space in your life like another little brother.

You turned back toward Wednesday.

She hadn't moved. Her eyes were still on the hives, her expression unreadable, but you could tell - beneath the sarcasm and the snark - there was something quietly impressed.

"Be honest," you said under your breath. "You didn't expect this from me."

She glanced sideways at you. "You're full of unpleasant surprises."

You smiled. "That's what keeps you coming back."

Wednesday didn't respond but her eyes did lead to you.

"Your nose is bleeding," She noted, her voice quiet but pointed, like a scalpel laid on a cold tray.

You blinked, caught off guard. The faint warmth above your lip turned suddenly real. You wiped it with the back of your hand, only to smear the blood across your skin in a streak that looked more like a warning than an accident.

Fuck.

You glanced away, trying to laugh it off. "Yoko's probably ruining the formation without me. I should - yeah, I should go."

But Wednesday wasn't even pretending to buy it.

"Do you bleed like this often?" she asked, tilting her head just slightly. The bees hummed steadily in the background, their wings a low chorus vibrating through the trees.

"It's fine," you lied, forcing a smile as you tugged your sports bra strap sleeve up to mop the blood more discreetly. "Just tired. Haven't been sleeping well. Especially since, uhm, the night of the carnival."

You brushed your hair back and tightened your ponytail with jittery fingers. Wednesday's eyes flicked to the pointed tips of your ears—barely visible under your hair, tinged faintly with sea-glass green and bruised blue. Her gaze lingered for a second too long. She said nothing.

"Anyway," you said, stepping back toward the path, "I'm gonna head back to practice before this turns into a full scene or Eugene tries to drag me into a group photo."

You hesitated a moment longer - unsure whether to reach for a hug, a wave, a nod - before settling for a weird, awkward little tap to her shoulder.

Wednesday stared at the spot where your fingers had touched, then slowly lifted her eyes to watch you jog off toward the main building, one hand still half-covering your nose.

The bees swarmed lazily behind her. "Odd," she said to no one in particular.

———

Your heart pounded in your chest as you tore through the dorm, slamming the door behind you. Yoko was still downstairs, probably massacring the routine while Bianca barked corrections. You didn't care. Not right now.

Blood had begun slipping down your chin, a dark smear that painted your skin like war paint, smudged and sacrificial. You wiped at it blindly, staggering into the bathroom as your legs gave out beneath you.

"Shit."

Your palm hit the counter hard, breaking your fall just enough to keep from collapsing completely. You dropped to the cold tile anyway, crawling the last few feet to the bathtub like something ancient returning home.

Your lips were cracked. Your vision blurred.

One of the oldest rules for mermaids on land is deceptively simple: stay wet. Not just hydrated. Submerged. Your body may wear the shape of a girl, but it's not human. You are a creature made of tide and teeth, born for saltwater and current, not fluorescent lighting and dry air.

It's not that you're dirty. You bathe, you scrub your skin, you brush your hair with a rhythm passed down through generations. But without immersion - without water that wraps around you like a second womb - your body begins to forget its form. Begins to decay from the inside out.

You hadn't transitioned in weeks. Not since the semester began. And now your body was starving.

Just like last year.

The same spiral. The same symptoms. Nosebleeds. Dizziness. Legs that felt like driftwood hollowed by time. Bianca had noticed, of course. She always did. But she let you lie to her face with practiced ease.

You flung yourself into the tub like something sacred and crumbling. Cold water splashed high onto the tile, soaking everything, but you barely felt it. The second your face hit the surface, the transformation began.

Your red tail unfurled with violent grace, shimmering and powerful, scarred and real. A long gash traced up the left side - an old wound, the kind even magic didn't quite heal. One of the tail's side fins - your right wing - hung cracked and split like a broken oar, limp and dripping with memory. Your bralette, ceremonial and strange, bloomed like kelp across your chest.

And suddenly, everything stopped hurting.

The ache eased from your bones. The blood slowed in your nose. The water hummed against your skin, soft and knowing, like it missed you. Like it forgave you for staying away.

You leaned your head against the porcelain edge of the tub, eyes fluttering shut with a breath that felt like your first in weeks.

You hated how good it felt. Hated how necessary it was.

Outside your dorm window, the campus kept spinning - Bianca yelling, Yoko fumbling, the world forgetting you. But in here, in the cold blue hush, you were yourself again.

Not dirty. Not broken.

Just water-born.

Just home.

The water had gone still around you, now lukewarm and clinging. Your tail floated, dull red beneath the surface, the gash along your fin barely pulsing. You could feel it - the edge of the moment where your body would need to shift back. Legs instead of scales. Skin instead of shimmer.

You weren't ready.

Not to stand. Not to walk. Not to pretend.

The screen of your phone lit up faintly from the counter.

2:05 PM. BOTANY CLASS.

Class.

You let out a shaky breath. Didn't move.

Then—

Crash.

You flinched.

Something had fallen. Something inside your bathroom.

You sat up abruptly, water sloshing over the edge of the tub and onto the floor. You listened—eyes scanning, ears open.

Clink.

A bottle rolled. A soft, wet thud followed. Your gaze locked onto the cabinet under the sink.

Slowly, you reached for the towel beside you and pulled it over your shoulders, still dripping. Your tail shimmered faintly as you shifted forward, dragging your weight across the slick tile until you reached the vanity.

You laid in front of the cabinet. Gripped the handle.

Yanked it open.

And there he was.

Crammed awkwardly between your spare shampoo and a leaking travel-size lotion bottle, tail curled tight under his damp belly, was a creature that absolutely did not belong in a human dorm room.

Big glassy eyes. Slick, deep-indigo fur, now matted from the humidity. Pale bioluminescent spots blinking along his spine like a dying constellation. He looked like an otter who'd made a deal with something ancient—and now regretted it.

Wrapped around his neck was a kelp cord. And tied to it: a small, jagged charm made of coral. You recognized it instantly.

Your father's royal seal.

Your stomach dropped.

"You've got to be shitting me."

The creature blinked.

"You're spying on me?" you whispered, voice cold.

He didn't move.

"He sent you. To watch me."

Moro slowly set down the bottle cap he had been chewing on like it was a peace offering. You stared at him, jaw tightening. "I'm not some reckless child swimming off the coast at midnight anymore. I'm—"

You stopped yourself. You didn't know what you were. Not anymore.

Moro made a soft sound—part whimper, part apology.

"You were mine. Once," you muttered. "Back when I still belonged there. And now he sends you like I'm... broken."

He shuffled forward slightly on his little webbed paws, nose twitching. As if he remembered, too. How you used to play in the moonlit tide pools. How he used to curl around your shoulders like a scarf while you daydreamed about leaving.

And now here you both were. On tile. In a bathroom. Avoiding responsibility and rotting slowly in air you weren't made to breathe.

Your phone buzzed again.

Third reminder.

2:08 PM.

Human Form.

You stared at the screen like it had personally offended you. Another class you'd promised to attend, another promise about to be broken. At the beginning of the year, you told Principal Weems you'd take Ms. Thornhill's course seriously—that you'd stop skipping and actually try, because it was a necessary graduation requirement. But the truth was, you hated that class. More specifically, you hated her.

There was something about her voice, that sing-song cadence she used when talking about the "healing potential" of philodendrons and daisies, like she genuinely believed that putting a daffodil on your windowsill could save you from your own thoughts. From your lineage. From your crown.

You couldn't sit through another one of her lectures about flora and fulfillment. You didn't need to learn how to grow a basil plant to know your life would never be green or soft or simple.

She didn't understand you. Never had.

And yet, in a quiet, shameful way, you envied her.

On the Nevermore application, there are only two questions:

One — Who are you?

Two — If you could be a different species, what would you be?

You answered: Human.

Not because you hated what you were. But because you didn't know how to be it.

Mermaids feel everything. Deeply. And yet, they also know how to bury their feelings in sea-foam and smiles, to silence them until they become myth. You weren't a siren—your voice couldn't compel men to follow you into the abyss. Mermaids weren't seductresses. They were diplomats, caretakers, artists, performers. They navigated the world with elegance and poise, weaving beauty into every word, every movement.

They were grace, incarnate.

And you?

You were beautiful. That was undeniable. You'd heard it your whole life, the way people softened around your face like it made them forget the sharpness underneath. But grace? No. You were all edge. You had been sculpted into the shape of a princess, yes—but forged under pressure. There were etiquette classes before breakfast, tail posture lessons during lunch, and late-night study sessions where you'd trace ancient glyphs with trembling fingers, trying not to drown under the weight of expectation. You learned how to interpret currents like they were scripture, how to respond politely when mer-men told you your ideas were decorative, not valuable.

You learned to smile without showing your teeth.

Ms. Thornhill, on the other hand, was human. The only one on faculty. She moved through the halls like a well-loved herb garden—warm, fragrant, untouchable. She spoke to outcasts every day, but returned to a world that welcomed her back. She belonged.

And that was all you ever wanted.

To belong. To be ordinary. To wake up human.

Not royalty.

Not aquatic.

Not aching.

Just... human.

You groaned, dragging a hand over your face. "I don't have time to fight with you right now. I have to change."

Moro tilted his head.

"No, you're not watching that either." You slammed the cabinet door shut—not hard, but firm. Final.

He didn't chirp this time. Just sat in the dark, letting you have your silence. And still—you knew he'd be waiting when you got back. Because whatever your father wanted, whatever spying he'd assigned... Moro wasn't just there to report.

He was there to stay.

The silence was deafening after you shut the cabinet.

You could still feel him in there—Moro—huddled between plastic bottles and rusted pipes, not moving, not protesting. Just waiting.

You stared at the water as you crawled back into the tub with a sigh.

It didn't want to let go of you.

Your tail floated beneath the surface like a ghost limb, long and heavy and wrong in all the right ways. Your fingers trailed down your thighs, past the scales. You knew where the shift would start. You always did. You just hated that it always had to.

You pulled the drain.

The water started to spiral. Cold now. Pulling away.

You braced yourself.

At first, it was subtle: the ache behind your knees, the slow tug of your muscles curling inward. Your fins twitched violently, almost like they were resisting. Like some part of you was saying don't.

But it didn't matter.

You gritted your teeth, breath shuddering through your nose as the pain came—sharp, then dull, then sharp again. Your tail convulsed once, then again, the long red muscle beginning to split down the center like a zipper being pulled from the inside out. Scales peeled back. Skin replaced shimmer. Your toes came last—curled tight, like they were ashamed to be seen.

You collapsed back against the tub, panting.

Your legs were numb. New. Ugly.

They didn't feel like yours anymore.

You stared down at them, chest rising and falling. The scar from your tail had burned itself into the inside of your thigh—faint, but there. Like your body refused to forget.

Water still trickled from the faucet, now useless. You reached for the towel. Dried your hands. Dried your face. Left your legs alone.

You didn't want to touch them yet.

Behind you, something shifted in the cabinet. A soft breath. A wet paw against wood.

You didn't say anything. Neither did he.

You dressed slowly—numb fingers, mismatched socks, stiff limbs. Your blazer swallowed your frame. Your skirt felt too short. Your skin, for once in your life, felt too human.

You grabbed your bag and opened the bathroom door. Moro peeked his head out just a little, nose twitching.

You glanced at him. "You stay. Or I will report you."

He blinked.

——————

Wednesday Addams was never - and would probably never - be good at feelings.

Emotions, to her, were just another kind of trap. Invisible, sticky, and far more insidious than any of the bear claws she'd studied in wilderness survival or the time she hibernated with a few when she was twelve. They slowed the mind, dulled the edge, turned even the most rational person into something trembling and unrecognizable. Which is why she had no interest in learning how to handle them - not yours, and certainly not her own.

The silence between you had calcified into something with shape and weight after the joint-vision at the old meeting house. At first, it was simply the product of busyness - her vanishing for days under the excuse of leads she "couldn't afford to let go cold," you retreating into your balcony calls and hours spent listening to oceanic council members bicker about diplomacy, territory rights, and whispers of war.

Then came the Rave'n preparations. Being the academy's official royalty meant Principal Weems had roped you into chairing the entire set-up committee. It was more than just selecting flowers and tablecloths - you were mediating budget disputes between the treasurer and the decorating team, settling quarrels over the DJ’s setlist, approving mock-ups for invitations, and signing off on the custom ice sculpture delivery. Every free moment not swallowed by your oceanic duties was consumed by making sure the school's most anticipated event didn't collapse into chaos.

Meals together became rare. Evenings in the library were abandoned entirely. The most you'd offer each other now was a brief nod in the hallway or a neutral glance in the quad, each pretending you didn't notice the other lingering just a second too long before looking away. She told herself it was strategy - you told yourself it was survival.

Enid noticed, of course. She always noticed. Wednesday was pulling her boots on one evening, the dorm quiet except for the distant hum of laughter from the common room, when Enid - lounging on her bed with a magazine - said it.

"You know," she began casually, "when couples stop talking, it usually means they're about to break up."

Wednesday froze for half a second before resuming the slow lacing of her boots. "Couples also stop talking before committing homicide, Sinclair. Your point?"

"My point is," Enid said, leaning forward, "you've been ignoring her for days. She's been ignoring you and if you don't want that to mean something, maybe stop acting like it does."

The words followed Wednesday out the door, heavy and irritating in a way she couldn't quite shake. By the time she made it to her typewriter that night, the logic had already begun to calcify in her mind. If the two of you weren't speaking, if this was the slow erosion of whatever fragile alliance you'd built, then she would adapt. She would pivot. She would prioritize the investigation.

Which was exactly how, the following afternoon, she found herself standing in a small art shack, begrudgingly asking Xavier Thorpe if he would accompany her to the Rave'n. Not for romance, not for spectacle - purely because his proximity to her suspect list made him useful.

It was during the chaos of the third set-up meeting that you noticed it - low, slippery murmurs following you like a tide you couldn't see, just hear.

You were crouched by the far wall, marking where the table skirts would hang, when two freshmen from the decorations team drifted past with armfuls of streamers. "Apparently she just walked right up to him..." one whispered.

"...poor Y/N - do you think they're still together?" the other hissed back.

You kept your eyes on the tape in your hand, pretending you hadn't heard, but their voices tangled with others in the gym. Little fragments caught on the air - Wednesday... Xavier... Rave'n date - and no matter where you moved, they followed.

By the time Yoko strode over from the snack table committee, you'd already pieced together enough to know you weren't going to like what she said.

"So... apparently your girlfriend asked Xavier to the Rave'n," she murmured, crouching beside you like she was delivering a diagnosis. "No explanation. Just straight-up asked him. Everyone's talking about it - the sound crew, the DJ, even Bianca."

Your grip on the tape roll tightened, the plastic edge biting into your palm. "...When?"

"This morning outside somewhere," Yoko said, watching your face. "Guess she didn't think it was worth telling you herself. Xavier certainly can’t shut up about it."

The comment landed heavier than you wanted it to, but you pushed the feeling down. Around you, the committee buzzed on - paper snowflakes being strung, extension cords being dragged, someone shouting about a missing box of candles. You had work to do, a job to finish, and an event plan to execute.

Still, every time another pair of students passed, their voices seemed to dip, eyes flicking toward you like they'd been waiting to see the look on your face. And you couldn't shake the thought that whatever her reason was - if there even was one - she'd chosen to keep it to herself.

By the time you got to Ophelia Hall, the Rave'n committee clipboard still clutched in your hand like some kind of warped shield, your pulse had climbed into your throat. You didn't even remember crossing the quad, just the blur of students still whispering, their faces all blurring into that same quick, pitying glance you'd been collecting all day.

You didn't knock.

Wednesday was at her desk when you came in, posture perfect, typewriter in front of her, the clacking of keys slicing the air in steady bursts. She didn't look up.

"I'm assuming this is about your clipboard, not an emotional breakdown," she said, without stopping her typing. You always believed she had eyes in the back of her head somehow, underneath the tight braids and brushed hair.

"How dare you," you said. It came out sharper than you expected - closer to a blade than a voice.

She paused only long enough to finish the sentence she was on, then pulled the page free from the typewriter. "How dare I what?"

"Ask Xavier to the Rave'n." You shut the door behind you, harder than necessary. "You couldn't even tell me yourself? You just let me find out because the entire school decided it would be fun gossip?"

Finally, she turned to face you, her expression infuriatingly unreadable. "Our arrangement was mutually beneficial, but lately it has been... skewed. Toward you."

"Skewed?" You let out a humorless laugh. "I'm sorry, is playing your fake girlfriend while I juggle actual oceanic council calls and running the Rave'n committee - because of my status - somehow a luxury vacation in your eyes?"

"You've gained social insulation," she said flatly, like she was presenting a piece of evidence in court. "And credibility with certain students who might otherwise treat you as a novelty. Your father has left you relatively alone. I, on the other hand, have gained very little in the past few weeks beyond the occasional ability to enter staff-only areas under the guise of your royal privilege."

"God, listen to yourself." You shook your head. "I'm sorry I can't harness my full abilities on command for your investigation, Wednesday. I'm sorry I'm not a convenient little supernatural bloodhound you can keep on a leash until you need me. I've been trying to keep this school from collapsing into Rave'n chaos and deal with political tensions under the fucking sea - but guess what? That doesn't pause just because you've decided I'm not useful enough."

Her gaze didn't waver, but her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "My work requires precision. Focus. And as of late, you have been... distracted."

"And whose fault is that?" Your voice cracked - not from weakness, but from the sheer effort of keeping it from shattering entirely. "You pull away without a word, you get me involved in your… visions. You bury yourself in your typewriter, in your suspects, in anything but this - us. And then you have the nerve to act like I've somehow taken advantage of you."

"You agreed to this knowing what I am," she said, standing now, her voice cool but carrying that undercurrent of something you couldn't name - something sharp and fraying at the same time. "I am not sentimental. I do not indulge in dramatics."

You stepped closer, holding her gaze. "I don't care if we're a mess in this school," you said, every word deliberate, steady, "but when Parent Weekend comes... we are a happy, loving couple. No cracks. No cold shoulders. No one gets to see this fall apart but us."

Her silence was worse than anything she could have said. She didn't break eye contact, didn't move - just let the weight of your words settle like ink bleeding into paper.

You turned for the door before you could say anything else. This time, she let you go. Again.

But you could still feel her eyes on your back the whole way down the hall.

———————

The moment you shut the door behind you, the façade cracked. You tossed the Rave'n clipboard onto your desk with enough force to send a pencil rolling off the edge, then kicked your shoes off so hard one landed halfway under the dresser.

Moro lifted his head from his nest of blankets by the window, sea-glass eyes blinking slow and lazy before narrowing, like he could smell your bad mood. His tail flicked once against the floorboards.

"Don't start with me," you muttered, dropping into your chair.

He made a low, questioning trill in his throat - the sound he used when you came back from council calls in a mood.

"She asked him to the Rave'n," you told him, rubbing both hands over your face. "Didn't tell me. Didn't even think I should hear it from her. Just—”You gestured vaguely toward the air, as if Wednesday might step out of it, typewriter and all. "—let the entire school have a free buffet of gossip at my expense."

Moro huffed, stretching his neck toward you, nostrils flaring like he wanted to catch the scent of whoever you were mad at.

"She's making it sound like this whole thing only benefits me," you went on, voice sharper now. "Like I'm leeching off her when I'm the one bending over backwards to keep up appearances while juggling my actual duties. I give her access to whatever she wants. Last week, she wanted the Master-Key to the police station - and I got it for her! And for what? So she can go play detective with her shiny new date? Xavier of all people!”

You turned toward your desk - and froze. Sitting neatly in the center were three glossy photographs you hadn't seen before, stacked like a gift you never asked for.

"What the hell..." you murmured, picking them up.

Each one was a portrait: three unfamiliar men, well-dressed, all roughly your age. The backs had names, ages, and brief descriptions - handwritten in your father's precise, royal script.

"'Strong swimmer, fluent in Waves.'" You read one aloud in disbelief. "'Comes from a good tide-worshipping family.'"

Moro's tail thumped once - hard - against the floor, like even he didn't approve.

"These are potential husbands," you told him flatly, tossing the stack onto the desk like they might burn you. "He's been circling the subject for months, but now he's sending... headshots? Like I'm supposed to pick one out before midterms?"

Moro slithered closer, putting his chin on your knee. The weight of him was grounding, but it didn't stop the tight coil in your chest. "If I ignore it long enough, he'll get bored. Or distracted. Or… something.”

Moro let out a low, rumbling growl that vibrated through your leg. You reached down, scratching the scales behind his ear fins. "Yeah," you said quietly. "I'm already taken anyway."

You didn't say by who.

But you didn't have to.

———————

Wednesday sat at her desk, ink still drying on the latest page of her case notes, when Thing climbed up beside the typewriter. He didn't bother with subtlety - just landed with a solid thump and pointed toward the door you'd stormed out of not twenty minutes ago.

