Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The Morrin Centre’s historical section occupied the third floor of what had once been Quebec City’s first prison. Now, two centuries later, its Victorian architecture housed significantly less violent pursuits. Usually.

Enid’s palm burned as she pressed it against a bookcase, the morning’s wire work leaving its signature in her skin. She inhaled slowly, savoring the library’s particular perfume: leather bindings mingled with paper and surrender — the latter emanating from a grad student who’d collapsed into their research two aisles over. Enid had been there three hours ago, watching their slow descent into academic despair while pursuing her own obsession.

Ajax’s suggestion about Victorian combat techniques had seemed excessive when he'd first mentioned it — the callback needed historical influences, not a doctoral thesis. But that was before she’d discovered the treatise on period-specific defensive maneuvers.

Her training bag slumped against the reading room table, notebook spilling from its side. The pages bristled with sticky notes, each color marking a different category: yellow for movement restrictions, blue for social etiquette’s influence on fighting styles, pink for... well, the pink ones tracked the increasing oddity of her research trajectory. The callback was four days away, but Enid had already ventured well beyond simple preparation.

The corner table displayed her academic trail of breadcrumbs: three books on Victorian social customs (one suspiciously stained), a manual on period weapons, and — her latest fascination — a text detailing morgue practices of the 1870s. She’d devoured the cold storage chapter at 3 AM, dark circles under her eyes barely noticeable during morning practice when she’d lost to Bianca’s sprint time by half a second.

Something about that morgue book... She retraced her steps through the shelves, fingertips skimming along leather spines until — there. The medical history section’s highest shelf held its companion volume: ‘Principles of Anatomical Preservation in Extreme Conditions.’

A whisper of fabric against wood pulled her attention sideways. A scent drifted past — botanical, sharp, like winter roses pressed between pages. Heels clicked against the floor, marking an approach around the corner of the adjacent shelf.

Enid’s fingers had just brushed the book’s spine when a figure emerged from between the stacks. Afternoon light spilled through tall windows, catching on silver and black silk, and, for one moment, she forgot how to breathe.

The girl stood like a period photograph come to life. Not the stiff, formal portraits that lined the library walls — no, she embodied those rare captures where the subject had moved, blurring the edges of Victorian propriety with unsettling grace.

Their eyes met.

Her gaze hit like ice water — dark, deep, and entirely without mercy. She held herself with a stillness that suggested movement was a courtesy extended to others, not a necessity for herself. It shifted, fractionally, as her attention caught on Enid’s hair, tracked down to her practice gear, and settled on her fingers still touching the book.

Neither of them moved.

Enid’s usual smile — the one that charmed reporters and softened Bianca’s scowls — rose automatically. When she met those eyes again, it faltered, rewriting itself into something more genuine, more uncertain.

“Sorry, were you looking for this one?” Enid kept her voice library-soft, gesturing to the book. Her hand hadn’t moved from its spine. Neither had her gaze from those eyes. They weren’t quite black, she realized. More like looking into deep water, with something moving far below the surface.

The girl’s lips curved. “That depends entirely on whether you actually comprehend its contents, or if you’re merely collecting props for whatever…” She flicked over Enid’s clothes. “...performance you’re preparing.”

Enid recognized that tone — had heard it from coaches, scouts, opponents who saw her pastel tipped hair and bright smile and made assumptions. Her fingers curled more firmly around the book.

“I doubt,” the girl went on, syllables carved from ice, “you’d understand the technical complexity of nineteenth century preservation methods.”

That ignited something in Enid’s chest — not anger, not exactly. The same feeling she got before a perfect play, when everything aligned just so. She pulled the book from the shelf, held it closed, and met that void-black stare with a smile that was equal parts sweetness and steel.

“Chapter Seven,” she began, maintaining direct eye contact. “‘On the Properties of Cold Storage and the Prevention of Tissue Degradation in Sub-Zero Conditions.’ Would you prefer I start with Rothschild’s initial hypothesis, or skip directly to his experimental findings on the effects of rapid temperature reduction on cellular integrity?”

The girl’s eyebrow arched — a movement that somehow screamed of recalculated assessment. Her lips parted slightly, as if tasting the air for inaccuracies.

“You’ve read it.” Not a question. A statement caught between offense and intrigue.

“A few days ago.” Enid tapped the cover. “Twice. The correlation between temperature variables and tissue preservation is fascinating, especially when you consider modern applications—”

“Modern applications?” The girl scoffed. “The fundamental principles remain unchanged. Contemporary methods merely add unnecessary complications to established techniques.”

“Unnecessary?” Enid stepped closer, forgetting to modulate her volume. “The introduction of computer-controlled cooling chambers has revolutionized the entire field of—”

“Shhhh!”

They both turned to the nearby librarian, then looked back at each other. The girl’s eyes had narrowed, but something else flickered — an ember of grudging intellectual interest.

“You’re suggesting,” she continued, “that digital monitoring somehow improves upon methods that served medical science for over a century?”

“I’m stating it outright.” Enid opened the book, fingers finding the relevant passage. “Look at Rothschild’s notes on temperature fluctuations. Modern systems solve exactly the problems he documented—”

“Those ‘problems’ provided crucial insights into tissue response—”

“Which we can now replicate under controlled conditions—”

“Shhhhhh!”

They ignored the librarian this time, huddled closer over the open book. Enid pointed to a specific paragraph, her other hand gesturing animatedly. The girl leaned in, strands of hair falling forward, her finger tracing along a different line of text.

“Your interpretation completely disregards the historical context—”

“And you’re ignoring practical applications—”

“The practical application is maintaining anatomical integrity—”

“Exactly! Which modern methods—”

“SHHHHHH!”

The librarian stood at the end of their aisle now, arms crossed. Enid bit her lip, fighting back a grin. The girl straightened, smoothing her dress.

“Perhaps,” the girl said, voice almost shy, “you’d care to continue this discussion somewhere less... restricted.”

Enid glanced at her phone, checking the time. Her next training session started in forty minutes. She looked back up, met those eyes again, and felt that same ignition in her chest.

The girl was already turning away, movements like ink through water. She paused, glancing back over her shoulder with an expression that somehow combined dismissal and invitation. “Unless you’re not prepared to defend your position further?”

Enid had always built a career on split-second decisions. On knowing exactly when to move, when to strike, when to take the opening others missed. She grabbed her notebook, shoved it in her bag, and followed.

The anatomical preservation text remained on the shelf, forgotten in the wake of this collision.

Chapter Text

The manor’s library smelled of leather and deceit — specifically the kind that came in gold-leaf bindings and first editions.

Wednesday paused at a gap in the shelves, noting the dust-free rectangle where a book had recently resided. Her fingertips brushed over the empty space as she considered the possibilities: theft, perhaps, or something even more intriguing.

Above her, the library extended into a darkness that engulfed the upper shelves completely. The owners had attempted to create a “period-appropriate” ambiance with LED candles flickering in brass holders; their artificial glow barely reached the ceiling. Wednesday allowed herself a small, bitter smile at the futile effort.

A bass line threaded through the walls, each thud marking time more reliably than the muffled grandfather clock in the corner. She adjusted her colombina mask, the silk and lace settling comfortably against her skin. Unlike the neon-splashed, plastic-wrapped excuses for gothic attire she had seen downstairs, her ensemble embodied true Victorian mourning attire, complete with hand-stitched pleats and—

The door crashed open.

A figure stumbled in, defying several laws of physics by somehow remaining upright through sheer optimism. The scent of artificial fog followed, mingling with something sharper — copper, sweat, and the stale odor of old hockey pads.

Wednesday’s gaze fixed on the blood staining the girl’s jersey. Most of it had dried to a burgundy hue, but fresh scarlet still glistened at the collar where she had tried to dab it away.

The bruising around her left eye showcased a progression of colors that came from an impact at just the right angle — yellow at the edges, deepening to purple near the burst blood vessels at her temple. This clearly was not the result of stage makeup, which never quite captured subtle variations in tone.

Then, a riot of color caught the candlelight — pink fading to blue and honey-blonde, the dye job resembling a watercolor left in the rain. The girl swayed, one hand trailing along the shelves for balance. Something about her movements pricked at Wednesday’s memory like a splinter beneath skin.

“Oh!” Pure delight splashed across the girl’s features, turning her split lip into part of a smile rather than a sign of injury. “Is this where they keep all the good stuff?”

She lurched toward the nearest shelf, fingers outstretched toward a leather-bound volume that had survived three centuries of careful stewardship. Wednesday’s hand shot out, grasping the girl’s wrist mid-reach. The skin beneath her fingers radiated fever warmth, pulse quickening against her thumb.

“Perhaps,” Wednesday said, straightening her posture, “we should discuss proper archival handling procedures before you assault any first editions.”