"I assume you've come to dispense some sort of moral wisdom," Wednesday said, not looking up from her notes.

Thing tapped quickly - You're pulling away from her.

"I am focusing on my work," Wednesday corrected, adjusting the paper in the typewriter. "She has her duties, I have mine. It's efficient."

Thing made a disbelieving wave, followed by a jab toward her chest - Not efficient. Cowardly.

Her fingers stilled over the keys. "If this is another attempt to get me to acknowledge... feelings," she said the word like it was a medical diagnosis, "then you're wasting both our time. I am not pulling away. I am creating distance to preserve focus."

Thing signed a sharp, impatient flurry: She's under pressure. Family. Duties. Father.

That finally made her glance at him. "I am aware of her father's expectations," she said, the edge in her voice making it clear she was more than aware. "But I fail to see how my proximity would alleviate that burden. If anything, my presence tends to exacerbate tension."

Thing jabbed at the desk for emphasis: Exactly why she needs you.

Wednesday's jaw tightened. The idea of being needed made something coil unpleasantly in her chest, something she didn't have the vocabulary for and didn't want to acquire. "I am not the comforting type," she said flatly.

Thing leaned in, his fingers curling slowly - You don't have to be comforting. You just have to be there.

That sat between them for a long moment, the soft tick of the typewriter carriage the only sound. When Wednesday finally spoke, it was quieter. "She knows where to find me."

Thing tapped once - For now. - and then scuttled off the desk, leaving her with her case notes and the creeping suspicion that, for once, he was right.

Wednesday believed her visions were messy, unreliable, and intrusive. A storm breaking into the mind without knocking first, leaving everything soaked in images that weren't hers. They were a reminder that, despite all her control, there were parts of her existence that could be breached.

But that day in the old meeting house had been... different.

The moment your hand touched hers, the vision had swallowed you both. She'd seen Joseph Crackstone, the acrid scent of smoke and burning wood thick in her lungs, the weight of centuries-old hatred pressing down like a suffocating tide. She'd felt your heartbeat spike beside her, too fast, too loud, almost drowning out the echo of her own.

She'd also felt something she hadn't prepared for.

Most people, when swept into a vision with her, tried to yank away - instinctively retreating from whatever horror had pulled them under. But you didn't. Your fingers had curled tighter around hers, nails biting into her palm, and you'd met the flood head-on. Even as your breath stuttered, you stayed anchored to her.

And in that collapsing moment - smoke, fire, screaming - she realized she was anchoring herself to you, too.

She hadn't told you, of course. She doubted she ever would. But the aftermath of that vision lingered, as much in her as it did in you. She remembered the way your eyes had darted around the empty meeting house after it was over, like you were checking for threats only she could see. She remembered the faint tremor in your hand before you dropped it from hers.

And she remembered - most irritatingly - that she had wanted to reach for you again. Not for information, not for the investigation, but simply to confirm that you were still there.

That you hadn't drifted away. And yet, here the two of you were. Ignoring one another and pushing each other away for the sake of your what? Dignity?

It was the kind of impulse she had spent her entire life excising from herself. The kind of impulse that now made it impossible to pretend your absence didn't leave a space she could feel.

Wednesday turned back to her typewriter, the blank page glaring up at her. Words should have come easily - there was still so much evidence to catalogue, leads to cross-reference, more chapters of Viper’s story to create - but instead, her mind kept circling back to you in that meeting house. The way you'd stood beside her, the way the vision had forced you both to see what the other saw.

Thing's words from earlier pricked at the edge of her thoughts. You don't have to be comforting. You just have to be there.

She hated how they lingered.

Because the truth was, you had been there - for her - long before the arrangement, long before Rave'n committees and whispered gossip in the quad. You had been there in the visions, in the woods, in the silences that most people found suffocating but you seemed to breathe just fine. You were in the chapters of her novel as Viper’s secret admirer - the girl who had eyes that killed with just a glance. And now, with the distance stretching wider between you, she could feel something she didn't want to name pressing in on her.

It wasn't guilt. She didn't do guilt.

It wasn't regret. She didn't waste time on hypotheticals.

It was something else entirely.

Wednesday adjusted the carriage on her typewriter and set her fingers on the keys. She told herself it was because she needed to make a note before she forgot it, because evidence had to be preserved. But what came out instead wasn't a line of case notes - it was your name.

She stared at it for a long moment before tearing the page out, crumpling it, and dropping it into the wastebasket.

She would talk to you. Soon.

Not because she wanted to.

But because she couldn't stop thinking about that meeting house - and the way your hand had fit in hers.

————————

The tailor's room in Jericho smelled faintly of lavender and old wood polish, the kind of scent that clung to the air no matter how many bolts of fresh fabric were brought in. Afternoon light slanted through tall, dust-flecked windows, spilling across rows of gowns in muted pastels and inky jewel tones. A few swayed gently on their hangers, shifting shadows against the far wall.

You stood in the center of it all, balanced on a low pedestal while the seamstress circled you like a shark. She had a mouth full of pins, a silver measuring tape draped like a sash across her shoulder, and a pair of sharp scissors glinting in one hand.

The dress was only half-complete, a constellation of chalk marks and loose stitches. Light silk clung to your frame in soft ripples, the hem still raw, brushing just above your ankles. The bodice fit close, boning pressing lightly against your ribs, and the neckline dipped in a way that made the seamstress hum to herself about "proper posture for a princess." You held still as she pinned another dart into place, even as the metal brushed a little too close to your skin.

On a nearby chair sat a pile of discarded swatches - deep ocean blues, white like an angels wings, a pale grey that caught the light like moonlit water. You'd chosen the light blue, of course. The shade your advisors always said photographed well for formal events, the one that nodded to your heritage without looking like you'd been draped in a flag.

The seamstress stepped back to assess her work, and for a moment you were left alone in the mirror's reflection - your face framed by the half-finished gown, hair falling loosely down your shoulders, expression somewhere between regal composure and exhaustion. You took a sip from your salt-water bottle while the seamstress yelled at you for moving.

The bell above the shop door jingled. You didn't look over - until a familiar, bright voice cut through the quiet hum of the sewing machine in the back.

"Y/N?”

You turned your head just as Enid Sinclair stepped inside, a paper shopping bag hooked over one arm, her curls catching the light like spun gold. She blinked when she saw you, her gaze flicking from your face to the dress and back again.

"Whoa," she breathed, stopping a few steps away. "Okay, you look... I mean, wow. That's your Rave'n dress?"

You smoothed a hand over the silk and the corset, the fabric cool under your fingertips. "It's not finished yet."

Enid laughed softly. "If this is unfinished, I'm terrified of what you're going to look like when it's done." She stepped closer, lowering her voice like she was about to share a secret. "Wednesday's going to combust."

You kept your eyes on the mirror, adjusting the set of your shoulders. "She's going with Xavier."

That wiped the smile from Enid's face. "Yeah, I... heard." She hesitated, then offered a small shrug. "Doesn't mean she's not going to explode."

The seamstress returned, pin cushion in hand, and Enid stepped back, watching quietly as the woman added more pins to the skirt, lifting and draping until the fabric fell in smooth, deliberate lines. The room was quiet except for the hiss of the iron in the back and the occasional snip of thread.

When the seamstress finally stepped away again, Enid caught your gaze in the mirror. "Whatever's going on between you two, just... don't disappear on her, okay? You've got that whole mysterious princess thing down already. You don't need to add vanishing act to the list."

You didn't answer, just kept your eyes on the reflection - the silk, the pins, the unfinished seams - trying not to think about how much easier it was to stand perfectly still for a stranger with a handful of sharp objects than it was to stand in front of Wednesday Addams and ask her why she'd pulled away.

You'd been fitted for more gowns than you could count in your life, but the Rave'n dress still felt different - less like armor for a royal function, more like a costume you'd chosen for yourself. It wasn't meant for diplomatic photo ops or formal dinners where the wrong posture could spark rumors in court. It was for one night, one dance, in a place where - at least in theory - you got to decide who you were.

Growing up, choice was rare.

Your earliest memories were of marble halls that echoed when you ran through them, the sound bouncing off columns carved with sea creatures whose eyes seemed to follow you. The floors were always cold under your bare feet, even when the water was warm, and the light filtered down from the surface in fractured gold. It made everything look like it was already fading into memory, even as it happened.

Your father's voice carried in those halls, deep and measured, every word precise enough to cut. He didn't raise it - he didn't need to. Commands landed like anchors, immovable once spoken. For the good of the kingdom. Your duty comes before your comfort. You'll understand when you're older. His presence was a current you couldn't fight, even on the days you wanted to.

Your mother's voice had been different - softer, lilting, full of tide-pool stories and secret smiles. But she was gone before you could cling to more than fragments: the outline of her hair drifting like ink in the water, the scent of crushed coral on her hands, the sound of her laughter echoing off the reef.

After that, the ocean was both sanctuary and prison. You learned to swim before you could walk, to recite tide-law before you could write your own name. Your lessons were peppered with warnings about dangerous alliances, treacherous tides, and the sharp smiles of rival courts. You learned to listen more than you spoke, to observe before you acted.

The human world was dangled before you like a shimmering lure - something to approach for diplomacy, never to linger in, always to treat as foreign. That changed at fourteen, when the currents of your life shifted overnight. An accident - one your father never discussed in full - left you standing in front of him as he pronounced that you would be spending a year at Nevermore Academy. He framed it as a gesture of goodwill toward the surface. You understood it as an exile.

Still, you adapted. You always did. You learned the rhythms of Nevermore, the way students here divided themselves into cliques not unlike the courts back home. You survived the gawking, the whispers, the people who wanted to see the princess, not the person. You perfected the kind of composure that made it impossible for anyone to tell if you were a novelty or a threat.

And then there was Wednesday Addams.

She hadn't cared about the title, just the privileges. She hadn't cared about the stories. If anything, she'd seemed mildly irritated by the attention you got, which was a relief in itself. The arrangement - as fake as it was - was the first thing here that felt even remotely on your terms. Mutual benefit. A shared understanding. A tether in a place that constantly shifted under your feet.

Until it wasn't.

The walk back from the tailor was short, but your thoughts stretched it into miles.

The afternoon air was sharp with the scent of fallen leaves and distant woodsmoke, the kind that clung to your clothes and hair. Students passed in small clusters, carrying books or trailing laughter, and you wondered - not for the first time - what it would feel like to be one of them. Just another face in the crowd. No titles. No whispers. No arrangement.

Your mind, traitorous as ever, drifted back to the meeting house. To the way your hand had fit in Wednesday's during the shared vision, and how - afterward - she'd looked at you. Not quite wary, not quite curious. Just... assessing, as if she was cataloguing you the way she might a suspect.

You'd tried to shake it off, but the thought had lodged somewhere deep: maybe you'd been too much. Too much history. Too much baggage. Too much trouble for someone who thrived on precision and control. Wednesday didn't like mess, and you - no matter how carefully you folded yourself into clean lines and cool expressions - were nothing but mess beneath the surface.

Your family. Your duties. The quiet way you sometimes froze when people touched you unexpectedly. The calls that came at midnight, dragging you back into a world Wednesday could never fully understand. The suitors your father kept sending like clockwork, reminders that your life here was temporary, conditional.

Maybe she'd seen it all in that vision or a vision you weren’t there to witness. Maybe she'd decided, right then, that you were more liability than ally. And maybe asking Xavier to the Rave'n had nothing to do with investigation strategy and everything to do with quietly replacing you.

You told yourself it didn't matter. You told yourself it was just an arrangement. That everything in the past few weeks had been what it started as: fake. But the knot in your chest didn't loosen, and the memory of her hand on your back still burned like salt in an unhealed cut.

When the day of Rav’n came, your dorm looked like a shipwreck had washed ashore and decided to stay.

Bolts of fabric and half-emptied jewelry boxes cluttered the bed, your desk was a graveyard of open compacts and curling ribbons, and the faint scent of sea-salt perfume drifted through the air. Your roommate, Yoko, was busy at her girlfriend’s dorm doing whatever they did - you never asked. You sat in front of the mirror, shoulders squared but eyes unfocused, as Isla rummaged through a box of hairpins like she was preparing for battle.

"I swear," she said, her voice carrying the easy authority of someone who had dressed for more state events than she could count, "if you don't stop glaring at your own reflection, you're going to give yourself worry lines."

"I'm not glaring," you muttered, though your face in the mirror betrayed you. “And we don’t get worry lines.”

"Right," Isla drawled, stepping behind you to part your hair into clean, deliberate sections. "And the ocean's not wet." She worked with quick, practiced precision, her fingers warm against your scalp as she began to braid, tucking in strands with a gentleness you hadn't expected.

The dress hung from a hook on the wardrobe door - finished now, the silk light and gleaming, every seam smoothed to perfection. Even from here you could see the way it caught the lamplight, the blue shifting like the skin of deep water.

"You've been quiet all day," Isla said after a moment, her tone softening just enough to slip past your guard. "Which either means you're nervous, or you're overthinking something you can't change."

You almost said both, but bit it back.

She secured the braid with a silver clasp shaped like a cresting wave, then leaned down to meet your eyes in the mirror. "Whatever it is... just remember the Rave'n isn't for them. Not for your father, not for the council, not even for whoever's decided to test your patience this week." She hesitated - just a beat, but you caught it. "It's for you."

You glanced at the dress again, then at the small pile of accessories Isla had laid out - pearl-drop earrings, a delicate bracelet, the gold arm cuff you always wore for formal events back home. It all looked right. It all felt wrong.

When she moved to retrieve the dress, you stood automatically, letting her unzip the garment bag and hold the silk open for you. The fabric was cool against your skin as you stepped in, the skirt whispering around your ankles. Isla fastened the laces at your back tightly, smoothing the bodice into place before stepping away.

"There," she said, smiling faintly. "Now you look like the princess they all expect to see."

You swallowed. "And if I don't feel like her?"

Isla's smile tilted into something knowing. "Then tonight... you fake it until you do."

Her words followed you to the mirror, where your reflection stared back - poised, polished, perfect. You knew it was an illusion. You wondered if Wednesday would see through it instantly.

The night air had a bite to it, crisp enough to make the silk of your dress feel thinner than it had in the tailor's room or even your own dorm. Ophelia Hall's windows glowed faintly behind you, golden light spilling over the stone steps before fading into the deep shadows that pooled along the quad. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear the faint thud of bass from the gym where the Rave'n committee was already testing the sound system.

You were halfway across the lawn when a small figure caught your eye, moving with quick, deliberate steps toward the tree line.

"Eugene?" you called, your voice low but carrying.

He froze mid-step, shoulders hunching like he'd been caught red-handed. Slowly, he turned, flashlight in one hand, the strap of a small, overstuffed messenger bag digging into his shoulder. His jacket, patterned with tiny embroidered bees, seemed almost too bright under the pale wash of moonlight.

"Oh - hey, Y/N." His smile was thin, nervous, the kind you gave when you were trying to play something off.

Your gaze dropped to the bag. "Please tell me you're not skipping the Rave'n for bee business."

"Not... exactly bee business," he said, adjusting the strap. "Just checking on something. In the, uh, woods.”

The woods.

Your stomach tightened at the word. "That's off-limits, Eugene."

"Yeah," he said, already shifting from foot to foot, eyes darting toward the shadows at the edge of the quad, "so's half the fun stuff around here."

You took a step closer, lowering your voice. "And you're going alone?"

"I won't be," he answered a little too quickly, glancing away. "I've got my smoke bombs, my bug spray, and if things go south, I'll just—uh—run really fast. Like... Olympic fast."

Despite yourself, you felt your mouth tug into the beginnings of a smile. "That's your plan? Speed and bug spray?"

He grinned back, sheepish. "It's worked before."

You studied him for a moment, tempted to press harder, to tell him that whatever he thought he might find in the woods, it wasn't worth the risk. But something in his expression - an eagerness that edged into stubbornness - reminded you too much of yourself when you'd decided to follow Wednesday into the woods for the first time.

You knew Eugene had a hard time finding things he enjoyed outside of bee-keeping. The hives were his world, and you’d always respected that, but it made you worry about him in the quiet ways you never said out loud. You’d always seen him as a little brother—someone you wanted to protect, even if he didn’t think he needed it. He had a way of talking about bees like they were old friends, but when the conversation shifted to anything else, he’d retreat behind that shy smile of his, like he wasn’t sure if he belonged. The thought of something happening to him - of that gentle smile disappearing - made something sharp twist in your chest.

You didn’t think you could stand the idea of the sweet boy you knew getting hurt.

"Good luck tonight, by the way," he added, his gaze flicking to your dress. "Seriously, you're gonna... knock 'em dead." He winced immediately. "Metaphorically, of course.”

"Right."

You let him go with a nod, watching as he turned back toward the trees. His flashlight cut a narrow path through the dark, the beam swaying with his steps until it disappeared completely into the shadows.

For a long moment, you stood there, the cold creeping into your skin, wondering if you should follow him. It would be easier, in some ways - easier to chase after trouble in the dark than to step into the Rave'n and face Wednesday Addams in front of the entire school.

But trouble had a way of finding you no matter where you went.

So you turned toward the gym, the bass growing louder with every step and let Eugene have fun doing whatever he set out to do. You remember him telling you he liked to watch the stars at night sometimes, it made him feel more comfortable in the Nevermore Academy environment.

The Rave'n had transformed the gym into something unrecognizable.

The walls were lost beneath layers of cascading silk - stormy greys, deep ocean blues - that caught the shifting spotlights like moving water. Glass orbs and mirrored shards turned lazily overhead, scattering constellations of fractured light across the crowd. Beneath it all, the bass thudded slow and steady through the floorboards, a pulse that synced with your heartbeat whether you wanted it to or not.

It was beautiful. It was exhausting.

You'd spent weeks in the middle of this chaos - approving decorations, mediating arguments over table placement, wrangling delivery schedules - and now, standing in the finished space, you should have felt some kind of pride. Instead, you felt strangely apart from it, like you were watching the Rave'n happen through glass.

All you wanted was a pat on the back.

The student body had dressed like they were auditioning for a scene in a music video. Sequins flashed like fish scales under strobe lights, white fabrics floated as couples moved past, and here and there you caught bolder choices - someone in a full white feathered raven mask, another in a suit lined with tiny LEDs that winked in the dark.

You navigated the room in slow, deliberate steps, the silk of your dress whispering around your ankles. People looked - of course they did - but their attention skimmed over you like the surface of the water, never lingering long enough to pierce the shell you'd built.

Enid passed you on the dance floor in a whirl of silver glitter, her laugh carrying over the music. Bianca stood posted at the edge of the room, arms crossed, gaze scanning the crowd with her signature brand of calculated disinterest while she waited for someone to hand her a cup of spiked punch. Yoko waved from the refreshment table, a cup in hand.

It was almost easy to pretend you were just another face in the crowd - until the music shifted, and the doors opened again.

She didn't arrive with Xavier.

Wednesday walked in wearing black so sharp it seemed to slice through the haze of the room, her hair perfectly braided up, her expression perfectly unreadable. But it wasn't the outfit that caught you off guard - it was the fact that she wasn't alone. Tyler Galpin stood beside her, hands shoved in his pockets, smiling in that easy, open way that made half the girls in Jericho lean closer without realizing it.

The sight hit harder than you wanted it to.

Instinctively, you glanced towards Bianca who was thanking Xavier for getting her a drink, her hand on his back like it was meant to be there.

Oh, yeah, you were sure this was hell.

There’s no way to spin this without it sounding absurd.

Xavier - the guy who purposely wrecked things between you and Bianca - likes your current fake girlfriend. He almost took her to the Rav’n, but that fell apart. Now he’s here, at the event you planned, but now with Bianca - the same ex who cheated on you with him.

And your fake girlfriend didn’t come with you. She’s here with the barista who’s openly obsessed with her instead - a normie who’s everything you secretly wish you could be: normal, simple, boring, and entirely human.

You needed a fucking drink.

But instead, you didn't move. Just watched as they stepped into the crowd, Wednesday's gaze sweeping the room in that calculating way she had, like she was taking inventory of potential suspects instead of attending a dance. Tyler said something to her, something casual, something that made his grin widen, but her reply was hidden behind the noise of the music.

It didn't matter. You knew it wasn't you she'd chosen to stand beside tonight.

Someone brushed past you, jolting you back into motion. You forced yourself to turn away from the door, to focus on the glittering orbs above and the cool weight of your bracelet against your arm, to remember Isla's words from earlier - It's for you.

But no matter where you moved, no matter who you passed, you could feel her somewhere behind you, that dark, magnetic presence cutting through the heat and the noise like a cold current.