The girl’s head tilted, a gesture that should have seemed clumsy given her apparent intoxication, yet it held an unsettling grace. Her smile widened, unaffected by the subfreezing temperature of Wednesday’s tone. At this distance, Wednesday could discern more details of the girl’s injuries: the precise angle of impact that had split her lip, the subtle swelling that suggested the bruise would darken further by morning.

“You sound exactly like…” The words faded as the girl squinted, her gaze sharpening despite the alcohol’s influence. Recognition blazed behind her eyes — not the gradual dawn of remembrance, but something immediate and electric. “Has anyone ever mentioned that your eyes are completely void-black? In a good way. The kind of void worth studying. For academic purposes, obviously.”

Wednesday’s grip on her wrist loosened, but neither of them pulled away. She found herself analyzing the angles of the girl’s face, searching for the source of that maddening familiarity.

The hockey stick slipped from under the girl’s arm, clattering against the hardwood floor. Neither moved to pick it up. The sound echoed through the library’s heights, a percussive interruption that should have dismantled... whatever this moment was becoming. It didn’t.

“Academic purposes,” Wednesday repeated, testing the phrase like questionable evidence. “And what field of study concerns itself with this void?”

The girl’s laugh splintered the momentary quiet — sharp-edged and bubbly, like vintage champagne gone just awry. She leaned forward, alcohol apparently unaware of personal space.

“You’re still holding my wrist.” Her smile curved into something that sat between invitation and dare. “Is this some obscure research method I should know about?”

Wednesday uncurled her fingers, the motion too abrupt to retain dignity. The girl stayed where she was, close enough for Wednesday to continue to observe the bruising beneath her eye. “A preventative measure against literary catastrophe. These volumes require... particular handling.”

“Like you?” The question slipped out in a veneer of innocence that did nothing to disguise its teeth.

“I assure you,” Wednesday said, noticing how the girl’s pupils dilated at her tone, “that’s not the classification you’re seeking.”

“No?” The girl settled against the bookcase with a poise that suggested her apparent inebriation was at least partly performative. Her movements were too controlled, reminiscent of an actor deliberately missing their cues. Yet the flush of her cheekbones and the feverish gleam in her eyes spoke to genuine inebriation — an intriguing contradiction. “So what classification should I be seeking, then?”

Wednesday’s gaze traced the girl once more: how her fingers traced patterns on leather-bound spines, how her breath caught slightly on the inhale — perhaps a sign of bruised ribs — and the split lip that somehow enhanced, rather than detracted from, her smile.

“Dangerous,” Wednesday finally offered, the word more an invitation than a warning.

“Dangerous,” the girl echoed, savoring the syllables. “Perfect. I’ve already hit my quota of dangerous decisions tonight.” She gestured at her face. “Might as well keep the streak alive.”

The grandfather clock’s chiming filled the aisles, each note distinct yet somehow incomplete. One... Two... Three...

“Your interpretation of danger seems to favor significant physical harm.” Wednesday’s eyes fixed on the split lip. “That’s quite recent trauma.”

“Just practicing my kissing technique with the ice rink.” Another laugh escaped her, this one full of unfiltered warmth. “You should see the other guy. Spoiler alert: it was the ice. The ice always wins.”

“And yet you persist in challenging it.”

“Best way to live.” The girl pushed away from the bookcase, closing the already minimal distance between them. “Like now — chatting with a masked stranger in a creepy library? Definitely risky. Definitely worth it.”

Something flared beneath Wednesday's ribs — a sensation that felt uncomfortably akin to curiosity. She found herself drawn into the girl’s orbit, fascinated by how recklessness tangled with charm.

“Your risk assessment protocols may need recalibration,” Wednesday remarked, though the iciness had melted from her tone.

“Maybe.” The girl’s hand lifted, hovering near the edge of Wednesday’s mask without touching it. “Or maybe I’m just good at spotting fascinating things. There's something about you that feels..." Her brow furrowed. “Familiar? Yet somehow not.”

The recognition itched at both of them. Wednesday felt it too — the frustrating certainty of knowledge just out of reach, like a word trapped behind glass.

Before either could pursue that precarious line of inquiry, the library door crashed open. Music filled their corner of comfort, voices calling for “Sinclair” to “show these amateurs how it's really done.”

“Ah! Duty calls!” The girl brightened, though something still flickered behind her eyes — that same questioning, almost-familiar feeling. She stepped back toward the door, pointing a finger at Wednesday. “Don’t disappear into that void while I’m gone. I have several more dangerous ideas to explore tonight.”

“I suspect gravity plays a significant role in many of them.”

“The best ones always do!” Her grin somehow turned the split lip into charm rather than damage.

As she turned to leave, Wednesday surprised herself: “Try not to harm yourself entirely too much. It would be... academically inconvenient.”

The girl paused, framed against the chaos of the party. Her laugh carried a note of something real beneath its brightness. “Look at that — you do care! In a wonderfully gothic way.”

Then she was gone, leaving Wednesday alone with the impression that something fundamental had shifted in the universe’s arrangement — though pinpointing exactly what eluded her.

The hockey stick still lay abandoned on the floor, its worn tapestained with the same blood of its owner’s jersey. Wednesday stared at it for a long moment before returning to her examination of the shelves, trying to ignore how the library suddenly felt emptier than solitude should require.

Chapter Text

The Arctic Chamber lived up to its name when Wednesday checked the temperature display: -15°C. Her shoulders relaxed; at least the world still adhered to measurable constants. The booth hummed contentedly until—

“Ms. Addams?” Eugene’s clipboard trembled in his white-knuckled grip, a feeble shield against the trouble approaching. A proper Victorian gentleman would never — but no, focus. Order. Control. “One of the candidates,” — his voice cracked, splintered, then reformed — “she arrived early…”

Wednesday’s jaw locked, her teeth grinding against memories of another early arrival and another shattered schedule. This couldn’t be happening, not today, not when everything was finally aligned.

“Time?”

“8:27 AM. She’s still in her—” Papers rustled; Eugene took a half-step back. “Hockey gear? There was practice, but she brought a change of clothes…”

The universe contracted. Expanded. Imploded.

No.

Not—

But of course it would be. Of course the cosmic architect of chaos would arrive like this, breaking every protocol while technically adhering to the rules.

“Name?”

“Enid Sinclair. The PWHL player Ajax recommended…”

The name shot through Wednesday’s skull like a stray bullet, leaving devastation in its wake. Some traitorous part of her brain calculated the statistical probability of this collision, but she couldn’t — wouldn’t —

“Technical aptitude?”

“Top marks in preliminary assessments. Ajax noted her spatial awareness, especially in cold conditions. And her background in—”

“Send her in.” Wednesday turned toward the entrance. Everything was fine, perfectly fine, absolutely... The lie tasted like formaldehyde and forgotten promises. “I’ll evaluate her preparation myself.”

Eugene’s shoes insufferably squeaked. “She’s still in practice uniform. The others won’t arrive for thirty minutes…”

“Perfect.” Something wild and winged took flight behind her sternum — anticipation? No. Impossible. Professional curiosity. Scientific interest. Nothing more. “Let’s see how she handles... improvisation.”

The door whispered open, allowing a flurry of sounds to filter in: gear clattering, breath catching, fabric rustling.

Then—

Oh.

Oh no.

Chaos personified crossed the threshold, and Wednesday’s universe spun off its axis..

Pink-tipped hair faded into blue and honey-blonde (too bright, too alive for this sterile space... perfect). A split lip, worn like a badge, curved into a smile that sent Wednesday’s nervous system into emergency shutdown. Bruises mapped across pale skin in a pattern that had haunted her dreams all night…

Recognition seized Wednesday’s lungs: the girl. The one who had transformed a discussion on Victorian morgue practices into intellectual warfare. The one whose wild grace had lodged beneath Wednesday’s ribs like shrapnel. The one who—

Wednesday’s expression went blank as her body gave another flutter where her heartbeat should be. This was her territory. Her rules. She wouldn’t allow... complications.

(Even if they arrived wearing violence like art, and likely remembered exactly how many bodies the Victorians could stack in a single morgue drawer.)

But as their gazes locked, Wednesday noticed that same recognition ignite in Enid’s gaze — bright and dangerous as magnesium catching fire. She felt, with the certainty of entropy’s arrow, that her carefully constructed order was about to be beautifully, perfectly destroyed.

(Oh, how she hungered for the chaos to come.)

Equipment clattered against the floor as Enid dropped her bag.

“Good morning!” Warmth shouldn’t exist at negative fifteen degrees, yet it raced down Wednesday’s spine like electricity finding ground. “Sorry if I’m a bit early. Practice got cut short because someone” — she touched a split on her lip, grin turning crooked — “decided to make friends with the ice. Again.”

Wednesday stared at her clipboard, noting the fissure spreading through plastic. Her fingers uncurled one by one. Order. Distance. Control.