You were starting to believe that marrying whichever slime-scaled, politically strategic serpent your father had lined up for you in the Great Lagoon would've been easier—less humiliating, at least—than what you were doing now.

Xavier's dorm was neater than you expected. Still messy in that curated, "I'm tortured but photogenic" kind of way. There were sketches sprawled across the floor, open pens, a shirt slung lazily over the back of a chair. But it wasn't chaos. It wasn't the boy equivalent of a landfill like you hoped it might be. It looked lived-in. It looked like someone who still felt things and maybe that's why it stung.

"That purple book has to be around here somewhere," Wednesday said under her breath, already surveying the room with that detective's gleam in her eye. Thing and Moro were perched like gargoyles on the bedside table, ready for orders. "Start investigating."

Everyone moved. Thing and Moro scuttled off, Wednesday turned her attention to the shelves, and you—still feeling mildly out of place in your thin shirt and soft sweatpants—opened drawers half-heartedly, not really caring if you found anything at all.

You weren't surprised when you came across a box of condoms in the side table. If anything, it just confirmed the quiet suspicion you hadn't wanted to look at directly.

"Disgusting," you muttered as you dropped the box back in and closed the drawer with a soft click. You drifted toward Wednesday, standing beside her as she silently flipped through Xavier's sketchpad.

"I'm so unsurprised he has a drawing of you."

She didn't blink. Didn't react. Just turned the page, unbothered. Efficient. She was already crossing the room before you finished speaking, flicking the light off and pulling out a blue flashlight to scan Rowan's old mattress. She was focused in a way you envied. Unreachable.

And then—two sharp knocks on the door.

Your body reacted before your brain did. You grabbed Wednesday's wrist and dragged her down with you, the two of you scrambling to wedge yourselves beneath Xavier's bed as quietly as possible. Your shoulder scraped against the wood and you winced. It was tight. Dusty. The air felt thinner down here, like the moment itself knew something was about to happen.

You didn't realize how close you were until you felt her shift beneath you—her hand curling instinctively around your waist like it was second nature. You tried not to react. You were too aware of everything already: the headache pounding behind your eyes, the chill of the floor against your skin, the way her braid brushed your arm, the sheer fact that you were lying on top of Wednesday Addams like this was normal.

You weren't even supposed to be here. You were in your dorm, miserably attempting to finish an essay you didn't care about, when Thing had appeared with a note scrawled in black ink: Meet me in the library at 21:00. You were tired. You were in pain. And still, you showed up. Of course you did.

Above you, the door creaked open.

"You're not supposed to be up here," Xavier said.

"Good to see you too," came Bianca's voice, smooth as ever, cutting through the room like it belonged there.

Of course it was her. Of course she was here. Visiting Xavier's dorm after curfew like it was nothing, like you were back in the months where your name never even came up unless it was about how you were too sensitive or too insecure or too weirdly quiet in groups.

You barely breathed as they talked.

"How'd you get past the Housemaster?" he asked, tone defensive.

"Not while wearing this," she shot back, breezy. "Would it kill you to not assume the worst of me for once?"

Xavier didn't respond. He moved. You heard the bed creak as he sat.

"What do you want, Bianca?"

"I wanted to see how you're doing. I know you and Rowan were close."

A pause.

"That must've been hard."

You could practically hear the eye roll he gave her.

"Since when do you give a damn about Rowan?"

"You were always convinced he'd do something to Wednesday," Bianca said, her voice turning sharper, more pointed. "Isn't that why you've been following her around like some love-struck stray? Or is there something else going on?"

There it was. That bite. That burn. Bianca never did jealousy quietly.

"I don't see what you see in her," she added. "All black and bitterness, like she walked out of a Tim Burton nightmare. You really have a type, huh?"

"Maybe it's because she doesn't try to manipulate me," Xavier said.

That shut her up, for a second.

"I make one mistake—" she began, already defensive.

"One?" he snapped. "You call that one?"

Her voice lowered. "You can't stop punishing me. But Wednesday treats you like dirt and you still follow her around like she's your salvation. Meanwhile, I tried to love you. I did. And with Y/N—”

Your breath caught.

You hadn't prepared yourself for this. You should have. You should've known your name would get dragged into it the minute she felt cornered.

"With Y/N, I tried even harder," Bianca continued. "But it was like dating a sponge. Always soaking up everyone's emotions. Always second-guessing herself. It was exhausting. She made me feel like I had to be this... emotional life jacket or something. And god, don't get me started on her whole identity crisis. She's barely even a real mermaid. Can't sing, can't shift, can't even swim without getting dizzy. She's all title. No magic."

You didn't move - you couldn't. It was like every cell in your body had frozen in place, shame and nausea and heartbreak simmering quietly in your gut like poison.

Wednesday didn't say anything, she didn’t even flinch. But her hand, still resting against your waist, tightened slightly. Whether it was anger or protectiveness or simply anchoring you down, you didn't know. You didn't care.

"I still think about those nights with you," Bianca said, her voice gentler now. "When it was secret. When it was fun. We were good, Xavier. We had chemistry."

There was a long pause.

"Or maybe," he said finally, "you just wanted me to believe that."

Silence.

"You're making a mistake with her," Bianca whispered, voice low. "Wednesday's not your dream girl. She's the monster under your bed."

You swallowed hard.

Because right now, you were the monster under hers.

And it had never felt more pathetic.

It took thirty minutes before any of you moved. Thirty minutes of hiding beneath the weight of other people's truths—Bianca's voice still echoing in your skull, Xavier's silence still thrumming beneath your skin.

By the time you crawled out from under Xavier's bed and slipped out into the halls, the ache had settled into your bones. You weren't just embarrassed. You weren't just humiliated. You were exposed. So hollow it felt like you were echoing inside yourself.

Outside, lightning forked across the sky, splitting the clouds open like paper. A loud crack boomed across the campus, the storm answering your nervous system directly.

Wednesday said nothing at first. She didn't rush. Didn't ask if you were alright. Of course she didn't.

Then, as you turned down the hall, her voice floated behind you—calm, steady, inevitable: "Why don't you swim?"

You froze mid-step.

There it was. No buildup. No tact. She'd been holding the question in her mouth for days like a blade under her tongue. And now that you'd let your guard slip—just enough—she decided it was time.

"You're a mermaid," she continued, her tone surgical, "and yet you avoid water like it offends you. You carry that flask everywhere. You get nosebleeds. Headaches. You ran back to your dorm before the forest trip, clearly for that." She nodded toward the glint of silver tucked into your pocket. "Explain."

You didn't move, just clenched your jaw and stared at the window at the end of the hall.

"Glad you've been taking notes," you muttered.

"I take notes on everything," she replied. "But you haven't answered."

She was relentless. Not cruel—just factual. Cold, if you didn't know her better.

Thing tilted its head on her shoulder like even he was bracing for impact. Moro had slithered up your leg again, resting against your thigh, right over the mark you never spoke of.

You sighed. "Because."

"Because what?"

You turned and pushed through the window without another word. The two of you had taken this same path before—across the roof, toward the boys' dorms. It was risky. Narrow. You never liked the way the wind snapped at your ankles. But it felt better than standing still.

She followed, of course. Silent as ever.

Once you reached the middle of the flat rooftop—surrounded by silence and sky—you stopped walking.

You didn't face her when you said it.

"I'm not the kind of mermaid people expect. I'm not glowing or graceful or dreamy. I don't sing. I don't shimmer. I don't lure sailors into the waves with promises of love. I drag things down and tear things apart."

You glanced down at the concrete beneath your feet.

"When I was a kid, I swam too far out. My body changed and no one could stop it. Some told me stories of my mother and how she was the same way - angry and violent. The witches tried to stabilize me with spells and amulets and sea-salt charms, but it doesn't last. Not forever. The water... reminds me. Pulls it out of me. Whatever's still left inside."

Wednesday didn't respond. You kept going.

"So I avoid it. I avoid the water, and my friends, and every opportunity to be who I'm supposed to be because I'm not someone who should be seen like that. My father calls me his little heir but I'm not a legacy. I'm a mistake someone keeps trying to repackage as royalty."

You turned to her finally, forcing your voice steady.

"So yeah. I don't swim."

The wind moved around you like it had been holding its breath. Wednesday stood a few feet away, arms crossed behind her back. Her face, as always, gave nothing.

She blinked once.

"That was unnecessarily dramatic," she said plainly. "And mostly inaccurate."

You stared at her.

She stepped forward, her boots soundless against the concrete.

"You say you're not what people expect. But that's not the same thing as being monstrous. That's just being disappointing. And disappointment," she tilted her head, "is far more survivable than you think."

Your mouth parted. "So you don't care?"

"I simply don't find you frightening. If anything, I find you frustratingly self-destructive."

You blinked.

Wednesday narrowed her eyes. "But I'm not here to comfort you. That would be a waste of time."

Right.

"Okay," you said.

She nodded once, slow and deliberate. "Good."

A silence stretched between you. The kind that felt final—like the last page of a book closing quietly in the dark.

But then she spoke again, softer this time. As if she hadn't planned to say it, but couldn't stop herself. "I also think you're wrong about the way you look."

You turned your head, startled. "What?"

She didn't blink. "Your appearance isn't offensive. In fact... you're remarkably tolerable to look at."

You opened your mouth, but no response came. Not with the way her words brushed against something fragile in your chest.

She looked away first. Adjusted her bag with calculated indifference. Began to walk toward the edge of the rooftop like the conversation hadn't happened at all.

But just before she disappeared down the hatch, half-turned and silhouetted in the stormlight, she paused. Her voice was quieter, but clear.

"If I ever did see you in the water," she said, "I doubt you'd be grotesque."

Then she vanished—braid trailing behind her like the tail of a comet—and left you alone on the rooftop, with your heartbeat loud and something unreadable lodged in your throat.

——————

"I'm going to kill her," you muttered under your breath, gripping Yoko's hand with just enough restraint to avoid bruising her. The infirmary smelled like antiseptic and rusted metal, and the sting in your voice didn't exactly lighten the mood.

It was Poe Cup day—Nevermore Academy's favorite excuse to engage in school-sanctioned chaos—and the campus buzzed with team spirit. You were in full cheer uniform: a black and purple top cropped just above your waist, the matching skirt pleated to perfection, and a sleek black bow tied into your half-up hairstyle. The shimmer on your cheekbones caught the light when you moved, making you look less like a student and more like a mythical threat.

Yoko, however, looked... significantly less immortal.

"It's fine, Y/N," she said weakly, her voice muffled as she sipped from a blood bag handed to her by the nurse. Her face was pale, even for a vampire. "You're being dramatic."

"You almost died," you said flatly. "I'd say dramatic is the bare minimum right now. Bianca's lucky I don't drown her in her own glitter bath."

Yoko cracked a faint smile, but even that made her wince. "You'd have to actually get in the water to do that."

You shot her a look, one brow arching. "If it were anyone else saying that, I'd be planning their funeral right now."

"Mhm. Good thing I'm your favorite," she replied, the smirk still ghosting her lips.

You rolled your eyes. "Scratch that. I hope Bianca put extra garlic in your bread."

"Wow. The betrayal." She tossed the now-empty blood bag onto the metal tray beside her and pushed her glasses up to rest on her head. Her fangs peeked out, gleaming faintly under the flickering infirmary lights. "Anyway—go. It's Poe Cup Day. You've got a whole crowd to charm. And a certain someone to cheer for."

"You're on dangerously thin ice, Tanaka," you said, but your laugh betrayed you. You stood, smoothing down your skirt as it swished lightly around your thighs. "I'll make sure your room is filled with bloodthirsty admirers by the time you get back."

"What would I even do without you?" she sighed dramatically, reclining like a Victorian widow on morphine.

You gave her one last smile—smaller this time, softer—and then turned toward the door. By the time you stepped out onto the path leading to the lake, the wind had picked up, lifting the edge of your skirt and the bow in your hair. Students were already gathered in clusters by the shoreline, some in team jerseys, others in school colors, all buzzing with anticipation.

And there—by the striped tents near the water's edge—stood Wednesday and Enid. The two were deep in conversation, heads tilted close.

"Hey, guys," you said as you approached the tents by the lake, adjusting your cheer uniform as the wind picked up slightly. "Ready for some competition?"

Enid turned first—and froze.

Her eyes went wide, her jaw slack for a second too long before she caught herself and straightened up, clutching her clipboard to her chest like it might shield her. "Oh my god. Hi. Uh. Wow—you look like... like if a goddess had a goth cousin and they were both in a CW drama. I mean that in the best way."

You blinked. "Thanks?"

Wednesday, standing beside her with arms crossed, exhaled sharply through her nose. "Enid."

"What?" Enid said, eyes still very much on you. "Sorry—I just... we've never really talked and you're, like, Y/N. Everyone knows who you are, and I've seen you at assemblies and stuff but never this close and—okay, I'm rambling."

You bit back a smile. She was harmless. Nervous. Kind of endearing, actually.

"Don't worry," you said dryly. "I'm not going to bite."

"Oh. Right. No—obviously not. That'd be... Wednesday's job." She laughed awkwardly and elbowed her best friend. "Right? Fake girlfriend moment?"

Wednesday stared at her like she was considering murder.

"Anyway!" Enid spun around to her bag like she was escaping the moment. "I brought the thing. You know—the thing I told you to give her, because it's cold and she's about to stand in front of the whole school and you have the emotional range of a haunted Victorian doll?"

Wednesday didn't move.

"Wednesday," Enid warned, holding up a black folded jacket like a sacred relic.

Wednesday's lips twitched—possibly in annoyance, possibly in dread—but she finally snatched the jacket from Enid's hands and turned to you.

She didn't offer it gently. She practically shoved it into your chest like it insulted her to be doing this.

"Put this on," she said, monotone.

You looked down. It was a sleek black varsity-style jacket, clearly custom-made. Thick, well-fitted. Subtle silver embroidery on the left breast: a gothic letter W. But the back was what caught you—bold white stitching across the shoulders: ADDAMS.

You raised an eyebrow. "Subtle."

"It's cold," she said.

Enid chimed in behind her. "And you're dating her—fake-dating her, I know, but optics are everything! This way you'll look claimed. Like 'hey, don't mess with her, she's got a girlfriend who may or may not carry knives in her boots.' Very on brand, right?"

Wednesday shot her a look that could kill.

You slipped the jacket on anyway. It was heavier than expected but surprisingly warm. You pulled the collar up a bit and rolled your shoulders. It fit.

"...Thanks," you said finally, voice low.

Wednesday didn't respond. Just studied you for a second too long before looking away, like she hadn't just made a silent, unspoken declaration in front of half the lake.

Enid cleared her throat. "Welp! That's my matchmaking for the day. Gotta go help Thing hang a banner. Don't fall in love too fast!" She darted off before either of you could respond.

You watched her disappear, amused. "She's intense."

"She's Enid," Wednesday replied like that explained everything.

You let the silence settle, adjusting the jacket again. "So. Do I look the part now?"

Wednesday turned her head slightly. Her eyes flicked down, then back up, unreadable.

"You'll do."

And then, with perfect timing, the first Poe Cup cannon sounded across the lake—sharp and thunderous.

Showtime.

The lake stretched wide and still—too still. As if the water itself was holding its breath.

An hour after talking to Enid for the first time, teams were climbing into boats, the crowd buzzing behind you with leftover adrenaline from the cheer performance. You still hadn't taken off your ADDAMS jacket. You didn't plan to. Not when it suddenly felt more like armor than costume.

You made your way to the dock with sure steps, pulse still high, feet aching from the sharp landings of your routine. But when you saw her—Wednesday, sitting stone-straight in her boat, gloved hands gripping her oar—you forgot the ache completely.

She looked... lethal.

The black cat suit clung to her like purpose. Her braids swayed slightly with the wind, and Moro was already nestled beneath the cuff of her glove like a hidden blade. She hadn't looked away since you started walking.

You crouched low beside her, close enough that your knees brushed the edge of the boat. "You look like you're about to commit premeditated murder."

"I am."

You smirked. "Just wanted to wish you luck."

"I don't need luck," she said. "I need them to row faster."

You watched Moro adjust himself into her palm anyway. "Think of him as insurance."

She looked down at the creature curling into her wrist. "He'll do."

You were about to respond when a movement across the lake caught your eye—and your stomach sank.

Bianca.

She stood at the helm of the Gold Bug boat, already in position. Her suit gleamed in the weak sunlight, skin glowing with sea-born confidence, hair slicked back and cruelly perfect. She looked calm, prepared, and dangerous.

But it wasn't her stance that made your spine go rigid, it was her eyes that were locked directly on you.

She didn't even bother to hide it—her gaze flicked from you, standing alone at the dock in your cheer skirt and borrowed jacket, to Wednesday in the boat just beneath you, then back to you again.

Then she smiled.

Not friendly. Not polite.

Just knowing.

You stiffened.

"She sees us," you murmured. "And she knows something's off."

Wednesday didn't look across the lake. Her eyes stayed fixed on the water ahead, unblinking, unreadable.

"Let her," she said simply. "I want her to see what she's about to lose."

Your breath caught for a second.

"She's the reigning champion," you said. "You really think you can beat her?"

Wednesday's grip on her oar tightened. "I don't intend to beat her," she replied. "I intend to ruin her."

Of course she did. Of course she'd say it like that.

You took a breath, stepped back a half-inch as the crowd around the lake began to rise with noise. The race was seconds from starting.

"I should let you focus," you said, your voice softer now. "Don't crash your boat. I'd rather not have to swim out there and drag your body to shore."

Wednesday turned slightly, just enough to face you. Then—quietly, deliberately—she reached out.

Her gloved hand brushed your arm. Not quite intimate, not quite formal. Just enough to make you still. Her fingers tapped twice—once, twice—right over the stitched ADDAMS on your jacket sleeve. A silent declaration.

Not affectionate. Not sweet.

Just clear.

Mine.

You stared at her, stunned. "What was that?"

"A reminder," she said, already pulling her hand back. "In case anyone's watching."

Bianca was still watching, of course. From across the water, gaze like a shark's but your heart was focused elsewhere.

You glanced at Wednesday's hands, now gripping the oar again.

Then, with your pulse still thudding in your ears, you lifted your own hand—palm out, two fingers crossed over one another, thumb overlapping your pointer finger. A small, ancient gesture. Your people's sign for protection over open water.

It meant: May the tides know your name.

You didn't expect her to understand it. But you held it up anyway, small and steady. Her eyes flicked to your hand. Then, for the first time all morning, something in her expression shifted.

Not softened—just opened.

Her nod was nearly imperceptible.

You stepped back. "Good luck, Addams."

"I won't need it," she replied.

Then the cannon fired—loud, final, echoing across the lake like a starting pistol and a warning bell all at once. And Wednesday Addams turned back to the water, braids swinging behind her like a battle flag, already halfway to war.

Before you even knew it, the Poe Cup was reaching its final stretch. They had already made it to the other side of the lake to capture their teams flag before jumping back into their boats.

Students on shore screaming so loud you could barely think. The Black Cats were just a breath behind the Gold Bugs—Wednesday, taut and focused, her teammates dripping sweat as they rowed in sync.

You watched from the edge of the dock, heart clenched in your throat. You hadn't moved in minutes. Couldn't.

You should've known Bianca wouldn't settle for a clean race.

She was siren-born and control ran in her veins. Not in the sorcerous sense—she didn't chant or cast or wield—but her very presence shaped water around her like a second skin. Sirens didn't need spells.

They were the spell.

And right now, Bianca was steering more than just her boat.

You saw it in the way her hand skimmed the surface on the return stretch—low and languid, almost lazy. But you'd seen enough to know better.

The water bent beneath her fingers. Subtle. Small. But it created just enough drag on the left side of her boat to push forward... and just enough turbulence to disrupt the current ahead of her.

You followed the ripple as it traveled across the lake.

Straight toward Wednesday.

The Black Cat boat hit it hard. Not enough to capsize—but enough to knock the oars off rhythm. Enough to send a shiver through the boat's spine. Wednesday snapped something at her team and Moro darted from one side to the other in a panic, trying to stabilize the rudder with all his tiny weight.

Bianca didn't look back. She didn't have to.

You felt your pulse spike.

She'd been patient. Holding back her manipulation until the return leg—until it would look like a natural shift in current. Untraceable. Deny-able.

Smart.

But cruel.

You didn't hesitate.

You threw off the jacket.

Kicked off your boots.

And ran.

The crowd barely noticed. They were screaming at the boats and you were already diving mid-air.

You hit the lake with a splash that felt like swallowing a scream.

The second you were submerged, your body moved on instinct—faster than thought, faster than fear. The cold wrapped around your ribs, and your limbs stretched and shifted into something other. Something ancient.