“The schedule exists for a reason, Ms. Sinclair.”

“Enid, please.” That smile did something anatomically improbable to Wednesday’s ribcage. “And technically, I’m three minutes ahead of schedule.”

A subtle weight shift caught her attention — left leg favored, approximately twelve percent left pressure applied, indicating potential fracture of the—

“Scheduling,” Wednesday’s tongue felt like lead, like something dense and dangerous, “requires more than merely appearing at the appointed hour.” Her treasonous gaze traced the same purple-blue constellation around Enid’s eye. “It demands absolute restraint over one’s… tendencies.”

(Like the tendency to notice how that particular shade of bruising complemented the steel-blue highlights in her—)

Something glinted in Enid’s gaze — there and gone, like starlight caught in dark water. She stepped closer, and Wednesday’s stomach twisted. The slight catch in her stride shouldn’t send Wednesday’s hands into spasms of suppressed—

“Eugene.” The name emerged strangled. “Temperature readings.”

“Still at negative fifteen, Ms. Addams.” Eugene’s eyes darted between them. “However, there’s some... unusual fluctuation in the atmospheric data.”

“Can’t help it if I run hot.”

Enid tilted her neck as she surveyed the chamber — an exact angle that triggered Wednesday’s memory spinning back to library shelves and archived mistakes.

“The environmental controls are incredible, though. The level of control needed for this kind of stability…”

Wednesday’s molars ground together at the emphasis on ‘control’...

(Focus. Production. Perfection.)

“Control seems optional for athletes who treat physics as a polite suggestion.”

Eugene’s pencil skittered across the page. “I’m sorry?”

“Merely an observation.” Wednesday kept her voice steady, even as her lungs faltered at the sight of Enid’s smile shifting into something knowing. “Recent footage suggests you have an... unconventional relationship with physics.”

“You’ve been watching my games?”

“I research all candidates thoroughly.” A pause. “Your casual disregard for self-preservation is well-documented.”

“Strategic chaos.” Enid stretched, and Wednesday felt her stomach clench at the barely concealed wince. “Sometimes the safest path looks like falling.”

Sudden movement inside the chamber captured their attention. Yet the observation window only reflected their images — light colliding with shadow, chaos threatening order, an intersection of incompatible forces that should never work.

(But oh, how they did.)

A single crimson bead welled up where Enid’s smile had split her lip open again, and Wednesday’s fingers tingled with the forbidden knowledge of how to stem that flow, where to press, how to—

“The changing rooms,” Wednesday said, her throat tightening around each word, “are through there.” She gestured vaguely to the left, eyes avoiding the sliver of skin exposed where Enid’s jersey had ridden up. “You have twenty-three minutes.”

“Down to the minute.” Enid’s gaze locked onto hers . “Precise timing, huh?”

Plastic groaned again under Wednesday’s grip. “Proper preparation requires—”

The sentence dissolved as Enid reached for her bag. That subtle hitch in movement snapped Wednesday back into unauthorized analysis mode.

(Stop watching how she moves. Stop remembering the way she’d curved off the balcony. Stop wondering if she tastes like…)

“Brought my own medical supplies.” Something dangerous lay beneath Enid’s casual tone, like ice over deep water. Recognition? An invitation? “Some of us come equipped for blood.”

The clipboard finally surrendered with a final snap. Eugene made a sound like a startled mouse.

“Ms. Addams? Should I start the environmental preparation sequence, or—”

“No.” The word escaped before she could restrain it. Wednesday's knuckles bleached and then gradually unclenched. “I need to... verify some measurements. First.”

Enid shouldered her bag. “Double-checking your work?” Blood beaded on her lip like a ruby. “Or looking for trouble?”

Something in Wednesday’s chest pulled — something between freefall and flying, between drowning and breathing.

“Eugene.” Her voice maintained its composure (barely). “Take Ms. Sinclair to change. I’ll begin preparing the first candidate in eighteen minutes.”

“Seventeen,” Enid corrected, tilting her head in a way that made Wednesday’s world tilt with it. “Just keeping you precise.”

Wednesday turned to face the observation window, her shoulders squared. In the reflection, Enid followed Eugene before pausing in the doorway.

“Remember,” words soft as snowfall, “sometimes precision is in the fall.”

The door clicked shut.

Wednesday pressed her forehead against the glass, allowing the cold to seep into her bones, chasing the fever from her skin. Through the window, snow swirled in perfect patterns, following her exact design.

(But chaos had already breached her walls.)

Seventeen minutes to reconstruct her defenses.

(They never stood a chance.)

Thirty-seven degrees. The exact angle at which a human body should fall to maximize momentum while accounting for wind resistance. A formula that had never failed her… until now.

“Impossible,” Wednesday murmured, pen hovering over her notebook as Enid Sinclair hung suspended ten feet above the Arctic Chamber floor.

Not impossible in the way most things were impossible (she had encountered enough of those to know the difference). This was impossible in a way that piqued her curiosity — she wanted to dissect each movement until she could understand how someone could move like that.

Her pen scratched against the paper: Subject demonstrates unprecedented adaptation to environmental variables. Movement patterns indicate—

The ink blotted.

But what did they suggest? Wednesday narrowed her eyes as Enid made another mid-air adjustment that completely transformed the sequence. It shouldn’t work. The mathematics were definitive (they had to be), and yet watching her was like witnessing chaos learn precision — as if someone had taken all of Wednesday’s structured choreography and turned it into…

(No. Not poetry. She refused to resort to poetry.)

Her notes had begun as objecticw technical documentation, but now…

Subject anticipates atmospheric shifts 2.7 seconds before manifestation. Exceptional grace—

“The set modifications look amazing.”

Tyler appeared at her shoulder (when? how long had he been—), exuding a charm that reminded her of department store mannequins. Wednesday’s jaw clenched as Enid entered the sequence’s pivotal section.

“The atmospheric controls alone must have cost—”

“Silence.” The word formed a sharp line between her teeth. She followed Enid’s movement with her pen: a triple rotation that seemed to bend the laws of physics. She needed to document exactly how—

“Right, sorry.” He edged closer (his cologne like artificial flowers, plastic trying to imitate life). “I’ve just been thinking about Dominick’s motivation in that scene where—”

Her knuckles tightened around the pen, as she struggled to focus on the girl inside the chamber. Each of Enid’s gestures bled seamlessly into the next, until Wednesday’s own structure felt almost… mundane. A shift occurred in her chest at the realization (academic curiosity, of course, nothing more).

Tyler continued, seemingly oblivious to the possibility of murder: “You know, I’ve been doing some character work, and I really think Dominick’s relationship with Viper could be more—”

No.

She missed it. That moment when Enid’s fingers found the wire at the perfectly wrong angle and somehow inverted the entire momentum. A flawless alignment, lost because this... this amateur couldn’t read the room (or the myriad of ways she has contemplated silencing him in the last thirty seconds).

Then Enid launched into an unplanned move, completely disregarding the safety protocols that Wednesday had painstankenty crafted over three weeks.

Reckless. Dangerous. Beautiful—

Wednesday’s pen froze; that last observation had no place in her notes.

“You know, my father was saying—” Tyler’s voice scraped against her focus (like nails on a chalkboard, like bones breaking wrong).

Enid’s foot slipped.

Wednesday’s pulse stuttered (professional concern, naturally).

Time fractured as Enid’s body tilted three degrees too far left, her balance wavering toward—

But then... oh.

Instead of correcting the error, Enid absorbed it, twisting the near-fall into a spiral that shouldn’t have been possible under these conditions.

“—and since we’ll be spending so much time together during filming—”

Another improvisation. The plastic pen protested under Wednesday’s grip. Enid had just attempted a transition she had explicitly labeled “unsuitable for preliminary testing” — a complexity requiring a level of spatial awareness that most performers took months to master.

“Wednesday?” Tyler edged closer (too close, always too close). “About that dinner—”

The pen split in two.

At that exact moment, Enid Sinclair did something that made Wednesday forget about Tyler entirely.

She caught the wire at an angle that shouldn’t have worked, flowing into a movement that turned physics into a mere suggestion. It was like water in zero gravity, like shadow given form, like—

(The poetry was becoming a problem.)

The chamber seemed to pause at Enid’s final descent — the same one that had sent three professionals to medical yesterday. Fatigue should have caught up to her fifteen minutes ago, yet—

And then—

She landed. More than landed — she redefined the concept. Her position was aligned to the millimeter with what Wednesday had designated (even as everything else about her dismantled Wednesday’s expectations).

Their eyes connected through the observation glass.

“So, the dinner—” Tyler’s hand moved toward her shoulder.

“Ajax.” Wednesday cut through the room. “Your technical assessment. Now.”

Ajax didn’t hesitate. He bounded forward like an overenthusiastic puppy, his clipboard forgotten at his side.

“The way she anticipated the wind patterns — I’ve never seen anyone adapt so quickly. And that landing sequence?” His eyes lit up. “Most performers need weeks just to attempt it, but she just—”

“Technical assessment.” Wednesday demanded. “Not performance poetry.”

“Right, sorry.” He cleared his throat, glancing over at Enid, who was demonstrating something to a coordinator (her form still perfect despite the two-hour session). “Her spatial awareness is exceptional. The way she integrates Victorian-inspired movement while maintaining momentum... And her recovery skills—”

“We could develop specialized sequences,” Tyler interjected, conveniently overlooking Wednesday’s previous dismissal. “It could really showcase the chemistry between—”

“She’s modified three of my sequences,” Ajax continued, talking over Tyler. “Made them better, actually. If she’s interested, I could work with her one-on-one. Maybe after hours, focus on advanced wire techniques—”

“She’s hired.”

The chill in the chamber suddenly felt tropical.

Marilyn Thornhill stepped out from a corner Wednesday hadn’t even noticed. “Wednesday, we have six other candidates today alone—”

Wednesday pivoted. “Did I stutter, Thornhill? Or perhaps you’d prefer I explain every one of my creative decisions to the entire board?”

The observation room fell silent.

“I said.” Each word dropped like a glacier calving. “She’s. Hired.”

Even Ajax withered under Wednesday’s gaze, taking an unconscious step back and suddenly fascinated by his clipboard.

“Now, unless anyone else would like to question my judgment about my own production…”

Marilyn retreated, already crafting damage control emails in her mind. Eugene cowered behind his tablet, having never witnessed a crack like this in his director’s composure.

Inside, Enid caught her breath, blissfully unaware of the bomb that just went off behind the glass. She brushed snow from her shoulders, cheeks flushed with exertion and satisfaction.

Wednesday’s eyes landed on Enid one final time — watching as she laughed at something one of the stunt coordinators said, her entire being radiating a light that had no business existing in a space designed for darkness.

With a sharp turn, Wednesday snapped her coat behind her like wings taking flight.

(The poetry, it seemed, had become terminal.)

Chapter Text

The empty training room was as cold as old bones — how fitting, given the way her own skeleton seemed to betray her piece by piece. Reinforced glass multiplied Enid’s hunched form across every surface, fragmenting failure into infinity.

God, when had everything started to splinter like this? The usual chaos of her appearance had dissolved into something rawer, something that screamed of hours spent pushing her limits until… No, better not to complete that thought. Better not to acknowledge how the muscle memory had begun to fray, like old fabric finally giving up its threads.

Her fingers trembled over the roll of athletic tape (was this her third attempt? Fourth? The numbers blurred together, much like the messages from Bianca still burning on her phone). The edge of the tape caught, twisted, betrayed her just like everything else seemed determined to do lately. Perfectly fitting. Six years of wrapping sprains and fractures, of piecing herself back together after every fall, but today her hands just couldn’t — wouldn’t—

The tangled tape refused to cooperate. Again. Of course it did.

Enid pressed her forehead against her knee, her skin fever-hot against winter-cold, shoulders wound tight enough that something had to give, had to break, had to—

Wednesday lingered in the doorway, observing each fleeting expression that crossed Enid’s face. None of them bore the manufactured sunshine she usually projected, and the absence of that facade sent an uncomfortable sensation skittering beneath Wednesday’s ribs.

Not concern, absolutely not. She refused to name that particular emotion, refused to acknowledge how Ajax’s casual remark, “Sinclair pulling a late night,” had burrowed under her skin, leading her here without conscious permission. Traitorous reactions, these inexplicable feelings Enid kept igniting.

The usual presence that filled rooms to capacity had collapsed inward, and witnessing it felt like — no, better not to complete that thought either. Better to focus on how Enid’s shoulders hitched twice, her pink-tipped hair forming a shield between her and the world (as if Wednesday couldn’t see right through it, couldn’t read every tremor like a book written in a language she’d never intended to learn).

Tape slipped through Enid’s fingers as she pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, her entire frame folding in on itself — a collapsing star, and wasn’t that just the most terrifyingly apt metaphor for…

Wednesday crossed the room in four steps. She didn’t run — she never ran — but her pace might have been... purposeful.

“Your technique is atrocious.”

Enid’s head snapped up, her eyes glossy and startled. For a moment, she resembled a deer caught in headlights — if deers wore compression shorts and had hair that faded from cotton candy to steel blue. Then her smile clicked into place, trembling at the corners.

“Wednesday! I didn’t—” The name cracked between her teeth. She swallowed and tried again, as if the first fracture hadn’t echoed through the empty room. “Didn’t realize anyone was still here.”

“Evidently,” Wednesday replied, her gaze fixed on the tape, calculating and measuring (definitely not concerned, absolutely not allowing herself to notice how Enid’s hands trembled). “Your focus seems... compromised.”

Something in Enid’s expression splintered before it reformed. “Just working on my form.” The lie tasted wrong in her mouth, optimism finally running dry. “You know — always pushing boundaries!”

The false cheer in her voice tightened Wednesday’s jaw. She recognized that tone — had encountered it exactly twice before... both times preceding disasters she still couldn’t adequately categorize.

“You’re wrapping it wrong.” Wednesday crouched down, her fingers already reaching for the tape — careful, precise... gentle, though she’d deny that descriptor until her dying breath. “Let me.”

Wednesday’s fingers moved with the precision she typically reserved for dissection — and wasn’t that a dangerous parallel to draw. Each movement minimized contact while maximizing efficiency, yet somehow her touch still managed to burn through layers of skin, triggering warning flares in Enid’s nervous system that had absolutely nothing to do with injury (or everything to do with it, depending on how one chose to categorize this particular form of... affliction).

“Hold still.” The command emerged softer than intended — when had her voice learned to do that? Her hands continued with that same careshe applied to preserving specimens, though this subject was decidedly more... alive. Problematically so. Catastrophically so. The kind of alive that made Wednesday’s carefully maintained systems threaten to—

A slight adjustment made Enid’s breath catch — pain or... something else entirely? Wednesday couldn’t quite decipher (wouldn’t let herself decipher, because deciphering meant acknowledging, and acknowledging meant—). She snapped her eyes up, analyzing every micro-expression shifting across Enid’s face — purely scientific observation, nothing more. Obviously.

“Does this…” Wednesday paused, wrestling with an unfamiliar hesitation that seemed to have taken permanent residence in her throat whenever Enid was involved. Her fingers stilled against warm skin, sending a jolt of lightning up her arm that absolutely warranted further study. “Have anything to do with hockey?”

Enid managed a laugh that sounded like broken glass pretending to be wind chimes, and wasn't that just perfectly, terribly fitting? “What? No, I’m just—” She gestured vaguely with one hand, doing her best to appear casual, but the awkwardness circled back to painful. “The team’s fine, everything’s fine, it’s all just... totally fine!”

Every repetition of ‘fine’ cracked her facade further, her voice rising an octave with each utterance. This particular brand of forced cheer made Wednesday’s molars grind together. She had witnessed Enid’s endless enthusiasm enough times to know this hollow version of it... not that she was keeping track. Not that she was cataloging every variation of Enid’s smile like collecting—

Another careful wrap of tape made Enid’s entire body tense. A hiss skipped through clenched teeth along with an attempt to mask the pain as laughter that only partially succeeded.

Wednesday’s hands froze. Something dangerous and foreign clawed at her ribcage, longing to take flight.

“Are you okay?”

The question freed itself before Wednesday could stop it, leaving them both momentarily still, caught in a moment neither knew how to navigate — like stepping onto untested ice or reaching into a specimen jar without proper protection, or every other metaphor leading to potential disaster.

Wednesday cleared her throat, scrambling to regain familiar territory. “That reaction suggests a possible fracture of the lateral malleolus. The anterior talofibular ligament could also—”

“Oh my God, you should have seen my ankle last season!” Enid interrupted, words spilling out as if they could drown her own pain, as if she could build a bridge of syllables over whatever chasm she was trying not to fall into. “The bone was like, completely sideways? Coach actually passed out, which was hilarious except — except not really, because I was kind of bleeding everywhere. They even talked about amputation — you would have loved it, Wednesday, seriously! There was this one nurse who screamed when they took my sock off because apparently, bones aren’t supposed to be visible like that?”

Her eyes lit up with the memory, the pain momentarily eclipsed by her enthusiasm (there it was — the genuine spark Wednesday had tried not to wait for, had tried not to recognize like the first signs of spring after a long winter, had tried not—).

“And then the X-ray tech? She kept some photos because she said she’d never seen a break that looked like a lightning bolt before! I still have them saved on my phone somewhere. Want to see? The way the tibia just…” She made an explosive gesture with her hands, an act that shouldn’t have been endearing but somehow was. “They had to put in so much metal; I’m basically a cyborg now. I set off every airport security scanner from here to Vermont!”