Scales shimmered beneath your cheer uniform. Your spine lengthened. Your hands webbed and pulsed with strength you hadn't touched in years.

The pressure in your chest released.

The lake knew you again.

You moved fast, cutting through the dark water like a blade. The chaos above muffled into vibrations. The other boats faded. Only hers mattered.

Wednesday.

Her boat was listing slightly, and Moro was struggling—hanging onto the back end, kicking at the water as the current worked against him.

You surged beneath the boat and shoved up hard, hands slapping the wood with a force that sent shockwaves across the underside.

Above, Wednesday gripped the edge. Her braid swung as she turned. She looked down.

And froze.

You surfaced, just enough for her to see your face—dripping, glowing faintly from the lake light, hair plastered to your forehead. Scales glinted along your jaw and she couldn’t pull away from looking directly into your mismatched color eyes.

Her expression didn't shift.

She didn't gasp.

She didn't look away.

She just watched you. Still. Calm.

And then—barely moving—she nodded.

Not in fear.

Not in shock.

In recognition.

Like she'd known this was coming.

Like she'd known you.

You stayed low in the water, just beneath the surface—eyes trained on the Black Cat boat, steadying it from underneath. Your hands pressed to the hull, muscles coiled, body still shifted, shimmering beneath the dark lake.

Wednesday hadn't stopped rowing.

She hadn't flinched when she saw you.

And now she was leaning slightly to the left, murmuring something to her teammates—her posture unchanged, her expression sharp. Then, just as the Gold Bug boat began to pull ahead again, she made her moved.

She pivoted.

It happened in a blink.

Wednesday yanked the rudder hard and snapped her oar in a sharp arc, sending the boat into a controlled spin that skimmed across Bianca's wake like a skipping stone. One of Bianca’s teammates swerved, the other shouted. Their boat tilted. Water rushed in over the edge.

Bianca cursed as she grabbed for balance—and just like that, her team lost momentum.

The Black Cats surged past.

The crowd exploded.

You felt the roar of it vibrate through the water, through your ribs. Above, Wednesday was already rowing again—mechanical, focused, utterly in control.

The finish line was seconds away.

And she didn't slow down, hell, she didn't even look back.

When the Black Cat boat crossed first, the cannon fired a second time—final, victorious. The crowd screamed so loud it shook the trees while Enid tackled someone in celebration. Someone from an opposing boat fainted just as the streamers exploded across the lake.

You exhaled, letting your hands slip from the boat's underside.

Then you turned.

Bianca was watching the shore in disbelief. Her boat was still upright, but her pride had capsized completely.

And for one long second—her eyes met yours, just beneath the surface.

Not a clear look. Just a flash of something shining and inhuman beneath the waves, but enough to make her expression crack.

You disappeared before she could speak.

——————

By the time you dragged yourself onto the far side of the lake—hidden behind the reeds and stone columns near the old fencing shed—you were half-human again. Your breath came in sharp bursts. Your skin ached from the shift. But you were intact. Drying. Quiet.

And then—you heard footsteps.

Wednesday.

Of course.

She emerged from behind the shed like she'd been there the whole time, her cat suit half-unzipped at the neck, braids damp from lake spray. She didn't speak at first. Just looked at you—soaked, barefoot, lips parted like you might still be glowing.

"I covered for you," she said eventually.

You blinked.

"No one saw what you were. Not fully. Not enough to matter."

You sat back against the stone wall, chest still heaving. "Bianca did."

"She won't say anything. She knows what it cost her to cheat and still lose."

You glanced down at your legs—mostly human now, though your ankles still shimmered faintly under the reeds.

"I didn't want this to happen like this," you whispered.

"I know."

"She saw me."

Wednesday crouched beside you, voice even quieter now. "I did too."

You looked at her. Really looked.

She didn't seem afraid. Or smug. Or even surprised.

Just... steady.

"You still rowed," you said, a strange laugh bubbling up in your throat. "You saw me and kept going."

"I trusted you to fix it," she replied simply. "You did."

Then—deliberately, almost carelessly—she pulled the ADDAMS jacket from her waist and draped it over your shoulders like this whole interaction was normal.

You shivered beneath it. Not from cold.

"You're going to have to tell me everything," she said.

"Eventually."

She nodded. "I'm patient."

Then, before leaving, she glanced over her shoulder—eyes gleaming beneath the stormy sky. "I meant what I said earlier," she added. "About Bianca."

"She's not the reigning champion anymore?"

"No," Wednesday said. "But she is afraid of you now."

And then she walked away—wet boots silent on stone, braid swaying like a punctuation mark.

After the Poe Cup, you retreated to the comfort of your dormitory where the lake water still clinging to your skin like memory, your bones aching in that quiet, post-shift way. You barely had time to unlace your boots before a notecard slipped underneath your door like an invitation or a threat.

Party. 10PM.

The word was scrawled in sharp ink. No signature but you didn't need a signature to tell you who - or what - it was from.

You'd been part of the Nightshades since freshman year. The secret society was practically a family heirloom. Everyone in your bloodline had been inducted, but the only reason you were even on their radar was because of your older sister, Isla Marina. Isla, the golden child. The first to break your father's heart and somehow still be his favorite.

"I can't believe you're fake-dating Wednesday freakin' Addams just to piss off Dad," Isla said, voice muffled slightly from where she lay sprawled across Yoko's empty bed, hands tucked beneath her head like she owned the place.

Yoko was still recovering in the infirmary, which meant Isla had claimed her room like a second skin.

You picked up the card and tossed it onto your desk without looking. "I wish I was something different. Like... I don't know. A werewolf, maybe."

Isla laughed. Loudly and borderline rudely.

"You want to be a slobbery little puppy with fur in your mouth and scent glands?" She snorted. "Wow. You really are unwell."

You rolled your eyes and chucked the notecard at her head. She dodged without blinking, mermaid reflexes sharper than ever. Born for water and born for beauty. Isla had always been confident in her mermaid form—dazzling, terrifying, radiant in the way sea monsters were when they were almost human. She was the most beautiful in the family by far.

But she never wanted the throne.

She made a deal with your father years ago: she wouldn't be queen, but she'd stay out of politics and your father’s hair in exchange for one thing—freedom. Art. She was a painter, a romantic, a land-dweller by design. She didn't want the crown. She wanted canvases and gallery walls.

All your siblings had made deals. Clever ones. Elias, another brother of yours, had traded away the throne for diplomatic immunity and time spent abroad.

You were the only one who hadn't bargained.

Because you had nothing worth trading.

And so he chose you.

"Bianca said she saw you in the water," Isla said suddenly, her voice softer now, like she wasn't just teasing anymore. "You know. Today."

You shrugged, back still turned. "Bianca's a liar. And a cheater. I wouldn't believe a word she says."

"If you say so," Isla said, but she was standing now, barefoot on the floor, stretching like a cat. "But if you were in the water today..."

She stepped toward you, voice gentler.

"It would be okay, you know. To be yourself. It's not a crime. You're beautiful, Y/N. You always have been. Well—mostly because you're related to me, but still."

You snorted. "We really almost had a sweet moment there."

"Yeah, yeah," she muttered, but her hand cupped your cheek as she said it. Briefly. Warm. Familiar.

Then she tapped your cheek twice and turned toward the door.

"Don't be late to the party tonight," she called over her shoulder, her hand already on the knob. "Oh—and bring UNO."

The door closed behind her with a soft click.

And suddenly, the room felt a little emptier.

The notecard still sat on your desk.

Party. 10PM.

And for the first time in weeks, you weren't sure who you'd be showing up as. You realized, despite your recent opinions about life at sea, you couldn’t lie to yourself after today.

You enjoyed the monster inside you. The hunger for victory. The hunger to be surrounded by what desired you - what called out to you. The hunger to help Wednesday.

———————

The fifth night came without footsteps.

No boots, no hiss of a mask, no cruel voice. Just pure silence. And that, you believe, was worse.

You tried to steady yourself the way you always had. You whispered bees, you pictured Eugene's small hands moving carefully over honeycomb, his nervous grin when a bee landed on his sleeve and he called it a "friend." You pictured the field buzzing with life, a world too orderly to ever belong to you but calm enough to pretend.

It worked for a breath. Just a breath.

Then your thoughts slipped.

To Enid — her laugh, high and bright, her chatter filling silence in ways you never could. You thought of her kindness, her warmth, how little you'd let her in. You wished you had. Because she mattered to Wednesday, and therefore she should have mattered to you. Now it was too late, you were going to die and the wish curdled in your stomach.

And Wednesday. Always Wednesday. Her dark eyes, the way she looked at you like a riddle she wasn't sure she wanted to solve. The twitch of her mouth the night you kissed her. You imagined her knowing you didn’t just leave but that you were taken. You imagined her frown, imagined her deciding not to follow, not to care. The hook dug deep: maybe you weren't worth it.

Your chest pulled tight.

And then — Moro.

Your little under-the-sea friend/spy. The one creature who had never asked you to be anything other than yourself. Who curled at the end of your bed, who nuzzled your hands with his slick, whiskered face. Gone. Vanished the night of Parents Weekend. No splash, no trace. You hadn't let yourself think about it, but now you couldn't stop. He had left you too.

The heat pressed harder, making your lungs seize.

And then your mother.

Not the myth, not the whispers. Just the memory that she left. That she chose the possibility of another life over you. That while other children grew up with lullabies and bedtime stories, you grew up with silence, with lessons, with a father who measured you like you were an heirloom instead of a daughter. She had left you, and she had never looked back.

You wondered often if she moved on, started another family - a more human-like one.

The thought cracked something in your ribs.

The spiral strangled you until there was nowhere left to go. Bees, gone. Eugene, gone. Enid's laugh, gone. Wednesday's eyes, unreachable. Moro, vanished. Your mother, gone before you could even remember her touch. Everyone left. Everyone left. Everyone left.

And then your body broke.

It started in your chest — a sharp crack of pain, as though your ribs were being pried open from the inside. You gasped, but it came out wrong: a rattling choke, half-scream, half-gurgle. Your lungs burned as though filled with fire. Then your gills split wider down your neck with a wet tear, raw and oozing, dragging in air that only hurt you more.

You convulsed, jerking against the chains, wrists twisting until the skin peeled back in strips. Blood slicked down your arms, staining the stone beneath you dark. You screamed again, but this time your voice was lower, guttural, vibrating with something inhuman.

Scales burst across your skin in patches, jagged and violent, not smooth — tearing through flesh like shards of glass breaking the surface. They split your arms, your shoulders, your collarbone, leaving you both armored and bleeding. Every new patch felt like knives dragging through you from the inside out.

Your gums split next. The pain was blinding, white-hot. Blood filled your mouth as your teeth shoved themselves into new shapes — longer, sharper, fangs pressing down until your jaw ached, until you could taste iron and salt and something ancient.

The heat pressed harder, smothering, fusing itself into the transformation. The cave walls seemed to ripple, sweat and blood mixing on your body until you no longer knew where the pain ended and the hunger began.

Your nails blackened, thickened, lengthened into claws. You curled your fingers, chains rattling as sparks of stone scraped away under your grip. Bolts groaned, metal bending under strength you hadn't known was yours.

You pulled once. The cuffs tore deeper into raw flesh.

You pulled again. Bone creaked, veins screamed.

You pulled a third time — and the rock itself gave. The chains ripped free, a thunderclap in the furnace-dark, shards raining down like embers.

You collapsed forward, chains torn free, blood slicking your arms and dripping onto the scorched stone. When you pushed yourself upright, trembling, you felt the fabric against you.

Your Nevermore uniform was in ruins. The blazer had burned away long ago, scraps of black fabric clinging uselessly to your shoulders. Only the skirt remained, hiding where scales had ripped through your skin. Your stockings — once neat, striped — were now little more than ribbons clinging to your thighs, soaked dark with blood.

Somewhere beneath it all you still wore your mermaid bralette, delicate scales worked into its weave, but you couldn't even see it anymore. Blood coated everything, streaked thick across your chest, smeared down your stomach, clinging to torn fabric until it all looked the same: ruin.

But it was also revelation.

Because that uniform had been your mask. Your attempt to fit into the rhythm of classrooms, quads, and dorm halls. To belong to the world of human teenagers with their laughter and cliques and dances. Every pleat of that skirt, every neat stripe on those stockings had been your camouflage, your way of saying: See? I'm just like you.

Now it was shredded, stained, unrecognizable.

Like you.

You could have been anyone, anything. Not a student. Not a girl. Just a figure bent and breaking under the weight of your own body's betrayal, dressed in the tatters of something that once resembled normalcy.

Your claws flexed, catching threads of fabric until they shredded further. Your gills flared, staining what was left of your collar in black-red streaks. You were no longer a girl in a uniform — just a mass of blood, torn clothes, and scales crawling across your skin like a plague.

The uniform had been a costume. Now it was a corpse.

If Wednesday had walked into the cave then, she wouldn't have seen the careful head cheerleader or the girl who brushed pinky fingers with her at her desk. She would have seen this: a creature in the ruins of a Nevermore skirt, stockings in shreds, teeth dripping, eyes black as the sea.

Completely unrecognizable.

And that, more than the claws or the hunger, made you want to scream until the cave collapsed around you.

A guttural roar ripped out of you, shaking dust from the ceiling, bouncing off the walls until the cave itself seemed to scream with you. It was grief, rage, hunger, loneliness — everything you had buried, everything they had tried to bury for you.

And there was no one to hear it. No captor to gloat. No friend to save you. No Wednesday.

Only you, in the fire-scarred cave, monstrous and alone.

The quad no longer looked like Nevermore.

Where once there were cobblestone paths lined with neat benches and hedges trimmed into cruel perfection, now there was only fire. Smoke bled into the night sky, black plumes blotting out the moon. The air reeked of sulfur and scorched earth. What had been proud towers were now fractured silhouettes, windows shattered, flames licking hungrily at their stone throats.

Joseph Crackstone stood at the center of it all, his figure stretched monstrous in the glow of the blaze. His body was wrong — flesh marbled with rot, eyes burning with something that had never belonged to the living. Every movement of his hand tore open the ground itself, veins of fire crawling through the soil, splitting the quad like a wound. Statues crumbled into dust at his feet.

And across from him - unshaken, unblinking - stood Wednesday Addams.

Her braids were wild in the smoke. Ash clung to her skin like war paint. The cello-bowed precision of her posture hadn't faltered, even as the flames painted her in their savage glow. She moved like a shadow sharpened into a blade, black eyes fixed on Crackstone with a hatred so precise it looked surgical.

Lightning cracked, arcing off the fire-veins. Shards of stone rained from the tower walls as the ground split wider. Students screamed in the distance while Bianca pulled them toward cover.

The quad itself had become a crucible — the heart of Nevermore twisted into a battlefield. Flames licked across banners, turning their purple-and-black sigils into curling scraps of ash. Gargoyles toppled from rooftops, wings snapping before they crashed into the fractured cobblestones. The fountain at the center boiled dry, its cracked basin coughing steam into the air with the anger of Aries himself.

Crackstone's voice thundered through the chaos, guttural and cruel, every word laced with centuries of rot. "This place will fall. Every outcast will burn."

And still, Wednesday did not flinch.

She raised her blade — blackened, dripping with something older than blood — and stepped forward into the fire.

The forest cracked beneath your steps.

Branches splintered where your claws caught them, roots tore free from the ground as you stumbled forward. Each breath was ragged, dragging through gills that burned raw, through lungs that felt too small for the hunger swelling inside you. The night air tasted of smoke, of ash, of something alive.

You couldn't stop.

The cave was behind you now — broken chains dragging at your wrists like trophies, the walls scored with gouges from your claws. You'd left it in ruin, but the hunger had only grown. It wasn't enough to scream, wasn't enough to break stone. You needed more.

The pull was instinctive. A tide in your blood, an invisible current dragging you across the burning woods. And ahead — Nevermore.

The fire reached you before the sight did. Smoke choked the air, rising in plumes against the night sky, glowing orange where flames licked at treetops. Your body staggered but carried on, legs trembling beneath you, half-human, half-scaled. The hunger didn't allow weakness. It devoured it.

When you broke through the treeline, the sight struck like a blade.

Nevermore was ablaze. The quad — the place where you had sat with classmates, where you had laughed too loudly at Yoko’s jokes, where Wednesday's shadow had lingered against yours — was swallowed in fire. Towers cracked, stone falling in thunderous bursts. Students ran like insects scattering from a torch, their screams swallowed by the roar of the inferno.

And in the center of it — the clash of titans. Crackstone's grotesque, rotted body glowing with cursed fire, and Wednesday, black silhouette sharp against the blaze, blade raised and unflinching.

Your mouth flooded with saliva at the sight. Not because of Crackstone. Not because of the battle. But because the air was thick with the scent of life. Students, teachers, flesh, blood. So close. So many.

If you hadn’t known any better, you would think you were a vampire.

Your claws flexed, your teeth ached. Your stomach felt hollow, a pit with no bottom. You pressed a hand to it, but it only made the ache sharper.

You wanted to scream her name, Wednesday, but the sound curdled in your throat. What came out instead was guttural, inhuman, a growl that belonged to something dragged from the bottom of the sea.

The hunger clawed higher, tearing through every thought. Faces flickered in your mind — Eugene, Isla, Wednesday — but even they were drowned in it, reduced to the thought of blood warm on your tongue, of tearing, ripping, devouring until the ache was gone.

But the ache would never be gone.

You stopped just short of the quad, the flames throwing long shadows across your body. Smoke curled around you, hiding and revealing you in uneven flashes: scales glistening wet in the firelight, claws dripping from torn fingertips, gills torn open and heaving.

The hunger howled in your stomach, sharp enough to make you tremble. Your throat burned with the growl you couldn't hold back, low and guttural, echoing just far enough to carry.

And they heard it.

The students.

Your classmates.

They had been fleeing the blaze, clinging to each other in clumps, faces streaked with ash and terror. But the moment you stumbled into the edge of their vision, every scream, every footstep faltered.

You saw their faces turn — pale, wide-eyed, mouths open. One girl gasped so hard she choked on smoke. A boy dragged his friend backward, clutching at her arm as though she might be the one to keep him safe.

"What - what is that?" someone whispered.

And then louder, cracked with fear: "A monster."

The word cut through the fire, sharp and undeniable.

"There's another monster—!" another shouted, and suddenly it was a flood, students pulling each other away, stumbling over broken stone and fire-scorched benches just to put distance between themselves and you.

You staggered back a step, chest heaving, the chains still clinking faintly from your wrists. Both your being and heart telling you different things. One was saying ANGER, ANGER, ANGER. While the other wanted to speak, to say NO PLEASE, to beg them to stop, to tell them it wasn't you — not like this. But the words wouldn't come. Only a hiss, deep and ragged, tearing from your throat like it belonged to something else entirely.

The fear in their eyes told you what they saw: not their classmate, not the girl who walked the quad with Wednesday, who teased Yoko over her relationship problems, who argued with Isla every day during lunch break.

They saw the stories, the warnings, and the thing parents whispered about when they told their children to stay safe while being outside. They didn’t even know what you were, they just assumed.

Sharp teeth, scales, blood, and ripped clothing: DANGER DANGER DANGER!

And as they ran from you — from the sight of you — the hunger gnawed harder, feeding on their terror until it was almost unbearable.

The battle in the quad reached its peak in fire and ruin.

Crackstone's roar tore through the night, a sound dredged from centuries of rot. His grotesque body convulsed, veins of fire surging through him like molten blood. For a moment, it looked as though the ground itself bowed beneath his curse, flames ripping wider through the cobblestones.

Then Wednesday struck.

Her blade carved through him, precise, deliberate, unstoppable. Fire surged from the wound, engulfing him in a searing blaze. His scream rattled the very stones, then cut off, swallowed by the inferno. His body staggered once, then crumbled into ash, scattered in the breath of the night wind.

The quad fell still, save for the crackle of fire and the ringing silence left in his wake. Students stared, slack-jawed, at the girl standing amidst the flames — ash smeared across her cheek, her posture rigid, black eyes unflinching even as the blaze danced around her.

But before the silence could settle into awe, a click cut through it.

Metal. Cold. Sharp.

Wednesday froze, her gaze flicking toward the sound.

There, just beyond the firelight, stood Thornhill. No longer smiling, no longer wrapped in the mask of gentle teacher. Her hand gripped a gun, the barrel leveled squarely at Wednesday's chest. The flames cast her face into sharp relief — not warm, but cold, cruel. “I might not kill all outcasts, but at least I’ll get to kill you, Wednesday.”

And below the hem of her slacks, catching the glow of firelight — red boots.

Your breath caught, claws curling against your side as the memory surged: the captor in the cave, the hiss of a voice changer, the glint of red leather stepping into the smoke.

It was her.