The ramble continued, gaining momentum like an avalanche (fascinating, really, how Enid could turn even trauma into something effervescent, how she could take darkness and spin it into light like some sort of emotional alchemist).

“Did you know they actually color-code the different surgical tools? Everything was organized in these neat little rows — all precise and methodical. You would have appreciated that part. Though probably not the part where I threw up on the surgeon’s shoes. Twice. But, in my defense, watching them realign a compound fracture before I could get anesthetic was kind of—”

She caught herself, cheeks flushing a deep pink. “Sorry, that's probably way too much detail about—”

“The grotesque has always been my preferred aesthetic.” Wednesday’s lips twitched — not quite a smile, but something close to it (her face had developed several new expressions over the past few days — all Enid-adjacent, completely unauthorized). Something warm and terrifying unfurled in Wednesday’s belly at Enid’s predictably chaotic storytelling. “Though I’d prefer not to see it manifested on…” She paused, catching herself at the edge of something dangerous. “Someone like you.”

Their eyes met.

Something shifted in the spaces between their heartbeats, triggering all sorts of alarms in Wednesday (none of which she could adequately understand, all of which had developed their own unique taxonomy of Enid-specific reactions). Enid’s breath hitched, and Wednesday couldn’t help but notice the exact shade of pink blooming across her cheeks — purely academic purposes, of course — and how the afternoon light caught in Enid’s hair like dying stars. She specifically tried not to think of that observation as poetry.

“Your concern is showing,” Enid whispered, a ghost of a teasing tone threading through her words.

“Merely academic interest in proper injury management.” Wednesday lingered as she secured the final piece of tape (traitors, all of them — hands and heart, as well as other organs that had decided to stage this rebellion). “Though your nonchalant attitude toward potential amputation is... admirable.”

“Admirable?” Enid’s eyebrows shot up. “From Wednesday Addams? I should get injured more often.”

“Don’t.” The word escaped sharper than intended, layered with an intensity that made them both freeze. It was like catching a glimpse of something unexpected under a microscope, like discovering a new species where least expected. Wednesday busied herself with gathering the scattered bits of tape, ignoring how her pulse seemed to stutter in morse code. “The paperwork would be excessive.”

Enid’s smile held a fraction more authenticity. “You’d miss me.”

“I’d miss the quiet,” Wednesday corrected, though the lie felt clumsy and obvious (when had lying become so difficult? When had truth begun to feel like something alive beneath her tongue?). “Your absence would be... noted.”

Their hands brushed as Enid reached to help with the final bit of cleaning. Neither acknowledged how they stayed for a moment too long, how the contact sent electricity skimming across nerve endings that should know better (that did know better, and yet…).

“Thanks for…” Enid gestured vaguely at her newly wrapped ankle, then more broadly at the space between them, as if trying to encompass something neither had words for (or the courage to name).

Wednesday nodded once. “Your technique was offensive to basic medical principles. I merely restored order to chaos.”

“My hero,” Enid breathed, and something about it made Wednesday’s foundations shiver. Dangerous , how a single word could do that — more dangerous still, how she didn’t mind, how she might even want—

“Wednesday? Are you in here?”

The click of Hana Hartman’s heels against polished floors announced her arrival with all the subtlety of a funeral march — and that was a fitting comparison for this interruption. Each measured step echoed like a countdown to dissolving whatever moment had been.

Automatically, Wednesday straightened her spine, allowing muscle memory to engage proper posture even as something in her chest rebelled against the interruption. She noticed how Enid subtly shifted away — a movement so slight it barely disturbed the air between them, yet carved out an unmistakable chasm.

(Strange how quickly warmth could crystallize into distance. How space could expand to swallow... whatever this had been. How moments could fossilize mid-formation, preserved in amber.)

“Oh!” Hana appeared in the doorway, all calculated grace and perfectly timed (too perfect, really — Wednesday filed that observation away for future analysis, along with other data points that suggested premeditation). “I didn’t realize you were... busy.”

The pause lingered like formaldehyde fumes, toxic yet preserving all at once. Wednesday noticed Hana’s gaze flick between them, measuring, assessing (like a scientist studying unexpected reaction, like a predator preparing—)

“Thornhill’s looking for you,” Hana continued, her smile professionally bright enough to cause retinal damage. “Something about production concerns that need immediate attention?”

Wednesday rose, reconstructing her walls brick by brick. She smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from her clothes, a gesture that definitely wasn’t meant to buy time, wasn’t meant to prolong the rapidly evaporating bubble they had been suspended in…

“You should ice that,” she said to Enid, her voice stripped of the unauthorized warmth it had harbored moments ago. “Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off. Though I suspect you’ll disregard proper medical advice, as usual.”

Enid’s laugh came out off, slightly too sharp around the edges. “You know me so well.”

(Did she? Could anyone truly know Enid Sinclair, with her shifting moods, her honey-bright smile, and her infuriating knack for turning Wednesday’s ordered world into beautiful chaos? Could anyone properly catalog a force of nature that defied conventional classification?)

“Unfortunately.” The word slipped out softer than intended, carrying traces of something that raised Hana’s eyebrows slightly.

Wednesday turned toward the door, striding across the room (definitely not counting the distance growing between herself and... no, better not to complete that thought). She paused at the threshold, not quite looking back — not quite brave enough to confront whatever expression might be on Enid’s face.

“Try not to completely destroy yourself before tomorrow’s rehearsal.” A beat. “The paperwork truly would be excessive.”

She didn’t wait for Enid's response, didn’t acknowledge the way something in her chest tightened as she fell into step beside Hana. Her footsteps echoed down the corridor, keeping perfect time with all the emotions she refused to feel (like a metronome counting the beats of denial).

Behind her, unnoticed, Enid pressed her fingers to the spot where Wednesday’s touch still burned against her skin — wondering why the room suddenly felt ten degrees colder, why the absence of a single person could drop the ambient temperature, and why her heart was defying physics in a way that would definitely need proper documentation…

(And in the space between their departing footsteps, something unnamed continued to bloom — unclassifiable, uncontainable, and unable to do anything but grow.)

Chapter Text

The human body contains two hundred and six bones. Each one a potential catastrophe waiting to unfold — no, focus on the data. But how could anyone focus when Enid hurled herself across the ice with such deliberate... such reckless... Wednesday’s fingernails tapped against the metal railing.

The Quebec City Arena at 4:47 AM existed in that nebulous space between real and unreal, where fluorescent lights buzzed against her skull and reality stretched thin. Perfect conditions for — for what, exactly? For watching disaster take shape? For pretending this was still about research?

Her notebook lay unopened beside her (don’t think about that, don’t acknowledge that). Some phenomena required different methods of observation. Like calculating the precise angle of Enid’s jaw when she smiled, or measuring the frequency of her — no. No. Focus on the technical elements. The way her movements defied fundamental laws of physics. The minute variations in technique as fatigue set in. Scientific parameters only.

The Montreal team meeting had concluded without... well, certain information Wednesday had acquired through entirely legitimate means, indicated Enid’s absence. She’d chosen instead to occupy this rink with an enthusiasm that made Wednesday’s temples ache. If she would just stop moving like that, stop drawing every eye like gravity itself had—

“Your precision has decreased markedly.” The words escaped before Wednesday could properly catalog them. “The previous sequence demonstrated clear signs of—” Of what? Of the way exhaustion made Enid's movements softer, more human?

Enid’s attention snapped upward, weariness dissolving into something bright and dangerous that scattered Wednesday’s thoughts. “You arrived early!” Ice crystals leapt from her blades as she halted. “Couldn’t resist examining my ‘fascinating reinterpretation of Victorian athletic methodology,’ could you?”

“I arrived at my intended—” But that wasn’t true, was it? Everything about this situation defied intended parameters. “Your grasp of temporal reality appears compromised by exhaustion.”

“It’s 4:54.” Enid gilded closer, each motion disrupting Wednesday’s attempt at — at whatever this was supposed to be. “Six minutes ahead of schedule. Admit it — you worried about me practicing alone.”

“I sought to maintain observational consistency.” The tremor in Enid’s right hand, the subtle compensation in her left hip alignment, the unfamiliar sensation coiling beneath Wednesday’s ribs that she absolutely refused to — that she wouldn’t — that demanded classification even as it defied every attempt. “Your current state suggests dangerously extended physical exertion.”

“Aww, you noticed!” Enid’s laugh echoed off the rafters, too bright for this hour, too warm for the ice-cold reality Wednesday tried to maintain. “See? You’re already learning to care. Next thing you know, you’ll be leaving encouraging sticky notes on my—”

“Don’t be absurd.” Wednesday’s teeth clenched against an unauthorized impulse to smile, her grip tightening incrementally on the railing. “I simply prefer my subjects to be functioning at optimal capacity.”

“Subjects?” Enid drew closer to the glass barrier, eyes lit with something that made Wednesday’s classifications crumble like ash. Like watching matches fall into gasoline, like watching all her meticulous research go up in... “Is that what we’re calling this?”

Pink crept onto Enid’s cheeks — exertion or something else? The data refused proper categorization, slipping through Wednesday’s mental filters like water through — no. Document. Analyze. Control.

“Your form is deteriorating.” The words emerged clinical, careful, a shield against the unauthorized sensations wreaking havoc in her— “The angle of your left shoulder indicates—”

“Indicates I should take a break?” That smile. That impossible, dangerous smile that defied everything Wednesday knew. “Come out here with me.”

“Absolutely not.”

As if she could trust her legs when even her mind betrayed her.

“You can’t properly study ‘athletic methodology’ from behind glass.” The mockery in her tone vibrated in Wednesday’s ribcage, transforming into something else entirely, something that made her pulse stutter. Scientific observation requires distance, requires control, requires— “Besides, how else will you document my ‘deteriorating form’ up close?”

“The observational distance is perfectly adequate.” Lie. Lie. Every second behind this barrier felt like—

Enid’s head tilted in the way that preceded chaos, that heralded the dismantling of Wednesday’s carefully constructed— God, even her data had become contaminated with these… these…

“What happened to your dedication to thorough research?” She circled closer. “Scared of a little ice?”

“I don’t experience fear.” The lie burned bitter against her tongue, like touching metal in winter, like watching Enid push herself beyond all reasonable— “I simply prefer not to engage in unnecessary physical risk.”

“Says the girl who keeps a collection of deadly poisons in her—”

“Those are properly contained and cataloged.” Unlike these emotions, these impossible-unauthorized-unacceptable—

“And I’m not?” That smile again, the one that made Wednesday’s skin prickle with awareness, with the growing certainty that she was losing control of… of… “I promise to catch you if you fall.”

Wednesday’s fingers found her notebook, seeking solid ground in a world that had gone liquid with possibility. “Your reaction time is compromised by lack of sleep.” The statistical probability of both of us getting injured— both of us falling— both of us— “The likelihood of—”

“You’ve been counting my blinks, haven't you?” Enid’s laugh scattered Wednesday’s remaining defenses. “Analyzing my ‘deteriorating patterns of consciousness’ or whatever very scientific thing you’re pretending this is?”

Something in Wednesday’s chest constricted, caught between the truth (yes, tracking the precise intervals between blinks, calculating the moment fatigue would overcome basic motor function, watching, watching, always watching)and the lie she needed to maintain.

“That’s entirely beside the point.”

“Then what is the point?” A perfect spin that defied physics, defied reason, defied Wednesday’s ability to— “Why are you really here at five in the morning, Wednesday?”

“I told you. Research.” Distance. Must maintain distance. Must not acknowledge the way her chest aches when—

“Research.” Enid drew the word out like poison from a wound, sweet and dangerous and entirely too knowing. “Is that why you kept checking your phone to see if I responded to your text about skipping the team meeting?”

Wednesday’s jaw clenched against the tide of responses threatening to— “I was merely confirming—”

“That I wasn’t alone?” Another circle, closer now, too close, proximity alarms blaring through Wednesday’s systems. “That I wasn’t pushing myself too hard? That maybe, just maybe, you were actually wor—”

“Your tendency to create narratives where none exist is concerning.” But her grip on the notebook had grown painful, knuckles white with the effort of maintaining this facade, this distance, this lie— “I simply prefer my subjects alive.”

“Subjects.” Enid’s laugh held a new note now, something that made Wednesday realize, with growing certainty, that she was losing this battle, losing her grip on— “Is that what you call people you text at 2 AM about their ‘concerning patterns of behavior’?”

“I don’t—” The denial shattered as Enid suddenly stumbled, her right knee buckling in a way that sent Wednesday’s distance crumbling to dust. Without conscious thought, without proper analysis, one hand reached for—

Enid recovered with impossible grace, triumph lighting her features. “See? You do care!”

“That was a deliberate manipulation.” Yet Wednesday’s heart continued its unauthorized acceleration, its betrayal of everything she’d tried to— “Your form suggested genuine instability.”

“Maybe I’m just that good an actress.” Enid skated backward now. “Or maybe you’re not as objective as you pretend to be. Come out here and prove me wrong.”

Wednesday stared at her own reflection in the ice, at the way it fractured and reformed with each of Enid’s movements. At how her distance had begun to feel less like protection and more like… more like… The word cowardice rose unbidden, unauthorized, undeniable.

“Fine.” The word escaped like surrender, like falling, like— “But only to correct your increasingly dangerous technical errors.”

Enid’s entire face lit up further, and Wednesday felt something in her chest crack like spring ice, like the moment before catastrophe, like— “I’ll even hold your hand if you’re scared of the void.”

“The void and I are well acquainted.” Wednesday moved toward the rink entrance, each step measured, controlled. Unlike the way her pulse leapt when Enid skated over to meet her. “Though your understanding of physics seems to be on speaking terms with chaos theory.”

“Is that your way of saying I move pretty?” Enid extended her hand, and Wednesday found herself staring at it like a particularly complex equation. “Come on, void girl. Live a little dangerously.”

Wednesday’s boot hovered over the ice — one millimeter, two, retreat, analyze, calculate the precise angle of— Her throat constricted around words that refused proper formation, around the sudden, visceral memory of falling-losing-shattering—

“Oh.” The brightness in Enid’s voice dimmed like stars behind storm clouds, like data corrupted, like everything Wednesday feared she might— Her extended hand lowered slowly, fingers curling inward like wilting flowers, like closing doors, like—

“I told you, I don't experience—” But the lie fractured as Enid’s face fell further, as something in Wednesday’s chest twisted with the terrible knowledge that she had caused this, had broken this, had— “The surface tension suggests unsafe conditions for—”

“For research?” Enid pushed backward, each centimeter of growing distance a splinter that lodged beneath Wednesday’s ribs. “For getting close enough to actually see what you’re supposedly studying?”

“I can observe perfectly well from—”

“From behind your walls?” The words held no bite, and somehow that was worse, so much worse, like watching carefully collected data dissolve into— Enid’s smile turned soft, resigned, a hypothesis proven wrong. “It’s fine. I get it. Some people prefer their subjects at arm’s length.” She spun away, pink-tipped hair catching the light like a closing curtain, like the last page of a book Wednesday hadn’t meant to end. “Wouldn’t want you to compromise your scientific objectivity.”

“That’s not—” But Wednesday's protest died as Enid glided toward center ice, movements liquid with a grace that shouldn’t exist at this hour, that shouldn’t make Wednesday’s hands itch to document-measure-touch—

“You’ll probably worry more now.” Enid called over her shoulder, attempting a laugh that didn’t quite land. “Since you won't be close enough to properly catalog all my ‘dangerous technical errors.’”

“I don’t worry.” The response emerged automatic, defensive, false, false, false. “I merely—”

The sequence began normally enough — a standard transition into what should have been a simple rotation. But Wednesday calculated it before it happened: the slight overcorrection in Enid’s left ankle, the way fatigue had finally caught up to her muscles, the terrible mathematics of momentum about to—

“Enid!”

The sound of body meeting ice cracked through the arena like a gunshot, like breaking bones, like everything Wednesday had tried to prevent— Enid didn’t move.

She didn’t move.

She didn’t—

Wednesday’s feet carried her onto the ice before her brain could process the motion, before fear could override the sudden, crushing need to reach-touch-confirm—

Her boots slipped immediately. The laws of friction abandoned her as she scrambled forward, each step a negotiation with physics she was absolutely losing. Her heart hammered against her ribs in a rhythm that spelled out too far, too far, she's too far—

“Enid!” The name tore from her throat again as her balance wavered. “If you’ve damaged yourself beyond repair, I’ll—”

She was close enough now to see the slight tremor in Enid's shoulders, the way her hair fanned out across the ice like spilled watercolors, the—

The way her body shook with poorly suppressed laughter.

Enid rolled over, eyes bright with triumph despite the frost clinging to her hair. “You do care!”

Wednesday’s momentum carried her forward another step before her boots lost their tenuous grip on reality. Her arms pinwheeled as the ice rushed up to meet her—

Warm hands caught her waist, but gravity had other plans. They collided in a tangle of limbs and startled breaths, Wednesday’s face inches from Enid’s, close enough to count each freckle, to analyze the exact shade of her eyes, to—

“Hi.” Enid’s breath ghosted across her cheek, warm despite the frigid air. Or perhaps there was no air at all anymore. Perhaps they had fallen into some pocket of space where oxygen had ceased to—

“Your pulse is elevated.” Wednesday managed, desperately trying to focus on scientific observation rather than the way Enid’s hands gripped her coat, rather than how their position defied several laws of proper conduct, rather than... “Clear signs of—”

“Pretty sure that's your heartbeat I'm feeling.” Enid’s smile turned soft at the edges, dangerous in a whole new way. “Unless you’ve got some scientific explanation for why—”

Wednesday tried to push herself up, to restore some semblance of dignity, but her hand slipped and suddenly they were even closer, noses nearly touching, and all her careful categorizations dissolved into—

A sharp inhale of pain broke through their bubble. Enid’s right wrist had buckled under their combined weight, her face twisting into something that wasn’t performance, wasn’t pretense, wasn’t—

“You’re injured.” Wednesday’s voice came out much softer than intended, much more concerned than any proper researcher should allow themselves to be.