The one who chained you, the one who broke you. And now her gun was pointed at Wednesday.

The gun's click cracked through the firelit air like thunder, its barrel fixed squarely on Wednesday's chest. Time stopped — or maybe it shattered.

Something inside you surged forward before your mind even caught it. Instinct, hunger, fury — all wound together into one unstoppable drive. You launched yourself out of the shadows, claws gouging deep trenches into the walls of scorched cobblestones as you propelled your body forward.

The force of your tackle ripped the world sideways. Thornhill staggered back, the gun spinning from her hand and skittering across the stones in a metallic clatter. Her eyes widened, but before she could scream properly, you were on her.

Your claws pinned her shoulders to the ground, the stone cracking under her weight. And then your fangs found flesh.

You sank your teeth deep into the meat of her shoulder, tearing past fabric, skin, muscle. Hot blood gushed into your mouth instantly — metallic, copper-thick, coating your tongue in warmth so overwhelming you almost choked on it. Her scream rang high and shrill, muffled by the sound of your snarling as you shook your head, tearing deeper.

Her body writhed beneath you, nails scraping your arms, heels kicking against the stone. You didn't stop. Couldn't. Every bite, every gush of blood against your lips sang to the hunger like fuel on flame.

In that moment, you weren't a student, weren't a daughter, weren't even human.

You were teeth. Hunger. Violence.

And Thornhill was prey.

The air changed. At first, it was faint — a buzz, so low it could have been the roar of the fire in your ears. But then it grew. A hum, a vibration crawling across your skin, growing louder, louder, until it became a storm of wings.

Bees.

They descended in a living wave, their bodies glinting gold in the firelight, their furious hum cutting through every scream and roar. Thornhill shrieked again, but this time not from your teeth — from the swarm latching onto her exposed skin, stingers driving deep.

You felt the shift in yourself instantly. The sound cut through your frenzy like a knife. You tore your fangs from her shoulder, blood spraying in a hot arc across your chin, dripping down your throat.

You staggered back, claws dragging red streaks across the stone as Thornhill writhed under the swarm, her voice shredded into hoarse screams. Bees crawled across her face, her arms, under her clothes, her figure swallowed in a writhing, living mass of stingers and fury.

The hunger howled inside you, furious at being denied, demanding more — but the swarm's hum was louder. Louder even than your pulse.

You gasped, chest heaving, blood dripping from your lips like ink.

And then you saw him.

Through the haze of smoke and flame, through the writhing storm of bees attacking Thornhill, you saw the boy guiding them.

Eugene.

He stood just beyond the swarm, small and pale against the chaos, his hands trembling but outstretched, his lips moving in commands you couldn't hear. His wide eyes glistened with both terror and resolve, fixed on the bees — fixed on you.

Alive.

Your body froze, trembling with the weight of it. Alive. Breathing. Moving. Not broken in the woods, not still and bloodied.

The sight gutted you.

Your claws shook, dripping with Thornhill's blood. Your chest heaved and your blackened eyes locked on him, the boy you had thought of when you tried to calm yourself in the cave, the boy you had clung to in memory as proof you were still human.

You felt yourself change in the matter of seconds, a chill of exhaustion rushing through you.

"Eugene..." The word scraped out of your throat, mangled and guttural, more hiss than speech. You pressed a clawed hand against your chest as if to hold something inside, but the tremor only worsened.

He didn't run. He didn't scream "monster" like the others had. He just stood, wide-eyed, trembling — but facing you all the same.

And in his eyes, you saw yourself reflected: not just the monster, not just the hunger, but the shadow of the girl you used to be. It made the blood in your mouth taste like ash.

She had been watching the entire time.

Wednesday Addams stood amidst the flames, ash streaked across her cheek, her blade still dripping with Crackstone's ruin. She had not flinched when you lunged at Thornhill. She had not moved when your fangs tore through her shoulder. She had not even so much as blinked when you tore free, blood spilling down your chin.

And now, as the bees swarmed, as Eugene trembled, she stepped forward.

The fire clawed at her silhouette, painting her in hell's light. Smoke curled around her like a shroud. Her eyes — black, sharp, unyielding — fixed on you with surgical precision.

But there was something behind them. Something dangerous, something you didn't dare name.

Recognition.

She didn't look horrified. Didn't look surprised. She looked at you like she had been waiting for this moment, like she had known this truth all along.

Her lips parted, slow, deliberate, as if ready to speak.

And for the first time since the cave, since the hunger swallowed you whole, you felt it: seen.

Blood still dripped from your fangs. Your claws twitched with frenzy. The hunger clawed at your gut, begging for more.

But under Wednesday's gaze, you were frozen. Not prey. Not predator. Just... held.

And it terrified you more than the hunger ever had.

Thornhill's screams were still echoing when Wednesday moved. No hesitation, no warning. Her boot swung hard into the woman's temple, Thornhill's body jolted, then went limp, her mouth falling slack beneath the crawling mass of bees. The swarm buzzed louder for a beat, covering her in a living shroud, and Wednesday brushed her hands against her skirt as if she'd just rid herself of an insect. She didn't spare another glance.

"She was getting loud," she said flatly, her voice clipped and cold.

Then her eyes turned to you.

The firelight cast every ruin of your body in brutal clarity: blood streaked across your jaw, scales splitting through your arms and collarbone, gills flaring raw and useless against the smoke. But it was your eyes that made her pause, just for the length of a heartbeat. No longer lifeless black but now one green and the other blue. Mismatched and desperate, glowing strange in the glow of flames. A signal of your body failing — a mermaid left too long without water, on the edge of collapse.

"You need water," she observed, her tone more diagnosis than concern, but the words cut through your haze sharper than any plea would have.

Your claws trembled against your chest. Your lips parted, but all that came out was a rasp drowned in blood.

Wednesday didn't wait for you to speak. She stepped forward, her blade lowering to her side, and tugged at the lapels of her blazer. In one sharp motion she stripped it from her shoulders, the fabric falling dark and heavy in her hands. The fire behind her carved her into a silhouette — two black braids, pale cheek streaked with ash and her own blood, eyes cutting straight into you. Then she crossed the shattered cobblestones and swung the blazer around your shoulders.

The cloth fell over you, still warm from her body, swallowing the torn skirt, the shredded stockings, the blood-soaked bralette until you were wrapped in her black. It wasn't mercy. It wasn't pity. It was possession.

"Cover yourself," she said simply, adjusting the fabric at your collar. Her fingers lingered for a fraction of a second, pale against your skin, streaked with your blood. She didn't flinch at the wetness. She didn't recoil from the monster on the floor before her.

Her eyes held yours - mismatched, wild, drowning - and in them, for the first time since the cave, you felt something steady pulling you back from the hunger. A tether in the blaze.

Behind her, Eugene's voice cracked. "Wednesday, she needs help…"

"I'm aware," Wednesday cut in, sharp as a blade, never looking away from you.

And then, softer — so soft it cut deeper than any command — her voice dipped for only you: "Stay awake."

The blazer clung heavy to your skin, the smell of blood still thick in your nose. It should have steadied you, but the hunger was louder, scraping at your ribs, gnawing at your throat. Your claws twitched, dragging against the cracked stone, your breath spilling ragged from both lungs and gills.

"I can't—" you rasped, lips pulling back over blood-slicked teeth. "I can't stop—"

Wednesday was in front of you before the words had finished. She pressed her hand firmly against your chest, right over your heart. The contact shocked you, sharp and deliberate, not gentle. Her eyes locked onto yours, black and unwavering, and for a moment, the hunger faltered.

"Breathe," she said, her tone cutting through the chaos like a blade.

You shuddered, chest heaving under her palm. Your claws flexed helplessly but didn't strike. The blazer clung to your shoulders like an anchor, the steady pressure of her hand forcing you to feel the beat beneath your ribs.

"You're here," she said, her voice precise, stripped of anything but fact. "Not in the hunger, not in the anger. Here. With me. Breathe."

Your mismatched eyes stung, tears threading through the blur of smoke as you tried to obey, dragging air into lungs that wanted only to howl. The fire crackled around you, the hunger snarling, but her hand held steady.

Movement caught at the edge of the flames. Bianca — ash-streaked, blade in hand. Her gaze landed on you, and her breath caught audibly.

"You're alive," she whispered, disbelief cutting through the battle still raging in the distance.

Your body jerked, the hunger twisting at the sound, but Wednesday's palm pressed harder against your chest. "Do not," she said, not unkind, but sharp enough to freeze you in place.

Bianca's grip on her blade tightened. Shock, caution, fear — all warred in her eyes.

Behind her, Eugene stumbled forward, bees dispersing into the smoke. "She's - she's not okay!" His voice cracked, frantic. "Wednesday, she—"

"Check the others," Wednesday snapped, her tone clipped but even. She didn't take her eyes off you. "Make sure they're alive."

Eugene stammered, "But—"

"Now."

Bianca caught his arm, tugging him away. Her eyes lingered on you one second longer, unreadable, before she turned and pulled Eugene into the smoldering dark where other students fled.

Their footsteps faded, leaving you with only the fire and the steady weight of Wednesday's hand pressed over your heart.

"Stay with me," she said again, lower now, almost quiet. Not a command, not a claim. Just an anchor in the chaos. And against the hunger tearing through you, it was the only thing holding you steady.

The fire roared around you, the night split open by smoke and ash, but Wednesday didn't flinch. Her hand remained pressed firmly against your chest, her gaze fixed unshakably on yours. The hunger tore at you, but under her palm, the steady thrum of your heart was undeniable. Her voice had been the scalpel; her touch, the restraint.

"Enough," she said evenly, though her hand didn't move. "You'll collapse here. You need water."

Your lips parted, your fangs flashing as you rasped, "I—can't..."

"You can." The words cut sharp, absolute.

And then she shifted, pulling her hand from your chest only to seize your arm, her grip cold and strong around your bloodied skin. The hunger snarled at the contact, a growl rumbling in your throat, but she ignored it.

"Stand."

You staggered to your feet, the blazer slipping against your shoulders, heavy with blood and smoke. Your legs buckled once, claws scraping sparks against stone, but Wednesday's hold didn't falter. She anchored you upright, her body slight but her resolve unyielding, and began to move.

The quad and its chaos were gone behind you, swallowed in fire and ash. The only sound now was the crunch of broken stone under your feet and the faint, steady rhythm of Wednesday's breath beside you. Her hand never left your arm, pale fingers streaked with your blood, anchoring you with every step.

The hunger, once deafening, had ebbed under her touch. Each time it threatened to rise, she cut through it with the press of her hand against your chest, the steel in her voice. Breathe. Stay here. With me. And you had. Somehow, impossibly, you had.

By the time the trees opened, the ache wasn't hunger anymore. It was weariness — heavy, bone-deep, the kind that made every muscle tremble as though you were stitched together by threads ready to snap. Your mismatched eyes burned, your body sagging, but Wednesday's grip never wavered.

The lake shimmered under the moon, vast and dark, its surface rippling faintly with the reflection of fire behind you. The air was cooler here, damp, almost kind. The moment you smelled it, your gills fluttered open in relief, dragging in the water-soaked breeze like it was enough to stitch you together.

Your knees buckled at the shoreline. You half-collapsed into the damp earth, claws sinking into mud, but Wednesday moved with you, catching your weight against her. She wasn't large, wasn't strong enough to hold you in the way others might — but she was unyielding, and that was enough.

Her arms braced you, one steadying at your shoulder, the other still hooked around your arm, refusing to let you slip forward into the water without her say.

You felt your body go quiet. No hunger, no fury. Just exhaustion. Just her.

Wednesday's braids brushed against your temple as she leaned closer, her breath cool against your ear. "You'll survive this," she said evenly, as though it wasn't a hope but a fact.

Your eyes fluttered shut, your head lolling against her shoulder. The blazer still clung to you, heavy, soaked through with blood, but her arms held it in place. Held you in place.

"Stay awake," she murmured again, quieter this time. You weren't sure if it was for you, or for herself.

The lake lapped softly against the shore, the tide reaching for you. But you stayed where you were — held steady in her grip, her black blazer wrapped around you, the night carrying both of you forward.

The lake stretched dark and endless before you, its surface trembling faintly with moonlight. The air here was different — cool, damp, carrying the kind of weight your lungs had been starving for. Your gills fluttered desperately against your neck, your chest hitching each time the damp air filled them.

You swayed forward, your body urging you into the water, but Wednesday's grip held you firm. Her arm braced across your shoulders, her fingers iron around your bloodied waist. She didn't let you collapse, didn't let you plunge headlong into the black surface.

"Not yet," she said, low but unwavering. "Slow. You need to get used to it before you dive in head first like an idiot.”

Your mismatched eyes met hers, one green, one blue, both glimmering strange in the dark. You were trembling, your claws still caked with blood, your skirt in tatters, her blazer clinging to you heavy and black. You couldn't shape words. You didn't need to. She read the exhaustion in your body like it was written on stone.

She shifted her grip, steadying you as she knelt at the shoreline, pulling you with her. The cold water lapped at your boots, then your knees, soaking through fabric and blood alike. You gasped, your gills flaring open wide, instinct surging through you as the relief of proximity shuddered through your body.

"Easy," Wednesday murmured, her voice the only thing keeping you tethered. She guided you inch by inch, lowering you until the lake's surface rose to your waist. The water clung, cold and silken, sliding against torn skin, catching on the cracked scales across your arms. Every nerve in your body screamed with gratitude.

When your knees gave again, Wednesday didn't stop at the edge. She stepped forward with you, her boots sinking into the mud, her skirt dragging heavy with the weight of the lake. Cold water climbed up her legs, then her waist, soaking her through until the fabric clung dark and slick against her body.

She didn't falter.

By the time you were half-floating in the shallows, her blazer slipping loose around your elbows, Wednesday was in the water too, guiding you with steady hands. The lake lapped at her ribs, her braids heavy with it, her collar plastered flat against her pale skin.

She didn't care. She held you upright as the water claimed your weight, her grip unyielding, her presence as constant as the tide itself.

Your gills flared once, twice, then pulled a full breath of water into your body, clean and cold. Your eyes flickered shut as the relief swept over you, your trembling finally stilled.

Wednesday eased you further, letting the lake take what it needed to restore you, but never loosening her hold completely. Her pale fingers dug into your arm, her expression sharp as ever, watching for the slightest sign of you slipping away.

"Breathe," she said again, quieter now, almost to herself.

The water carried more of your weight with every step, until your body sagged against it, your trembling finally dulled by the cold. Your gills pulled in clean water, steadying, slowing, quieting. The blazer floated heavy at your shoulders, drifting like seaweed in the current, but you kept it clutched around you as though it were part of her still.

Wednesday stood half-submerged at your side, her boots sunk into the silt, her black skirt dragging heavy in the tide. Strands of her braids clung dark and wet to her shoulders, droplets running down her pale throat. She didn't shift, didn't flinch from the lake's cold. Her grip on your arm remained iron, as though she had decided that if you slipped under, she would go with you.

Suddenly silence didn't feel crushing. The roar in your head had quieted. Only the water moved, lapping gently against the two of you.

You lifted your head, eyes burning, throat raw. You wanted to say something — anything — but the words tangled, torn apart before they could leave your mouth.

Wednesday moved first.

Her free hand rose, pale against the black water, and brushed slowly across your face. The pads of her fingers swept away the streaks of blood smeared across your jaw, smudging them into the lake. She was precise about it, deliberate, as though she were cataloguing the gore even as she wiped it away. Her thumb lingered at the corner of your mouth, pressing faintly against the curve of your lips before pulling the stain away.

Your mismatched eyes fluttered, one green, one blue, staring at her through the blur of exhaustion. She held your gaze the entire time, her expression unchanged — sharp, steady, as if this tenderness was no different from pulling a knife from her belt.

You were going to return the favor, but you figured Wednesday liked the idea of blood on her skin.

When her hand lowered again, she said nothing at first. Only watched you breathe, watched your gills flare and settle, watched your chest heave slower, calmer.

"You're not gone," she said finally, her voice low, flat — but something threaded beneath it, something almost soft.

The water shifted against your ribs, cold but steady. Her hand stayed on your arm, her body close enough that her shoulder brushed yours, her wet collar pressed against your skin.

And for that moment, the hunger, the chaos, the fire — it was all far away.

There was only her hand brushing the blood from your face, and her black eyes steady against yours.

The water cradled you, cool and endless, when the change came. It started as a sharp pull in your spine, a twisting ache in your legs that made you gasp into the night. Your body seized, your claws clutching at Wednesday's blazer, and then the tearing began. Flesh and bone melted into something other — one fluid motion, violent and inevitable, until your legs were gone. In their place, your tail unfurled beneath the black surface.

It was red — impossibly red — scales catching the moonlight with every ripple. The fin spread wide, silken yet jagged at the edges, its every flick slicing through the water like a blade. Drops of firelight from the quad reflected against it, making it glow as though it had been forged in blood and flame.

The weight of it nearly dragged you under. Your chest lurched, your gills flaring wide in desperation, but Wednesday's hands were already there. Her grip slid from your arm to your waist, her slender fingers digging into your skin through the wet fabric as she steadied you against the current, practically cradling you in her hold.

She was soaked now. The black of her skirt floated around her thighs, heavy with water, her boots sunk deep into the mud. Her braids clung dark and wet to her shoulders, strands stuck against her pale cheek. Droplets ran in silver lines down her throat, disappearing beneath the sharp line of her collar. The lake had swallowed her whole, but she didn't move away. She stood in it with you.

Your head bowed, shame crashing harder than the waves. Her blazer floated loose from your shoulders, drifting uselessly at the edges, but you clutched at it with shaking hands anyway, as though the cloth could still keep you together. Your mismatched eyes burned, tears mixing with lakewater.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, the words breaking as they left you. "For kissing you. For being a coward after. For - leaving things unsaid."

The lake hushed at your voice, your confession swallowed by ripples. For a long moment, you heard nothing but the water against your tail, your own frantic breathing, and the sound of her fingers tightening at your waist.

Then Wednesday spoke.

Her voice cut through the night, sharp but low, carrying not pity but precision. "Do not apologize."

You looked up, startled, and her gaze pinned you in place. Black eyes, unwavering, catching the faint shimmer of your scales as though they had been made for her to study.

"You think yourself a coward," she continued, her tone clipped but deliberate. "But here you are — alive. Changed. Half monster. Half mermaid. Exactly what the world told you not to be."

Her hand slid slightly at your waist, steadying you when your tail thrashed once in the water. She glanced down, just briefly, at the red fin curling beneath you, before her gaze rose again to yours. "You've never looked more beautiful."

Your breath caught, your mouth parting. "Beautiful?" The word cracked, disbelieving.

"Yes." She said it without hesitation, without ornament, as though it were the most obvious truth in the world. "Terrible and radiant. Exactly as you are."

Your throat closed around the ache in your chest. The lake was quiet again, the world behind you gone to smoke, and all that remained was her.

Then her hand moved — slow, deliberate — leaving your waist to trace the line of your side, rising to your jaw. Her fingers were cold, wet, streaked faintly with your blood, but precise as they tilted your face toward hers. Her thumb brushed once across your cheek, smearing away the last line of crimson, lingering just long enough to make your breath stutter.

Her eyes didn't waver.

The space between you shrank, the tension a string pulled tight. You could feel the lake rippling against your tail, the cool water sliding along your skin, the faint chill of her wet collar brushing against your shoulder. Her lips hovered close, steady and certain, until finally — inevitably — she closed the distance.

The kiss was cold at first, lakewater clinging to your skin and hers, but beneath it burned warmth. Her lips were soft, insistent, tasting faintly of smoke and ash, and yours still carried copper. Together it was strange, raw, and utterly consuming. She wasn't gentle — she never was — but she was precise, pressing into you with a surety that stole the breath from your lungs.

You trembled in her arms, your claws twitching uselessly against the fabric of her blazer, your tail curling around the water as though to hold you steady. The hunger was gone, the shame dimmed. All that remained was this — her hands, her mouth, her steady presence holding you in the dark water.

For the first time since the cave, you weren't breaking.

You were kissing Wednesday Addams, and she was kissing you back.

—————-

As soon as you saw medical care for your cuts and gashes, you found out exactly what happened to you. Thornhill kidnapped you because her hatred stretched further than Nevermore — she wanted to ruin the lives of all Outcasts, even the ones hidden beneath the waves. Her plan was simple and vicious: frame Isla and yours disappearance as the work of the Pacific royal family, spark suspicion, and let the ocean tear itself apart in war just like the Trojans did.

The only flaw in her carefully spun scheme? Your father. He barely noticed when you or Isla were around, let alone when you were gone. To him, two missing daughters sounded more like gossip than truth.

So, in a twisted way, his failure to be an actual father might've been the only thing that kept the seas from erupting into chaos.