“Just banged up.” Enid’s smile wavered slightly. “Nothing some ice won’t fix. Which, conveniently—” She gestured at their surroundings with her other hand, the movement bringing attention to how they were still tangled together on the rink floor.

Wednesday scrambled backward, immediately regretting the motion as her feet threatened to betray her again. “This was a deliberate manipulation of my—”

“Professional curiosity?” Enid pushed herself up one-handed, and something in Wednesday’s throat constricted at the careful way she cradled her other wrist. “Scientific interest? Come on, Wednesday. Admit it – you were worried.”

“I was—” But the denial stuck in her throat as Enid swayed slightly, exhaustion finally showing through her bright exterior. “Your form is completely compromised. This session should end immediately.”

“Aww, are you cutting my practice short because you care?”

Enid’s hand — her left one, Wednesday noted with growing unease — found her elbow. “Come on, void girl. Let’s get you back to solid ground before you start calculating the statistical probability of concussions.”

“I already have.” The admission slipped out before Wednesday could properly filter it. “The current conditions combined with your compromised stability suggest—”

“That you should stop thinking so much and trust me?” Enid’s grip remained steady despite the slight tremor Wednesday felt beneath her fingers. “I told you I’d catch you.”

“You did.” Wednesday allowed herself to be guided across the ice, each step a careful negotiation between dignity and survival. “Though your methods leave much to be desired.”

“My methods got you out here, didn't they?” But something in Enid's usual brightness had dimmed, like a light flickering under strain.

They reached the barrier, and Wednesday immediately missed the warmth of Enid’s hand as it left her elbow. She busied herself with her notebook, trying to ignore how the pages trembled slightly. “The rehearsal schedule indicates a 2 PM blocking session for the morgue sequence. Your technical input regarding movement in confined spaces could prove... useful.”

Silence.

Wednesday looked up from her notes to find Enid staring at her own hand — the right one — with an expression that made something cold and sharp lodge beneath Wednesday’s ribs. The girl’s usual color had drained, leaving her almost as pale as the ice she’d been dancing on moments ago.

“Enid?”

The name emerged softer than intended, carrying notes of something that felt dangerously close to genuine concern. Enid’s head snapped up, and Wednesday watched her rebuild her smile.

“Sorry, just…” She shook her head, pink-tipped strands catching the rising sun. “Got lost in thought about Victorian-era morgue architecture. You know how it is.”

The lie sat between them like frost on glass. Wednesday opened her mouth to challenge it, to demand proper data about the injury’s severity, to—

“Two o’clock at the library.” Enid was already backing away, movements lacking their usual fluid grace. “I’ll bring those articles on period-specific preservation techniques you pretend not to be interested in.”

“Your current physical state suggests—”

“That I should probably grab a coffee before my next practice?” Enid’s laugh sounded wrong, stretched thin like ice over deep water. “Don’t worry, Wednesday. I won’t compromise your research data by missing our study session.”

“That’s not what I—”

But Enid was already gone, disappearing through the arena doors with a speed that suggested retreat rather than mere exit. Wednesday stood alone in the empty rink, her notebook forgotten in hands that had developed an odd tremor.

The fluorescent lights buzzed against her skull, and her organized notes suddenly seemed inadequate to catalog the growing certainty that something was very wrong with her... research subject.

Subject.

The word tasted bitter now, like chemicals in the back of her throat, like watching Enid cradle her wrist when she thought Wednesday wasn’t looking, like the growing realization that perhaps she had failed to maintain proper scientific distance after all.

Chapter Text

2824.

The numbers pulsed behind Wednesday’s eyelids, each digit a pinprick of light. Her fingernails carved half-moons into her palms. Two-eight-two-four. Two-eight-two-four. Not buried in last week’s files. Not hidden in the documents scattered across her desk. And yet—

A cold drop struck her neck, slithered beneath her collar. Another. Another. The droplets merged, trickling down her face in tiny rivers. The night had been clear when she’d left her apartment, hadn’t it? Her sleeve dampened as she wiped her eyes.

The door handle caught her palm, its surface pitted, corroded. Two years of distance measured in careful steps backward, in walls built brick by brick, in promises whispered at midnight that she wouldn’t—

(You’ve been here before, haven’t you? Another door. Another night. Different calculations. Your fingers left prints in the frost, remember? While numbers spun through your mind. The calculations. The percentages. The probability that—)

The lobby doors parted with a hiss. Synthetic citrus stung her nostrils, threading through musty undertones of old carpets and stale coffee. Her boots chirped against wet tile, each step marking her path away from the entrance. The rain must have started somewhere between Mont-Tremblant and Trois-Rivières, between the moment she’d decided to check the final message and—

Apartment 13. Of course.

Metal cables strained against ancient gears as the elevator lurched upward. Wednesday’s reflection multiplied across scratched panels — dark circles beneath bloodshot eyes, lipstick smudged at one corner, a muscle jumping in her jaw. She tucked her chin down, but the fractured mirrors caught every angle, every crack. Back to the numbers. Focus on the display.

The digits clicked past: ten, eleven, twelve. Her fingertips traced the handrail’s cool surface, counting each floor twice, three times, while her throat closed around unbidden words. Another building. Another message. Another set of numbers that had led to—

The elevator shuddered silent.

Each step down the corridor dragged at her feet, the carpet fibers catching at wet boots. Brass numbers gleamed in the moonlight. Twelve. Then thirteen. A ribbon of golden light painted a streak from beneath Enid’s door, warm and welcoming in a way that twisted Wednesday’s stomach.

Her knuckles barely brushed the wood before it yielded inward.

Color exploded across her vision: sports equipment tangled with craft supplies, medical texts sprouting takeout receipts as bookmarks, and everywhere, everywhere, that impossible shade of pink that had begun bleeding into Wednesday’s dream, staining her grayscale world.

“Enid?”

The name dried in her throat, emerged too small, too fragile. Too pathetic.

Her eyes caught on a coffee mug, sitting abandoned on the counter, steam still rising in lazy spirals. Beside it, a medical text lay spread open to bone density charts. And there, across the kitchen counter—

Orange bottles. Row after row of them.

“Enid.” The name caught in her throat as goosebumps rippled up her arms. “Don’t do this to me.”

Nothing but the drip of a faucet answered.

Each step brought fresh horrors. Enid’s jersey lay crumpled and wrong, as if she’d been pulled backward mid-stride. A roll of medical tape had come undone, snaking across the floor like it had been surrendered. A water bottle knocked askew, liquid seeping into the carpet.

Light leaked from the bathroom, painting the hallway in sickly fluorescent.

Her feet carried her forward while everything inside screamed to run. The door gave way beneath her touch and—

Enid lay crumpled against porcelain, pink-tipped hair splayed across white tile like watercolors bleeding into violence.

“No—”

The sound tore from somewhere deeper than her lungs, primal and broken.

One heartbeat stretched into eternity. Two made her dizzy. Three—

She crashed to her knees beside Enid’s body, tile biting into bone. Her fingers fumbled for Enid’s neck, pressing against skin that felt like midwinter windows. No. Not like this. Not again. Not—

“Don’t you dare.” The words ripped her throat raw. “Don’t you dare leave me here.”

Something fluttered beneath her fingertips — barely there, fragile as moth wings. But alive. Oh god, alive. The breath that escaped her might have been a sob.

“Enid.” Her voice cracked around the edges, composure shattering like glass. She forced her hands through the motions — pulse, breathing, skin temperature — while her mind screamed at how familiar this all felt. “If you're attempting to prove some point about my capacity for emotional response. I assure you there are less dramatic methods.”

Enid didn’t stir.

Pink strands clung to her face, dark with sweat. Wednesday’s fingers trembled as she smoothed them back. “This is beneath you,” she whispered, fear clawing up her throat. “Passing out in bathrooms? That’s amateur theatrics. I expected better from someone who quotes Victorian medical journals.”

Enid’s head rolled against the tub edge. Her lips had gone blue at the corners. Something inside Wednesday shattered.

“Wake up.” Orders; not requests; she couldn’t handle requests right now. “I refuse— I refuse to do this again. Not with you.”