Score one for negligent parenting?????

But with Principal Weems assassinated, Dr. Kinbott dead, Ms. Thornhill alive only to rot in prison beside Tyler — the Hyde exposed at last — and a vengeful half-dead pilgrim reduced to ash, Nevermore had little choice: the rest of the school year was cancelled.

In the matter of days, Nevermore emptied. Parents arrived in carriages and cars, their faces drawn tight with fear, collecting their children as though the gates themselves might collapse if they lingered too long. Trunks were packed in a hurry, dorm rooms abandoned half-lived in, and the echo of footsteps faded from the halls until the school stood hollow and silent.

Your dorm felt smaller without the noise of students spilling through the halls, quieter than it had ever been. Half the rooms on your floor were already stripped bare — bedsheets pulled, posters torn down, drawers left ajar in the scramble to leave. You sat on the edge of your own bed, folding what little you owned into a trunk that suddenly felt heavier than it should have. The blazer Wednesday had draped over you was still tucked beneath your pillow, too bloodstained to wear but impossible to throw away.

The door creaked open, and Bianca leaned against the frame. Her smile was gone, her grey eyes dull with exhaustion, but her smirk still ghosted at the corners of her mouth. "So... where are you headed? School's over, apocalypse averted, yadda yadda." She gestured vaguely toward your trunk. "You going home?"

You paused, your fingers brushing over the edge of your last folded shirt. "Not yet."

Bianca raised a brow.

"I'm going to stay with Eugene for a while," you said, voice quieter than you expected. Saying it out loud made it feel more real, more steady. "Make sure he's okay. Then..." Your gaze drifted toward the window, where the lake stretched far and black in the distance. "I'll head back to the ocean."

She pushed off the frame, crossing the room to perch on your desk. "Bold move. Kind of thought you'd never set foot back down there. Guess Addams really has changed you.”

You gave a tired laugh, shoulders heavy. "I never thought I’d go back either."

For a moment, the silence settled again, only the echo of empty dorms around you. The trunk snapped shut, your decision made.

You shut the trunk and sat back, letting your hands fall into your lap. The room felt emptier already, the silence pressing in.

"Truth is..." you said slowly, eyes flicking to the lake beyond the window, "after everything, I think I'm starting to accept it. What I am. The mermaid, the monster — all of it. I spent so long trying to hide it, wishing I could just... pass. Be normal."

Bianca tilted her head, listening more intently than she let on.

You exhaled, softer now. "It's not because I suddenly got brave. It's mostly because of her. Wednesday makes it—" you paused, searching for the right words, "she makes it seem like it's okay. Like it isn't something to bury. Like even the parts I hate... might actually be worth looking at."

The words hung between you, quiet, almost dangerous to say aloud.

Bianca smirk softened into something closer to a smile, begrudgingly accepting that you were happy with someone who wasn’t her. "Guess if Addams can live with it, maybe you can too."

You gave a tired laugh, brushing hair back from your face. "Yeah. Maybe I can."

You sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the half-packed trunk. "I don't know if I can actually do it," you muttered. "Go back to the ocean. It feels like the only part of me I've ever hated is the part I can't get rid of."

Bianca gave a sharp laugh, shaking her head. "Yeah, well, join the club. I can't exactly switch off the siren thing either. You don't see me writing tragic poetry about it."

You shot her a look, but she only folded her arms, tilting her head at you. "Here's the thing: you're still here. That means you're tougher than half the psychos who tried to kill you. And if Wednesday Addams of all people isn't running in the opposite direction? Then maybe stop acting like you're the worst thing to crawl out of the lake."

Her words landed harder than she probably meant them to.

She glanced away, tugging a pair of sunglasses out her pocket and back into place. "You're not perfect. None of us are. But you're not broken either. So quit making it so complicated."

A laugh slipped out of you, shaky but real. "That's your advice?"

"Yeah." She smirked, already halfway to the door. "Take it or leave it."

But as she stepped out, she paused just long enough to add, quieter, without looking back: "For what it's worth... I'm glad you made it."

And then she was gone, leaving the words hanging in the silence of your half-empty dorm.

You were tightening the straps on your trunk when the door creaked open again. Isla slipped inside, her expression cautious, as if she wasn't sure she belonged here. Her hair was pulled back, but loose strands stuck to her face, still damp from a swim in the lake. Harsh and unforgiving scars littered her neck.

"You're really leaving," she said — not a question, just a fact.

"Yeah." Your fingers lingered on the latch. "Going to stay with Eugene for a bit before..." You hesitated, then admitted, "before heading back down."

Her mouth pressed into a thin line. For a moment she said nothing, only shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Finally she stepped closer, her arms folding across her chest.

"You scared me," Isla murmured, her voice low, rougher than you'd ever heard it. "I thought - I thought we'd lost you. For good this time."

You swallowed hard, throat tightening. "You almost did. And don't think I wasn't scared for you, too. When I found out... when I realized Thornhill had you chained up—" Your voice faltered, a flash of rage cutting through the exhaustion. "She was a psycho. Trying to literally kill you. I don't think I'll ever forget that."

Isla's eyes flicked up to yours, sharp and glassy. Her jaw worked like she was trying not to let the memory sink too deep. Then, with a sharp exhale, she reached out and wrapped her arms around you. It wasn't gentle — more like she was proving you were solid, here, not another vision she'd lose if she blinked.

You hugged her back, just as fierce.

"I'm not going anywhere without telling you first," you said into her shoulder.

"You'd better not," Isla muttered, voice muffled but steady.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes were red but her smirk returned, a little crooked. "And don't think you're the only dramatic one in the family."

That made you laugh — the sound cracked in your chest, but it felt good anyway.

The corridors of Ophelia Hall were emptier than you'd ever seen them, the usual chatter and shuffle of feet replaced by the distant groan of suitcases over stone and the occasional slam of a dorm door. You carried nothing but your trunk handle in one hand and Wednesday's blazer, folded carefully against your side, as you made your way down the hall.

The familiar door to Wednesday and Enid's dorm was ajar, light spilling into the hallway. You knocked once anyway, a soft rap against the wood, before pushing it open.

Inside, the room was already half dismantled — Enid's half. Her side of the room looked like a rainbow had exploded and then been hastily stuffed into duffel bags. Posters were peeled from the walls, bright sweaters folded haphazardly into boxes, a stuffed wolf perched on top of an overstuffed suitcase as though keeping watch.

Enid herself was crouched on the floor, shoving shoes into a bag while trying not to cry. She looked up at you, her eyes already glassy, and broke into a grin. "Oh my god - you're here! I thought you were gonna sneak out without saying goodbye!"

"Not a chance," you said, stepping further inside. The words caught in your throat, but you pushed them through. "Hey, um... we should hang out this summer. You know, if you're around."

Enid froze mid-shove, one shoe half sticking out of her bag. Her eyes went wide, as if you'd just told her she'd been crowned Queen of Nevermore. "Wait - really? You're not just saying that? You actually wanna, like, hang out-hang out? With me?”

You blinked at her, bemused. "Yeah. I mean... why not?"

Enid practically launched herself across the room, squealing, her arms locking around you before you could brace. "THIS IS THE BEST NEWS EVER!" she shouted into your shoulder. "You don't even understand! I've been waiting months for you to say that! Summer plans! Us! Actual friends! Oh my god, I need to start planning outfits right now—"

You laughed, startled but genuine, hugging her back as best you could with her squeezing the air out of you. "Enid - Enid, breathe—"

She pulled back only far enough to beam at you, her hands gripping your shoulders tight. "I'm gonna text you every day. No, wait, you'll get sick of me. Okay, maybe not every day, but like, a lot. You're not allowed to ghost me!"

"I won't," you promised, your smile tugging crooked.

From across the room, Wednesday sat calmly at her desk, hands folded on a half-empty journal. She watched the scene unfold with her usual deadpan expression, though you caught the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth — not annoyance, not disdain. Something quieter. Amusement.

"Summer with Enid," she said flatly. "Consider yourself warned."

Enid shot her a glare but immediately returned her attention to you, squeezing you again. "I don't care, you're stuck with me now. Best. Summer. Ever."

And for a moment, in the middle of a room half-packed, in the ashes of a year cut short, it felt like something normal. Something worth holding onto.

Enid squeezed you one last time before pulling away, wiping at her eyes with the heel of her palm. "Okay, okay, I'll stop smothering you — for now. But I'm serious, you're mine this summer." She sniffled, grabbed her duffel, and bounced toward the door in a flurry of color and energy.

"Don't you dare leave without saying goodbye to me again!" she warned, pointing a finger at you like it was a sacred vow, before vanishing down the hall in search of more luggage.

The door clicked shut behind her.

The dorm felt too still after Enid's exit, her rainbow chaos leaving behind a hollow quiet. You lingered by your trunk for a beat, her blazer tossed lazily to the side, then finally turned toward Wednesday.

She was waiting — of course she was — standing near her desk, black eyes already fixed on you. Your steps carried you forward before you could talk yourself out of it. "Guess this is it," you said softly.

"For now," she replied, precise as ever.

You let out a breathy laugh and kissed her before you could stop yourself — steady, unhurried, your hand curling at the sharp angle of her jaw. She didn't move for a beat, but then her lips pressed back against yours, cool and deliberate, returning the kiss as though she'd already dissected its meaning before you'd finished giving it.

When you drew back, she studied you with that scalpel gaze. "This isn't going to become a normal occurrence."

"Fine," you murmured, trying for a smile. "But can we at least take the fake off the dating label."

Her eyes flickered, the barest ripple of surprise, before hardening again. "I'll break your heart," she said evenly. "I don't nurture. I don't comfort. I don't forgive. If you come to me for warmth, you'll freeze."

Your throat tightened, but you didn't back down. "I'll ignore you. I'll get restless. I'll vanish when you need me to stay, and show up when you wish I'd leave. I'll make you hate me for choosing the easy way out."

Her expression sharpened, but she stepped closer. "I am obsessive," she said, low. "Suffocating. Once I decide you belong to me, I won't release you. Not ever."

You let out a humorless laugh. "I'm reckless. Impulsive. I'll drag you into chaos you didn't ask for and expect you to follow me anyway."

Her dark eyes gleamed. "I will pry you open," she continued. "Your secrets. Your fears. Your history. Nothing will remain yours alone."

Your breath shook, but your voice stayed steady. "And I'll ruin your patience. I'll talk too much, say the wrong things, pick fights when I'm scared. I'll test how much you'll put up with."

Her tone didn't waver. "I will never say what you want to hear. I don't believe in lies of comfort. You will bleed on the truth."

Your lips curved faintly. "And I'll never stop doubting it. I'll question everything. Even this. Especially this."

The silence stretched, the air thick between you, both of you laid bare in a litany of reasons, a catalogue of warnings neither seemed willing to heed.

Finally, Wednesday moved. Not for your mouth — but for your wrist. She caught your hand in hers, turning it with clinical precision, her black eyes steady as her lips lowered. She pressed them to the inside of your wrist, right where your pulse beat frantically beneath your skin.

Cold, firm. A kiss not of comfort, but of claim.

When she lifted her head again, her gaze pinned you in place. "Consider yourself warned," she murmured.

Your pulse raced against her fingertips. You smirked faintly, though your voice cracked with the weight of it. "Guess I'm terrible at taking warnings, girlfriend."

—————

By the time you and Eugene rolled your trunks out to the gates, a dark sedan idled at the curb. The back window was already down, and one of his moms leaned out, waving both arms.

"There's my boy!" she called, her voice bright enough to cut through the gray sky.

Eugene groaned, ducking his head as he hurried forward. "Mom, please—"

"You survived a monster, Eugene. Let me be dramatic." She kissed the top of his curls through the window anyway.

The other mom stepped out to grab his trunk, and when her eyes landed on you, she gave a polite smile. "And you must be the mermaid."

You blinked, shifting your grip on your bag. "Uh... yeah. That's me."

"Oh, we've heard about you," she said with a little nod. "The one who keeps him from biking into traffic."

"Barely," you muttered, and Eugene made a strangled sound.

"Mom!" he hissed, shoving his trunk into the car himself. "Don't - don't embarrass me!"

"Too late," she said cheerfully, stepping aside so you could load your own things.

You slid into the back seat beside him, trying to hide your grin as his moms fussed in the front — adjusting mirrors, offering bottled water, pointing out the snack bag between the seats. The car smelled faintly of peppermint gum and coffee, lived-in but comfortable.

"So," the driver said as she pulled onto the road, glancing at you in the rearview. "Do you eat normal food, or do we need to swing by a fish market?"

Eugene groaned so loud his voice cracked. "MOM!"

You bit down a laugh, shrugging. "I mean... I'm not saying no to vegetable sushi."

That made both women laugh, while Eugene slumped against the window like he wanted the earth to swallow him.

"Great," you said, nudging him with your elbow. "Road trip rules: moms pick the music, we pick the snacks, and you don't get to complain."

His head thunked against the glass. "Worst. Car ride. Ever."

But the corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching upward — and for the first time in weeks, "normal" didn't feel so impossible. With the long ride ahead, you slipped on your wired headphones and dug through your bag, searching for some fragment of comfort to hold onto.

—————————

Being royalty doesn't stop you from being hunted.

It doesn't matter that you were born beneath banners of coral and crown, the ocean's heir in name and blood — on land, you're nothing but a fugitive now. To them, you're an unidentified outcast, a girl better off in a psych ward than a palace after showing her teeth for the first time. Every glance feels like surveillance, every street corner feels like a trap.

But you refused to spend your summer cowering.

For the first time in your life, you weren't terrified of the word that had chased you down corridors, whispered behind your back in Nightshades meetings, painted across your nightmares: Ripper. It still clung to you, sharp as broken glass, but somewhere between the blood and the heartbreak of last semester, between Wednesday's unwavering gaze and her refusal to let you collapse under it, the word changed shape.

Monster didn't mean less, it meant more.

And so you lived like someone who had finally stopped apologizing for being alive.

Because whether the shadows belonged to police or paranoia, you walked forward anyway, determined to live the only life you would ever have.

You thought freedom would taste like sugar or maybe even salt. Something indulgent. Instead, it tasted like ink, bleach, metal, music — things you never would've touched if not for the way Wednesday had looked at you at the end of last semester. That steady, obsidian gaze and that refusal to let you crumble under the word people used to identify you.

She never said, be fearless - that in itself would've been way too sentimental for her and cringe worthy. But her silence had carved something sharper: permission. And all summer, you lived as if her eyes were still on you, even when she wasn't.

You met your first non-Nevermore friend on a sticky July afternoon, the kind of heat that made even the shade feel like a trap. The gas station smelled faintly of oil and melted asphalt, humming fluorescent lights overhead, a low droning that almost felt like it followed you out of the woods. Your sneakers were still stained with dirt from Eugene's latest "mission," your hair clinging damp against your temples, adrenaline still fizzing in your veins. Eugene had been giddy all morning, waving his hands as tiny creatures answered him, more than just bees now - dragonflies, beetles, a grasshopper that clung stubbornly to his shoulder like a badge of honor.

In the fields near his home, fireflies began to accompany you everywhere.

When he announced he needed water, you volunteered to get it. He was too busy trying (and failing) to charm a girl leaning against her bike outside, his face flushed with both effort and heat. You smirked at the sight, shouldered the door open, and let the cold air slap against your skin.

That's when you saw him.

A college freshman, probably, judging by the faint scruff on his jaw and the tiredness in his posture. He leaned on the counter like he owned it, easy grin tugging at his mouth as he rang up a customer. His knuckles were silvered with scars - claw marks, old and half-healed, the kind that didn't fade, the kind that told a story even if he never said a word. His eyes flicked up when you walked in, curious, sharp, lingering for a moment too long, as though he could smell something on you that the rest of the world couldn't name.

You grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler, condensation slick on your fingers, and dropped it onto the counter. He scanned it without looking away.

"Hot day for a walk," he said, voice low, almost amused.

You shrugged. "Better than staying inside."

He tilted his head, studying you with that wolfish glint. "Not from around here, are you?"

It wasn't accusation, more like recognition. And you realized in that moment he didn't just see you - he knew you, in some unspoken way. Not the details, not the history, but the pulse of otherness.

A predator's awareness of another predator.

Outside, Eugene waved dramatically, trying to get the bike girl's attention. Inside, the werewolf boy smirked, sliding the bottle toward you. "There's a party Friday in the college dorms two towns over. You should come. It looks like chaos suits you with this whole... adventure get-up you've got going on."

You hadn't told him your name, you hadn't even said yes. But walking out into the heavy heat again, water in your hand and his words still echoing, you realized you already knew you'd go.

The dorm throbbed with bass, heat pressing down on your shoulders, bodies brushing against yours without fear. No whispers of monster, no second glances at your hands. Just laughter, music, the reckless crush of youth.

You danced too hard, drank too fast, smoked something you definitely shouldn't have, the whole dorm party spinning into a blur of heat and bass and sticky floors. Sweat stuck your shirt to your back, the smoke burned bitter in your lungs, and still you laughed - because here, no one knew what you were. No one whispered monster when your smile sharpened because the fun of the night washed over you. No one flinched when you leaned too close. They only saw a girl, reckless and young and alive.

But somewhere in the back of your mind, Wednesday hovered like a shadow you couldn't shake. You imagined her standing against the wall, arms crossed, black eyes cutting through the chaos, watching you with that impossible stillness. She wouldn't stop you, wouldn't tug the cup from your hand or pull you out of the smoke. She'd just tilt her head, mouth tugging into the faintest, most damning smirk, as if she'd already expected this of you. As if your recklessness was nothing more than another line in her private ledger of you.

And that thought - her smirk, her silence, the weight of her gaze even when she wasn't there - made you throw your head back and laugh harder, dance wilder, let the world swallow you whole. Because even in the mess of it, even tasting ash and liquor and something you couldn't quite name, you felt untouchable. Not because the crowd believed it, but because she would.

Even in her absence, where she was traveling the country chasing after a serial killer she'd researched as a kid, she was with you.

You walked home barefoot, shoes dangling from your fingers, pavement still somehow warm from the sun that had set hours ago. The dawn air felt heavy, clinging, as though the night's smoke and laughter had followed you out. Your hair reeked of cheap vodka and someone else's perfume. Your throat burned. You should've felt sick. Instead you felt alive in a way that scared you.

When you reached Eugene's house - the one you snuck out of past curfew to attend the party - you slipped back inside, tiptoeing past the creak of the front door. The house was asleep, or at least pretending to be. You climbed to the upstairs hallway, where the landline sat in its cradle like a relic. Your hand hovered over it. It was stupid and it was reckless but you dialed anyway despite Wednesday telling you a month ago that she despises midnight phone calls.

Or, phone calls in general - she preferred handwritten letters.

The ring stretched long, then shorter, then silence. And then her voice.

"Do you know what time it is?"

Her tone was flat, unimpressed, but the fact that she'd picked up at all made your chest ache. You pressed your forehead against the wall, laughing softly. "Good morning to you too."

There was a pause. You could hear the faint crackle of the line, the breath she didn't waste. "You're intoxicated," she said. Not a question but an observation.

"Maybe a little," you admitted, voice hoarse. "Don't worry, I danced majority of it out."

You could almost see her expression through the receiver: that faint tilt of her head, eyes narrowing, lips curved into the barest smirk. "And if I were worried? Considering you barely know how to stand on your own two feet."

"You wouldn't be," you shot back, smiling to yourself. "You'd just catalog it for later. File it under 'self-destructive impulses of my ridiculous fugitive girlfriend.'"

Silence again. Then, in a voice softer than she'd probably meant: "Ridiculous, yes. Fugitive, barely. But mine, nonetheless."

The words curled warm in your chest, sharper than any shot of liquor. You slid down the wall, knees drawn up, the phone cord tangling around your wrist. "You'd have hated it, you know," you murmured. "The party, the smoke, the loud music. The way I—" You broke off, catching your breath. "The way I let go. I don't think I'm the same, Wednesday. I don't think I'll ever be."

"Not hate," Wednesday said. "Observe. Critique. Possibly enjoy, if only because you'd be too distracted to notice me watching."

You laughed, the sound raw. "That's worse than hating."

"No," she replied, voice edged like glass but steady. "It's honest."

For a long moment neither of you spoke, the line heavy with everything unspoken. You stared at the faint gray light pushing through the window, thinking about how alive you'd felt under the neon, how much more alive you felt now, with her voice in your ear.

Finally, Wednesday broke the silence. "Don't make a habit of this," she said, crisp but not unkind. "Your passion should not be wasted on strangers."

"Then who?" you whispered, already knowing the answer.

There was the faintest exhale, deliberate. "Me."

The word struck you harder than the night ever had. You closed your eyes, let it sink into your bones, and promised yourself you'd remember it when the hunger came back, when the water pulled, when the monster in you snarled to be fed.

"Goodnight, Wednesday," you said, voice shaking.

"It’s the morning," she corrected, and the line clicked dead.

Yoko, however, was merciless.

"You're basically naked without ink," she said a few weeks later, dragging you into a parlor above a laundromat. The smell of disinfectant and neon hum swallowed you whole.

You picked a design that wasn't obvious - something jagged, private. When the needle bit into your skin, you didn't flinch. You thought of Wednesday instead, how she'd raise one eyebrow when you showed her, how her cold fingers might trace the scar as if cataloguing evidence.

Yoko smirked when it was done. "Now you've got a story."

You pressed your palm over the bandage and whispered, almost to yourself: I already do.

A month later, you finally took the plunge and swam to San Francisco to visit your girlfriend's favorite werewolf. Enid's family shared bathroom looked like a war zone - towels everywhere, bleach fumes curling up like ghosts. She pushed you onto the toilet lid, gloves snapping against her wrists.

"You trust me, right?" she said, paintbrush dripping electric blue.

You laughed because in such a short period of time, you did end up trusting Enid.

The dye burned, but when you leaned over the sink and saw those streaks running through your hair, it felt like a flag. A warning shaped as a dare. Enid squealed, clapping blue-stained hands against her cheeks.

"You look like someone who says yes!" she declared. "This sudden new persona is so hot.”

You thought about telling her the truth - that it wasn't just yes, it was Wednesday. It was the way she'd look at you, see you, maybe even approve in her own strange way.

Instead, you just smiled.

The belly ring happened in a dorm room of a friend you met through the werewolf from the gas station, the room smelled of vodka and body spray, the fluorescent light flickering above.

"Breathe," the girl said, needle poised.

You did. Sharp pain, metallic flash, then it was done. A glint of silver at your navel - a secret rebellion.

Later, lying awake, you imagined Wednesday finding out. She wouldn't gasp, she wouldn't smile. She'd just study it with that clinical calm of hers, then maybe - just maybe - press her lips to the spot until the metal warmed against your skin. The thought made your pulse race more than the piercing itself.

But then there was the music.

Enid sent you playlists full of bubblegum pop, Bianca rolled her eyes, and Yoko lent you her old records. But it was Wednesday you thought of when you lay back on your borrowed bed at Eugene's, earbuds blasting too loud. Would she dismiss this noise as frivolous? Or would she - secretly, quietly - like that you were letting yourself feel something at all?

You didn't know but you quickly understood that that was half the thrill.

The tickets you bought were cheap and Eugene was practically vibrating before the first note hit. The two of you had been pressed into the crowd together, shoulders bumping, his bug-print hoodie already damp with sweat, his curls plastered to his forehead. He looked like he might combust from excitement alone.

"This is insane," he shouted over the hum of the amps warming up, eyes wide, grin crooked. "I've never been this close to a stage in my life!"

You laughed, steadying him when the crowd surged forward. The lights cut, plunging everything into black, and the room erupted as the band walked out. Drums thundered, guitars screamed, and Eugene threw his arms up, yelling so loud you couldn't even hear him anymore.

He didn't dance the way other people did. He bounced, flailed, half-tripped into you and then apologized before doing it all over again. His joy was so unguarded it was contagious; you found yourself laughing, letting the music crack through you, even as something darker in you stirred. The bass pounded against your ribs, heavy as a tide, and you felt the water in your veins answering. You wanted to move sharper, harder, not just with the crowd but against it - like Wednesday had when she freaked out dance at the Rav'n - exorcised rhythm itself.

Eugene didn't notice. He was too busy shouting the chorus, voice already breaking, eyes darting to the stage like he wanted to memorize every second. At one point he grabbed your wrist and dragged your arm into the air with his, two fists pumping in time, and you let him, laughing until you couldn't breathe.

The heat was unbearable, sweat slicking your skin, but you didn't care. The world narrowed to lights strobing red and white, to Eugene's voice cracking beside you, to the way the music scraped against your ribs until you couldn't tell if it hurt or healed.

When the encore ended, you stumbled out together, half-drunk on adrenaline and air that suddenly felt too clean. Eugene's grin stretched so wide it looked painful. "That was the best night of my entire life," he gasped, clutching his chest like he couldn't contain it. "Do you think they saw me? Like - do you think the lead singer saw me? I think she did. I swear she did."

You shook your head, laughing, your ears still ringing, your heart still thrumming like you hadn't fully come back to land. He was buzzing with pure joy, and you were buzzing with something stranger - half hunger, half freedom.

He bumped your shoulder with his. "We're doing that again. No arguments."

And for once, you didn't argue. Because you knew he was right.

———-

For years, the ocean had been something you rationed, like medicine you were afraid to overdose on. A stolen midnight swim here, a desperate plunge there. Always guilt, always fear. Always the thought that if you let yourself stay too long, the monster in you would surface and drag you under.

But this summer was different.

This summer, you stopped rationing.

After the concerts, the hair dye, tattoos, and all the other human activities you drowned in, you let the salt cling to your skin for days, your hair drying into wild ropes you didn't bother to tame. You dove until your chest burned, then dove deeper. And when the mermaids called - distant cousins, familiar strangers - you went with them.

They had no idea about the drama that occurred at Nevermore, and you were glad for that. But the ocean never forgot. Generations of fishermen had dragged your kind from the waves, their hooks tearing through trust as easily as flesh, and the rift between sea and shore only widened. You knew it was only a matter of time before that old fear turned inward - before even your own people looked at you the way humans did, with suspicion sharpened to a blade, and called you monster - not whispered, not doubted, but more screamed like a verdict.

But Enid told you not to worry about that, so you decided to shove the doubt away. Instead, your summer trip to Atlantis was like slipping into myth.

The city didn't look the way humans painted it in their myths, all golden towers and tridents. It was older, darker, built from coral that pulsed faintly with bioluminescence, streets carved into ridges of rock where fish darted like nervous pedestrians. Lanterns of captured starlight glowed from alcoves, and voices echoed low and resonant, shaped by water instead of air.

You walked - or rather, swam - through its corridors with the other mermaids, feeling something settle inside you. Belonging. Not as a crown, not as a duty, but as a birthright you'd spent too long denying.

At a marketplace carved into a cavern wall, you bought things: a bone-handled letter opener sharp enough to impress Wednesday, a string of obsidian beads for Morticia that glowed faintly when touched, a carved wooden hand for Thing that clutched a tiny dagger, a coral pressed notebook for Pugsley, a seashell pendant for Gomez that played faint music when held to the ear, even a box of oceanic dye for Enid’s hair. You even found a clumsy, oversized necklace of shell and pearl for Lurch, its weight comical but its beauty undeniable.

You carried them home carefully, imagining each Addams face when they saw what you'd chosen. Because the Addamses weren't just your girlfriend's family anymore - they were becoming yours.

And it wasn't just Atlantis you visited.

There were kelp forests that stretched taller than cathedrals, where you and the others wove in and out until you were dizzy with laughter. There were volcanic trenches, glowing red and violent, where you learned to stop fearing fire even underwater. There were ruins older than memory, where carvings of half-fish, half-woman creatures stared back at you like a warning.

You came back from every trip changed - saltier, freer, louder. With new scars on your arms from coral, with strands of pearls braided into your hair, with a certainty that you weren't just playing at being human anymore.

You were both, fully.

The more time you spent underwater, the more fire you carried back on land. It was in your voice, louder now, unafraid of echoing through the cavernous halls of the Addams house. It was in your hands, moving as though they could sketch the trenches you had swum through, the volcanic glow you had touched, the ruins older than memory that you had brushed with your fingertips. At first you'd been tentative, setting gifts into their hands like offerings to a family you weren't sure you belonged to. But by midsummer, you pressed them in with the urgency of someone desperate to be known - an obsidian rosary into Morticia's pale fingers, a hand cream straight from the snail for Thing, another crude necklace of shell and bone fastened clumsily around Lurch's neck. You didn't ask if they liked them. You didn't apologize. You wanted them to feel that you had thought of them while you were away in the deep.

Because you did, you always did.

And Wednesday noticed.

It was subtle - of course it was. She sat across from you in the parlor one evening, a book balanced on her knees, pretending not to listen as you described the glowing vents you had seen far beneath the surface, water blooming into light like wounds reopening. Your words tumbled faster than you could measure, hands carving the shapes into the air. You didn't realize how alive you sounded until you stopped for breath and caught her staring.

Her black eyes had softened, not with sentiment, but with something sharper: recognition or even fascination. The faintest approval that she would never name. She didn't interrupt, didn't scold you for being loud or careless.

She let you burn.

And for a girl who once rationed her own voice, who once folded her hunger down into silence and nosebleeds, it felt like worship.

The change didn't stop at words. It threaded into your body, into the way you touched her and acted around her.

Before, kissing Wednesday had been careful, reverent, like you were afraid of overstepping some invisible boundary she'd snap at you for crossing. First, you kissed at the lake, then again before you left to Eugene's, and then it had been roughly four months until you had kissed again.

But by midsummer, you kissed her like you kissed life itself: reckless, greedy, alive. Against the wooden wall outside her room, sprawled across her bed with Thing pointedly clattering away from the desk, even under the shadow of her umbrella in the Addams pool.

She never told you to stop. She never complained. She only let you press your salt-tasting mouth against hers until she gasped, until her hand fisted in your shirt, until her lips finally curved into something like surrender.

And when you pulled back, tattoo inked into the skin of your hip, hair streaked with blue, salt drying on your cheeks, she stared at you as though she'd always known this was what you were becoming.

"You're louder now," she murmured once, eyes narrowing as if cataloguing evidence.

You grinned. "You don't like it?"

"I didn't say that," she said. And then she pulled you back in.

Wednesday had always assumed passion was a weakness - a feeling flaw. Something humans invented to excuse sloppy choices and messy deaths. But you... you proved her wrong.

You had proved she was a true Addams.

The first time she realized, it was in her bedroom when you were visiting for two weeks before you had to leave for official royal business. Your mouth crushing against hers, salt and heat and daring. She hadn't known she could be kissed like that - as though you were trying to consume her, or as though you'd die if you didn't. When you pulled away, eyes burning like stormlight, she stared at you as though you'd just redrawn the definition of the word.

"You're insufferable," she said, deadpan, voice ragged in a way she'd never let anyone else hear.

You laughed. "You like it."

Her silence was confirmation enough.

But passion wasn't just kissing, it was heat in every direction.

It showed up in your arguments - over books, over music, over whether your streaks of blue hair made you look "deranged" or "like you finally had taste." Over who got the armchair in her room, over whether the water tasted different at Nevermore than in Jericho, over Thing's insistence on tapping out Morse code that only you seemed to understand.

They were dumb fights - utterly pointless and petty, but they sparked because neither of you could let go.

"You're infuriating," she said one night when you stole the last of her ink pens for doodling.

"You're possessive," you shot back.

"I don't share."

"Neither do I."

And then — of course — you fell asleep next to her that night in her bed, curled up as if there was no barrier between the two of you.

For Wednesday, it was disorienting. She had expected affection with you to be slow, clinical, perhaps even reluctant. Instead, you came at her like a tide, relentless, pulling her under whether she fought it or not.

You argued because you cared. You kissed because you couldn't help yourself. You laughed too loudly, pushed too hard, left blue hair dye on her pillow and wet rings from your tattoo balm on her desk. And she let you. Because what she'd discovered - what terrified her, though she'd never admit it - was that passion wasn't weakness at all.

It was survival.

And you were passionate about her.

And that's all an Addams has ever wanted.

The passion you had for your relationship was the sharpest weapon of all but with strength came great control.

The first sign that you were different now wasn't in the mirror or in your reflection on the lake's surface. It was the silence in your own body. No hot drip down your nose, no metallic taste in your throat, no panic at the thought of being too far from the sea.

You had stopped starving yourself, and the water had rewarded you. Your veins thrummed with it now, steady and endless, and during the week you visited New Jersey to visit Wednesday, you walked down barefoot to the Addams' lake in the early morning, the surface didn't just mirror you - it leaned toward you, waiting.

You crouched at the edge, pressing your palm flat against the water. It was shock-cold, a jolt that should have numbed you, but instead it pulsed back like muscle twitching beneath skin. You pulled upward, tentative at first, and the water followed. At first it came in quivers, a trembling dome that collapsed against your knees. But each attempt taught you something. Streams rose along your wrist like veins of glass while droplets hovered midair, scattering the gray morning light into rainbow shards before falling.

It wasn't just control, it was conversation with yourself.

Soon you weren't satisfied with just ripples, you wanted actual shape. You drew the lake into a column as tall as yourself, straight and trembling, and though it fell after a few breaths, the crash of it against your shins only drove you further. The next attempt twisted, spiraled, a helix of liquid wrapping itself around invisible bone. You laughed, startling the crows out of the trees, because failure didn't feel like weakness anymore - it felt like proof.

Pugsley began showing up with a notebook, hair mussed, eyes wide with the sincerity of someone who wanted to be useful. "I read about mermaids," he blurted one morning, flipping to a page scrawled with his crooked handwriting. "Old sailors said you could raise tides strong enough to split ships. Someone even brought up a crazy theory about immortality through your scales, crazy right? But anyways, you should practice with pressure."

You blinked at him, droplets running down your arm. "You've been researching me?"

He shrugged, cheeks red. "You're dating Wednesday. That makes you family and family deserves footnotes." The words sank into you deeper than any wave could.

You tried what he suggested. Standing still, hands hovering over the surface, you breathed slow. The air above the lake shimmered, heavy, dense, enough that Pugsley clutched his chest and whispered that he could feel it. When you snapped your fingers, the pressure broke into a spray that drenched the dock and sent Thing scuttling off in protest. Pugsley laughed until his stomach hurt.

Another day, he dared you to make a whirlpool. You waded in up to your knees, twisting your wrists, and the current obeyed - circling your thighs, gathering speed until a funnel yawned open in the lake, swallowing leaves in its spiral. The dock shuddered, Pugsley cheered, and for a moment you almost believed you could spin the whole world if you wanted to.

Wednesday didn't interrupt at first, but you always knew when she was watching. Her silhouette in the upstairs window, her stillness at the treeline, the weight of her gaze sharper than any blade. One evening, as you coaxed a wall of water into standing between you and the moon, she came to stand behind you. The wall lasted eight seconds before breaking, sending silver waves rolling back to shore. She didn't even comment on the spectacle. She only said, "You've stopped bleeding."

You turned to her, chest heaving, droplets clinging to your lashes like tears. "Because I stopped starving myself."

Her lips curved - almost an uplift of her lip, almost a wound. "Good, I prefer you this way. Sharp and dangerous."

And when you kissed her after, with the taste of salt still on your tongue and your pulse still racing from the lake's pull, she kissed you back with that clinical precision that was also hunger, as though she too had been starving for this.

By the end of summer, you weren't hiding anymore.

You were tattooed, pierced, streaked with color. You smelled of dye, ink, cigarette smoke. You kissed Wednesday without a second thought, stayed up until dawn, carved your initials into the railing of a boardwalk.

You wore yourself like proof.

The monster was still in you. But Wednesday had taught you to stop being afraid of her.

Now she was your ally, your shadow, your dare.

——————

You'd attended more galas than you could count before you ever set foot at Nevermore.

They all blurred together in your memory now - great glittering halls lit by chandeliers that swayed just slightly from the movement of the crowd, the air thick with perfume and the salt-snap scent of the ocean drifting in from open terrace doors. Tables lined with platters of delicacies most people would only ever read about. The music always live, always precise, the musicians arranged like a painting in the corner, bowstrings and fingers moving in perfect, mechanical harmony. All the galas were held in one of the family’s castles, most often in the fortress perched atop a towering cliff that overlooked the restless ocean.

You'd been part of the decor as much as the carved coral centerpieces or the ice sculptures shaped into cresting waves. A living emblem, an heir. Smiling just enough, standing just so, meeting every gaze without flinching, as though being stared at was the most natural thing in the world. Your father had taught you the art of it early - never shrink under scrutiny, never let anyone read hesitation in your face, never let your hands fidget unless you wanted the whispers to start.

There were patterns to these nights, patterns you could predict down to the minute. The first toast - always formal, always stiff. The first dance - your father's hand a heavy weight on your back as he guided you into the spotlight, the room watching, measuring you against expectations they didn't bother to hide. The conversations that followed - thinly veiled negotiations disguised as polite interest in your studies, your training, your "future.” Always that word. Always spoken like it was a gift and a threat in the same breath.

Or they would simply ask you what it was like going to a boarding school filled with people standing on two legs for a lifetime. You just rolled your eyes majority of the time with a clipped answer: It’s fine.

Sometimes, you'd catch glimpses of the sea from a balcony and feel the urge to dive in fully clothed, to let the salt sting your eyes and ears until the gala was nothing but a distant echo. You never did, of course. Your dress would be ruined, the scandal would ripple across the courts, and your father would find a way to turn even your rebellion into a political tool.

You learned to adapt. To step into gowns that felt more like armor than silk, to answer invasive questions with answers so polished they slid right off the conversation, to be gracious without being soft, present without being vulnerable. You learned to speak in smiles and silences, in calculated pauses and perfectly timed laughter.

But underneath, you hated every second of it. The staged perfection. The false warmth. The way everyone in the room seemed to already know what your life was going to be, as if you were a character in a story they'd written without your input.

When you came to Nevermore, part of you thought the galas would be behind you. That you'd left them under the chandeliers and between the marble columns. But the Rave'n, with its glittering decor and its undercurrent of watching eyes, wasn't so different. The scale was smaller, the music louder, the rules less rigid - but you still felt that same tightening in your chest when you walked into the room, the same awareness of where everyone was looking, the same sense that you were being measured against a script you hadn't agreed to follow.

And just like at the galas, there was someone you'd expected to be at your side. Someone whose absence tonight felt like more than just empty space.

You'd migrated toward the far wall, half-hidden in the shadows where the strobe lights didn't quite reach. The silk of your dress pooled slightly at your feet, the bassline from the speakers sending small, steady tremors through the wood behind you. From here, you could see almost everything - the spinning glass overhead, the tangled motion of dancers on the floor, the slow drift of Wednesday and Tyler as they carved their way through the crowd like a storm cloud with a smile at its center.

You were in the middle of convincing yourself you weren't watching them when Bianca's voice cut through the noise.

"Nice dress."

She materialized at your side with the kind of casual poise that made people either lean in or step back. In her case, most people leaned. Her eyes slid over the gown, assessing, cataloguing, the corner of her mouth tugging just slightly. "Committee work paid off."

You glanced at her. "Was that a compliment?"

"Don't get greedy," she replied, sipping from a glass of punch. Her gaze swept lazily over the room, but you could feel the weight of it circling back to you. "So. Wednesday Addams and Tyler Galpin. Didn't think that was the plot twist we were getting tonight."

Your shoulders stiffened. "It's her business."

Bianca arched a brow, clearly unconvinced. "And you're not bothered? At all? That's why you've been posted up against the wall like it's holding you together."

"I'm fine," you said, sharper than you meant to.

"Mhm." She let the hum hang there, tilting her glass so the pink liquid swirled against the sides. "Here's the thing about people like Wednesday. They're not replaceable - but they do replace people. Fast and efficient. No apology note on the pillow or a kiss goodbye.”

You forced a laugh. "You sound like you're speaking from experience."

Bianca's smile was thin, knowing. "I am." She took another slow sip, then leaned a fraction closer. "When people stop talking, they stop existing for each other. And when that happens? Someone else usually slips into the space they left."

The words hit harder than you wanted to admit, sliding neatly into the hollow spot in your chest you'd been trying to ignore all night.

She straightened, scanning the dance floor again. "Whatever's going on between you and Wednesday, figure it out before someone else figures it out for you."

She drained the rest of her punch and set the glass on the tray of a passing student, her eyes flicking to the center of the room one last time - where Wednesday stood, dark and still beside Tyler, her gaze tracking the crowd like a hawk's.

Bianca looked back at you, something unreadable in her expression. "Good luck, princess."

And then she was gone, disappearing into the current of dancers, leaving you with the thrum of the music, the burn of her words, and the cold certainty that she wasn't wrong.

Wednesday hadn't even been looking for you.

That's what she told herself as she scanned the crowd, eyes darting between clusters of chattering students, the rotating glass orbs scattering fractured light across their faces. She was here to observe, to collect details, to identify anything that might matter later for her investigation. That was the story she would have written in her own head, one she could stand behind without flinching.

And then she saw you.

The dress was impossible to miss - light, oceanic silk that seemed to carry its own light, moving like water around your frame as you turned. But what stopped her cold wasn't the dress. It was the fact that now you weren't alone.

You were in the middle of the dance floor, your hand resting lightly against the shoulder of a boy she barely knew, his palm pressing just a little too comfortably at your waist. A werewolf, she thought. Of course you were dancing with a werewolf: tall, muscular, and stupid - everything she wasn’t. The music had slowed - one of those syrupy ballads the committee always slipped into the playlist to force couples onto the floor - and you were moving in that lazy, swaying rhythm that left little space between you. Your head tilted as he said something in your ear, and though you didn't smile, your expression softened in a way that made Wednesday's pulse tick faster.

Enid appeared beside her like she'd been lying in wait. "Well," she said, crossing her arms, "I see you found her."

"I wasn't looking," Wednesday replied automatically.

Enid snorted. "Sure. And I wear sequins because they're subtle." She leaned in just enough to drop her voice. "You're gonna let her spend the whole slow song with him?"

"She is free to dance with whomever she wishes," Wednesday said coolly.

"Wow. That's a lot of syllables for 'yes.'" Enid tipped her head toward the dance floor. "You two have been circling each other all night. You already fought about the Xavier thing, you're clearly both miserable, and now you're just gonna stand here watching? That's your plan?"

"My plan," Wednesday said, "was to gather information."

"Uh-huh. Well, here's some information: she looks like she's trying not to think about you, which means she is definitely thinking about you. And you're over here pretending you don't care, which means you do care. God, you're both hopeless." Enid's tone shifted, softening just enough to cut through Wednesday's stubbornness. "She's not like everyone else here, Wednesday. She's had people replace her before. Don't make her think you're doing it too."

Wednesday's jaw tightened. The boy's hand had shifted lower on your back, just above the curve of your hip. It wasn't improper enough to make a scene over - but it was enough. Enough that the idea of letting the song end without intervening suddenly felt... intolerable.

You hadn't planned on being on the dance floor. Although you were the head of the cheer team, walking with two human feet was a skill you were still mastering, slow dancing was a whole other issue.

But one moment you were lingering near the refreshment table, the next you were being asked - politely and persistently - by a werewolf whose name you thought might be Aaron, or maybe Alan. He'd been in one of your classes once. Or twice. You weren't sure.

He was harmless enough, so you agreed, letting him lead you into the middle of the crowd as the song shifted to something slower, sweeter, the kind that made couples instinctively draw closer. His palm rested lightly at your waist at first. His other hand held yours loosely.

It was fine. It was safe.

Until you felt her.

Even without seeing her, you knew Wednesday had entered your orbit. It was like the air shifted - thicker, sharper - and suddenly you were aware of your own posture, of the way the boy's hand had crept slightly lower. You tried not to look. Tried not to confirm what you already knew.

And then you did.

She was standing at the edge of the dance floor, black dress cutting like a blade through the shimmer and other white outfits around her, eyes locked on you with that unblinking focus she wore like a weapon.

You faltered just slightly in your steps, enough that your partner glanced over his shoulder - only to find Wednesday closing the distance between you with deliberate, measured strides.

When she reached you, she didn't bother with pleasantries. "May I cut in?" she asked, voice low but carrying.

The boy blinked at her, surprised. "Uh... we're kind of in the middle of a—"

"I'm aware," she said, her gaze never leaving yours. "I won't repeat myself."

He hesitated, his hand still warm against your back. You could feel the tension ratcheting between them like a wire about to snap.

"It's just a dance," he tried again, his tone light but his grip firm.

Wednesday's eyes flicked briefly to where his hand was resting. When she looked back up, her voice was calm in a way that made your pulse jump. "Yes. And you've had your turn."

For a beat, no one moved. Then her hand slid into the space between you and him, lightly pushing but not shoving, just resting there with surgical precision until his hand reluctantly lifted away from your waist. The absence of his touch was immediate. So was the weight of hers when it replaced it.

He stepped back, muttering something you didn't catch, and disappeared into the crowd.

Wednesday's fingers threaded with yours, her other hand settling where his had been, only firmer. Possessive without squeezing. "Shall we?" she asked.

It wasn't really a question.

You let her lead you into the rhythm of the music, the two of you moving in slow, measured steps. The room seemed to dim around the edges, the mirrored light sliding over her hair, the line of her jaw, the steady way she was looking at you like she was cataloguing every flicker of expression.

"I didn’t think you danced,” you murmured.

"I do when it's important," she replied without hesitation.

"And this is important?"

Her grip at your waist tightened a fraction. "Yes."

Something in your chest loosened and tightened all at once. The fight, the silence, the whispers, it all hummed under the surface, unsaid but felt in the space between you. And for the first time that night, you didn't want to be anywhere else.

The song wound on, syrup-slow, the steady sway of your steps matching the bass that pulsed faintly through the floor. Around you, other couples moved in and out of your peripheral vision with flashes of sequins, murmured laughter, the occasional clumsy step, but it all felt distant.

Wednesday's hand was warm against your waist, her fingers steady at the curve of it, guiding you just enough to keep you in time with the music. Her other hand gripped yours in a way that was both formal and unyielding, the faint pressure an anchor.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Her gaze stayed locked on yours, unblinking, as if breaking eye contact would be some kind of concession. You'd seen her like this before - when interrogating Sheriff Galpin or when presenting findings to Weems - but never this close, never with her thumb brushing imperceptibly against the side of your hand like she didn't realize she was doing it.

"You looked like you were enjoying yourself," she said finally, voice low enough that it was almost swallowed by the music.

You huffed a soft laugh. "Is that what you call it?"

"It's what it appeared to be," she replied, her tone neutral but her eyes sharper than the words themselves.

"He asked me to dance. I said yes. That's all."

"That's not all," she said, and the faintest edge crept into her voice. "His hand was too low."

You raised a brow. "Funny, I didn't see you rushing over to correct him when it was Tyler's hand on you."

Something in her expression shifted, just slightly, but her grip on your waist stayed firm. "This is different."

"How?"

She didn't answer right away. Her gaze dipped just for a second to your mouth, then back up to your eyes. "Because it's you," she said finally, each word deliberate, measured.

The music swelled, the mirrored lights spun overhead, and for a moment, you forgot to breathe.

"You've been pulling away," you murmured. "Not just lately, I mean. Since before the Rave'n prep started. And now you're here like nothing's wrong."

"I am here," she said, and there was something almost raw in her voice. "That is not nothing."

You searched her face, trying to read what she wasn't saying. "So what is it, then?"

Her jaw tightened. "Complicated."

"Everything with you is complicated."

Her hand at your waist flexed, just slightly. "And yet, you're still here."

You almost said not for long, but the words caught in your throat. Because despite the fights, despite the weeks of silence, despite walking into this room to find her with Tyler - here you were, letting her lead you in slow, deliberate circles like you belonged there.

Wednesday let the song carry her feet in a pattern that barely required thought. Her body was here, her hand steady at your waist, your fingers caught in hers. But her mind was elsewhere - dragged back to a vision she had been trying, unsuccessfully, to ignore.

It had hit her days ago, sudden and uninvited. After your argument about her taking Xavier to the Rav’n, you had stormed off before she could even untangle her own reasons for saying yes. And yet, instead of letting you go, Wednesday found herself following, her boots clicking with a rhythm that sounded far too much like hesitation. She didn’t know what she’d say if you turned around. Perhaps nothing at all or perhaps something reckless.

When she reached your dorm, her hand brushed the cold brass of the doorknob. That was when it hit her sharp and sudden, like a match flaring in the dark. The corridor around her blurred, dissolved. The air thinned into silence. And her vision clawed its way into her skull.

Fire.

Everywhere.

The air choked with smoke so thick it clawed at her throat with the ground scorched and uneven beneath her boots. Nevermore's gates twisted and half-collapsed, its courtyard a graveyard of shattered stone and broken glass. She could hear shouts in the distance, the kind that weren't meant for celebration.

And then, through the haze, she saw you.

Not as you were now, not as the composed figure swaying with her under mirrored lights. You stood on the blackened cobblestones, illuminated by the burning wreckage around you, your chest rising and falling in deep, unsteady breaths. Your uniform - if it had ever been your uniform - was torn, clinging in ripped pieces to your frame.

Blood dripped from your claws, pattering onto the stones in dark, viscous drops. Your eyes were never the same color twice in the vision - shifted as she stared: one moment blue-green and gleaming like a predator's; the next, black as the smoke curling up around you; the next, an unnatural red that made her stomach turn. The blood ran down your lips, your chin, the gills on the side of your neck, absolutely everywhere.

There was someone at your feet.

Unmoving.

Their face blurred, lost in the heat shimmer and shadow, but the dark pool spreading beneath them needed no explanation.

You were looking down at them, not in horror, not in triumph but just looking, your expression unreadable, your posture rigid like you'd been carved from the same stone as the ruins.

Wednesday had whipped out of the vision with the taste of smoke still burning the back of her throat.

She'd told herself the details didn't matter. That visions were unreliable, fragmented things. But the image of you, standing over the body with those shifting, inhuman eyes, had burned itself into her mind. And the part she couldn't shake, what lodged under her ribs like a splinter, was that you hadn't looked monstrous.

You'd looked inevitable. Like this was destined to happen to you - and that was what almost broke Wednesday Addams in half.

Now, here you were, close enough for her to feel the heat of your skin through layers of fabric, close enough for the mirrored lights to catch in your eyes as you glanced up at her. She thought of telling you, of dropping it into your hands like a live wire, but you hated that part of yourself, the part she'd seen in the vision.

So she stayed silent.

And because she thought distance might keep you from becoming that version of yourself, she'd been holding back for weeks. But looking at you now, moving with her in slow, deliberate steps under the fractured light, distance felt like the most dangerous thing of all.

Her hand tightened fractionally at your waist.

The slow song was thinning out, the last notes stretching into silence. You felt her hand loosen slightly at your waist, but she didn't step back.

Her eyes drifted lower - not to your feet, not to the crowd behind you, but to the bodice of your dress. The faint crease between her brows deepened.

"That corset," she murmured, her voice flat but her gaze lingering a moment too long, "looks structurally unsound."

You blinked at her. "Structurally... unsound?"

"It's laced too tightly at the waist," she said, as if delivering a medical fact. "Restricts your movement. Possibly your breathing. And if you needed to defend yourself, you'd be compromised."

A slow smirk tugged at your mouth. "You've been staring at my waist this whole time and that's what you noticed?"

Her gaze flicked back up, unflinching. "Your priorities are questionable. Mine are not."

"You like it," you accused lightly, tilting your head.

"It's impractical," she said without missing a beat, though her fingers flexed just slightly where they still rested against your side. "But... aesthetically tolerable."

"High praise," you teased.

Before she could retort, the DJ shifted gears. The bass kicked harder, the tempo jerking into that uneven, unpredictable rhythm, and Wednesday stepped back with a look that was half-dare, half-challenge. Goo Goo Muck by The Cramps. She moved onto the floor without asking if you'd follow.

You did anyway.

Her dancing was as sharp and strange as you'd imagined. Movements like punctuation marks, deliberate and exact. The crowd parted instinctively, watching her like they were afraid to interrupt the choreography of a predator.

You fell into step beside her, not mimicking, not matching, just... orbiting. Your movements were looser, but you let the rhythm catch your hips, your arms, your turns, a fluid counterpoint to her rigid precision.

She didn't acknowledge you at first, but her eyes kept cutting your way, the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth every time your shoulders brushed in a turn or your hand ghosted past hers.

By the time the music hit its first break, you'd drifted closer, both of you still moving in the odd, mismatched, somehow in sync despite it, way the two of had become comfortable in.

"Still think my dress is impractical?" you asked between beats, your voice low enough for only her to hear.

Her gaze swept over you once more before snapping back to your face. "It's a hazard," she said. "To anyone looking at you."

And then the music surged, and she spun away again - leaving the words hanging between you like the pulse of the song itself.

The beat of Goo Goo Mucks was jagged and insistent, snapping through the air like a live wire. Wednesday moved in short, surgical bursts with her shoulders cutting sharp angles, boots hitting the floor in punctuated stomps, fingers curling with precision. You slid in alongside her, not mirroring exactly, but weaving your movements into hers, letting the rhythm carry your hips and shoulders in long, fluid sweeps that made a foil to her precision.

The crowd widened instinctively, giving you both space as if afraid to step too close. The mirrored lights spun overhead, scattering fractured beams across your faces, your dress, the gloss of her braid.

Isla couldn’t believe her eyes.

Wednesday circled you once, her eyes sweeping you from head to toe in the same unhurried way she'd assess a crime scene. "It's distracting," she said, meaning the dress - or maybe not, you weren’t completely sure with Wednesday.

You smiled, breath quickening with the pace of the music. "Good. Distraction keeps people from seeing what's coming."

Her head tilted slightly, the faintest acknowledgement of your point. She stepped closer on the downbeat, close enough that her skirt brushed against yours in the motion of a spin. "They'll see you coming. They just won't be able to stop it."

You let your fingertips ghost over her hand as you passed, eyes locked on hers. "Sounds like you're talking about yourself now."

Her lips didn't move much, but there was a flash in her eyes - something darker, sharper. "Don't flatter yourself."

Another turn. Another pass. Your shoulders brushed, a slow drag that lingered one beat too long. The crowd around you had thinned out, now wildly dancing with one another too. The heat of her gaze followed you as you pivoted away, catching her watching your waist again.

"Still worried about structural integrity?" you asked, your voice just loud enough for her.

"It's a liability," she said without missing a step, "and a threat."

"Which one's worse?"

She closed the space between you in three steps, her movement sharp enough to make the crowd ripple outward. "For me? The threat."

The music surged again, faster now, and you both moved with it. Her motions slicing through the air, yours winding around hers like currents curling around rock. At one point your hand caught her wrist in a turn; she didn't pull away immediately, her pulse quick beneath your fingers.

The room was a blur of heat, color, and bass, but here, in the small space you kept claiming between each pass, everything slowed to the flicker of her gaze, the angle of her jaw, the way her mouth hovered just shy of a smirk before she hid it.

As the song hurtled toward its last sharp break, you leaned in just enough for her to hear you over the noise. "Admit it, you like the dress."

She met your eyes without hesitation, the crowd, the music, the heat all falling away. "I like what it does to the room."

The final beat hit, sharp and clean. She stepped back just enough to break the hold of your eyes, but not so far that you couldn't still feel the ghost of her hand at your waist.

And then the next song began, but neither of you moved to leave the floor.

Physical by Dua Lipa was pounding so hard you could feel it in your ribs. The water machine above kicked in, sending a fine mist through the beams of mirrored light, turning the gym into a storm of color and motion. Everyone around you was laughing, spinning, moving like they'd been waiting all night for this part.

Everyone except you and Wednesday.

You were standing right in front of each other in the middle of the dance floor, still locked in that tense eye contact from earlier, the crowd orbiting around you like you were the eye of some strange storm.

Your knees buckled again but not from the heels or the slick floor, but from that telltale pull in your muscles. The one that came from being on land too long, away from the ocean, away from the kind of water that actually fed you. You'd been holding yourself upright for weeks, but the Rave'n - its heat, its movement, the constant hum in your bones - was wearing you thin.

Wednesday's hand found your waist instantly. Just a light touch, but enough to catch you before your legs could give fully. Her eyes narrowed, scanning your face like she was taking mental notes.

"You're unstable," she said over the music. Not an insult but an observation.

"I'm fine," you lied, but the words came thin, brittle.

And then the machine overhead sputtered, sending a heavier spray down through the lights. This time, it wasn't just mist that hit your skin.

A drop landed on your bare shoulder - thick, dark red in the shifting strobe. Another splashed against the bodice of your dress, the color standing out stark against the light blue silk. More followed, pattering on the damp floor around you.

Your stomach lurched. Instinct screamed blood. The metallic tang you expected didn't hit but the sight was enough to make your pulse spike.

You glanced up. Through the haze of water and light, you saw the machine's casing, a small crack along one of the tubes feeding into it. Red liquid seeped through, mixing with the mist before falling in uneven droplets.

Wednesday followed your gaze. Her mouth flattened. "It's paint," she said flatly, already pulling you an inch closer to avoid the next spray. "An incompetent attempt at theatrics."

She was right, the scent was wrong. The texture too heavy, too glossy in the light. But your body had reacted before your mind caught up, that split-second jolt waking something you didn't want awake.

You swallowed hard, forcing your knees to lock, to keep from leaning more into her hand than you already were.

All around you, the song kept pounding, Isla twirling past in a silver blur, laughter ringing out like nothing was wrong. But in the center of the floor, you and Wednesday stayed locked in place, her grip steady, your heartbeat uneven, both of you pretending the paint hadn't rattled you at all.

The bass-heavy music was replaced by a chorus of screams as crimson paint rained from the rafters. Students shoved past her, desperate to escape the sticky downpour. Someone slammed into her shoulder, nearly spinning her off balance.

Wednesday’s breath caught.

The world snapped sideways. Cold. Distant. The throb of the music vanished, replaced by a silence that pressed on her ears like a held breath. Images burned into her mind jagged and fractured: Eugene. Fear. A shadow moving toward him.

She jerked back into the chaos of the dance, paint dripping down her face like fresh blood. Her eyes locked on nothing for half a second longer, then narrowed.

"Eugene is in danger, we have to leave." she said flatly, her voice cutting clean through the noise. Her gaze pinned you, sharp and unblinking. "Now."

Without another word, she pushed against the tide of fleeing bodies, ignoring the shrieks and paint-slicked hands that tried to pull her along. Her movements were fast, deliberate like a blade through water.

She didn't care about the mess above her. Or the prank. Or the idiots laughing about it.

She had to find him. You felt the sudden spike of adrenaline start in your heart and case your body like a wave.

You barely had time to react before Wednesday was moving, cutting through the chaos of the Rav'n like a blade. You tore after her, heart pounding so violently it drowned out the music, the screams, the sticky red paint clinging to your skin.

The second the cold air hit you outside, guilt slammed into your chest. You'd been the one who told Eugene it was fine. You figured he'd be safe, that you'd meet him later and probably rant about the dance. He'd smiled, trusting you completely - just like he always did. And now Wednesday was running like the devil himself was chasing her, and you knew exactly why.

Branches whipped against your paint-slicked arms as you plunged into the woods after her. The deeper you went, the more the noise of the school disappeared, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the crunch of soil beneath your sneakers (you were still learning how to walk in heels). The air smelled damp and metallic, like the ocean before a storm, and that made your skin crawl in ways that had nothing to do with the temperature.

"Do you know where he is?" you panted, feet barely keeping pace with her.

"Yes," she shot back, eyes like onyx in the moonlight. "And if we're late, he won't be there anymore.”

The words carved into your ribs.

You ran harder. Your lungs burned, but adrenaline roared through your veins. Something inside you, the part that wasn't human, responded. The ocean in your blood churned, angry and wild. You felt it in your fingertips, the sharp, tingling urge for your claws to break free.

Wednesday stopped so suddenly you skidded in the dirt. Her hand shot up, a command for silence. You froze, straining to listen.

A sound drifted through the trees. Faint. Broken. Like a voice smothered under water.

You knew it. You knew it.

"Eugene," you whispered, and the word came out half a growl.

Wednesday didn't waste time answering. She sprinted while you followed, teeth clenched so tightly your jaw ached, dodging low branches that felt like they were trying to hold you back.

Then - you saw him.

Eugene was sprawled in the dirt of a small clearing, the moonlight catching on the sticky sheen of blood at his temple. His limbs looked wrong, his shirt torn open at the shoulder where deep gashes oozed crimson. His glasses lay shattered beside him. His chest rose and fell in uneven, shallow gasps.

The sight ripped something out of you. You didn't remember crossing the space but you were just there, dropping to your knees so hard the impact jolted up your spine.

"Eugene! Hey - hey, it's me." Your voice broke. You brushed trembling fingers against his cheek, smearing blood across your skin. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have - God, I shouldn't have let you go. I should’ve told you to get your ass back inside.”

Wednesday crouched beside him, her touch clinical, checking his pulse, his breathing. "He's alive," she said finally, but her tone was grave. "Barely."

Your claws slid free without you willing it, the tips gleaming faintly in the moonlight. You curled them into your palms until they bit your own skin, anything to keep yourself from tearing into the shadows surrounding the clearing. You felt the bile of guilt build at the base of your throat and in some part of your brain, you felt like you deserved it.

Wednesday's gaze flicked toward the treeline, sharp and knowing. "Whatever did this is still out here."

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to focus, but the salt of your own tears stung like seawater in an open wound. You'd never hated yourself more than in this moment.

"I'm not leaving him," you said, voice low and shaking.

"You won't have to," Wednesday replied, her eyes black pools of resolve. "But when we find them—" She paused, as if gauging you. "You're going to make them wish they'd never been born."