She traced Enid’s face with shaking fingers, each touch memorizing the curve of her jaw, the slope of her cheekbones. So cold. So still. “I know you can hear me,” she breathed. “I know you hear me. Even if I tried to retreat. Even if I wish you wouldn’t.”

A catch in Enid’s breath — tiny, fragile — and Wednesday’s world collapsed to that single sound.

“That’s it.” The words spilled out, unfiltered, desperate. "Come on. Show me those impossible ocean eyes. Tell me about bone density studies. Victorian hockey injuries. Anything—” Her voice quivered. “Just. Please.”

Eyelashes fluttered against pale cheeks. A sound, soft as falling snow.

“There you are.” Wednesday cradled Enid’s cheek, thumb tracing circles on skin cold as December glass. “Stay with me. That’s an order.”

Enid’s eyes opened to slits, glazed and distant. “‘ednesday?”

“Indeed.” The word came out drowned, salt-stained. Something hot carved trails down Wednesday’s cheeks, splashing onto Enid’s forehead. “Who else would find you conducting unauthorized pharmaceutical trials at this hour?”

“Mmm.” Enid’s eyes began to drift shut. “Knew you’d... void eyes... pretty when worried…”

“No.” Wednesday’s fingers pressed harder, anchoring them both. “Eyes open. Tell me about that mortuary preservation book. The one you destroyed with pink highlighter.”

“Cold.” Enid leaned into Wednesday’s palm, seeking warmth. “Like... like the crypts... we studied…”

“The Victorian training facilities.” Wednesday fumbled for her phone with her free hand, screen blurring before her eyes. “Keep talking. Their ice storage methods. Tell me.”

“You’re crying.” Enid’s words melted together, but concern wrinkled her brow. “Don’t cry... ‘m fine…”

“I never cry.” Lies tasted like copper as Wednesday’s fingers slipped across three numbers. “And you’re not fine. You're seven different kinds of catastrophic.”

“Like chaos?” That ghost of a smile. “Your favorite…”

“My nightmare.” Still, Wednesday’s thumb traced Enid’s cheekbone, memorizing its curve while she pressed the phone to her ear. “Stay awake. More about the crypts.”

“Tired…” Enid’s eyes fluttered like dying moths. “Just need…”

“No.” Raw terror clawed up her throat. “You don’t get to do this. Not you.” Wednesday’s voice shattered as the operator answered. “I need an ambulance. Now.”

The operator’s questions dissolved into static. Numbers and instructions blurred while Enid’s head grew heavier in her hand. Wednesday let the phone clatter to the tile, forgotten. Nothing mattered except the pulse fading beneath her fingertips.

“This angle will strain your neck.” Her voice steadied even as her hands trembled, gathering Enid closer. “I refuse to deal with additional injuries.”

With movements she didn’t know she possessed, Wednesday shifted Enid’s head to her lap. Pink hair spilled across black fabric like dawn bleeding into midnight, and something behind Wednesday’s ribs twisted into knots she’d never untangle.

“Did you know,” she began, fingers threading through golden strands, “that Victorians had specific protocols for treating unconscious patients?” Keep her here. Keep her talking. “They believed extreme temperatures could revive the spirit. Barbaric methods, really, though their documentation was remarkably thorough.”

Enid’s breath caught, each inhale growing fainter than the last. “‘s why... you keep the chamber... so cold?”

“Obviously.” Wednesday’s thumb painted invisible patterns against Enid’s temple, counting each pulse beat like prayer beads. Too slow. Far too slow. “Though your interpretation of their methods remains wildly optimistic.”

“You... like my interpretations.” Enid’s words slurred, but her lips curved upward. “Makes you... almost smile…”

“Pure fabrication.” A droplet splashed onto Enid’s cheek; Wednesday wiped it away with trembling fingers. “I simply tolerate your questionable attempts at academic discourse.”

“Saw you... in the library…” Enid’s eyes fluttered shut. “When I quoted... mortality rates…”

“Stay with me.” The words razor-sharp with fear. Wednesday’s hand pressed against Enid’s jaw. “Tell me about that impossible triple axel. The one that broke half of Newton’s laws.”

Silence answered.

“Enid.” Her voice splintered around the name. “If you die in this hideous bathroom, I’ll ensure your ghost haunts a Disney store for eternity.”

Nothing.

“Please.” The word tore from her throat like broken glass. “I’ll let you destroy all my first editions with highlighter. Even... even the Poe collection.”

Her body swayed, a ship lost at sea. When had her fingers laced through Enid’s, fitting together like puzzle pieces?

“You’re supposed to argue about preservation methods.” Words poured out, unbound, uncontrolled. “Quote medical journals at three in the morning. Make everything so impossibly bright that I—”

Her voice crumbled as Enid’s head grew heavier against her thighs.

“I can’t.” A whisper against the void. “I can’t lose someone again. Not you…”

Sirens pierced the night, but they might as well have been in another universe as Wednesday curled over Enid’s still form, pressing their foreheads together. “You’re different,” she breathed against skin like winter frost. “You were supposed to be different.”

A sound caught in her chest — half laugh, half sob. “Victorian doctors documented cases where patients responded to emotional stimuli even while unconscious. Complete nonsense, of course, but…” Her thumb traced the curve of Enid’s cheek. “You do love proving me wrong about impossible things.”

The sirens screamed closer. Wednesday’s fingers tightened around Enid’s hand until she couldn’t tell whose pulse she felt anymore.

“Stay.” Her lips brushed Enid’s forehead. “Just... stay.”

The apartment door splintered the momentary silence. Boots thundered against hardwood, and voices called out in bursts that barely registered through the static in Wednesday’s mind.

“In here.” The words felt wrong in her mouth, paper-thin. “Bathroom.”

They appeared in the doorway — two uniformed figures with bags slung across their shoulders. Wednesday absorbed each detail: early thirties, one male, one female, eyes already mapping out the scene with urgency.

“How long has she been unconscious?”

Wednesday’s fingers refused to loosen their grip. “Approximately twelve minutes since initial contact. Significant decreased response to stimuli in the last four.”

The female EMT knelt beside them, fingers finding Enid’s pulse. “We need to move her. Miss...?”

“Addams.” Her hand remained locked with Enid’s. “She has a history of substance dependency. February incident. A recent wrist injury likely triggered—”

Facts spilled from her lips, as if she could somehow control everything with enough information. “Prior ankle trauma led to pain management complications. Records suggests successful rehabilitation, but—”

“We need room to work.” Steady hands guided her backward.

“She’s a professional athlete.” Her voice cracked as Enid’s weight lifted away. “Montreal Force. Forward position. Recent stunt certification. Medical records list previous surgical intervention for—”

“Are you family?”

“No.” Bile rose in her throat. “I’m her... we’re…” Language failed her, crumbling beneath… whatever they’d become. “I found her.”

Equipment materialized. The EMTs sprang into action. Wednesday’s back pressed against the wall, nails carving crescents into her palms while they exchanged vital signs that blurred like ink in water.

“Respiratory rate critical,” someone barked. “Moving now.”

They lifted Enid onto the stretcher. Her hand fell limp over the edge, nails still painted in that impossible array of colors. Wednesday’s chest caved in.

“Are you riding with us?”

The question jolted her. “I... I don't have her complete history. Only production documents. I haven’t—”

(Another night. Another ambulance. Another hand you couldn’t hold—)

“That’s not what I asked.”

Her feet carried her forward, following the stretcher through Enid’s explosion of color and life, down the juddering elevator, past lemon-scented desperation now tainted with antiseptic.

Rain transformed the ambulance windows into abstract art, emergency lights fracturing into prisms of red and blue. Wednesday climbed in without hesitation, fingers finding Enid’s the moment she settled.

“Blood pressure 86/52,” floated through the fog. “Initiating—”

Reality narrowed to Enid’s shallow breaths and the thready pulse that wouldn’t steady. Wednesday’s thumb traced circles on skin gone cold, remembering how just hours ago, those same hands had annotated Victorian medical texts with ridiculous pink highlighters.

(How did she hold so much light while dancing with shadows?)

The ambulance surged forward. Sirens screamed in regret and terror and everything Wednesday had promised herself she’d never feel again. She kept her eyes on Enid’s face, watching as color leached away like winter stealing the last breath of autumn.

“Stay,” she murmured, the word drowning in medical jargon and monitor beeps. “You still haven’t convinced me about your preservation theories.”

Rain painted silver trails down glass while Wednesday pretended the wetness on her cheeks came from somewhere else entirely.

Four hours, seventeen minutes, and thirty-two seconds of fluorescent hell. The waiting room clock’s minute hand quivered between numbers, each tick burrowing into Wednesday's consciousness. Not that she was counting. Obviously. (And if she happened to be tracking the duration of this psychological experiment in torture, well, that was purely for documentation purposes.)

Her boots had carved twin arcs into the grimy industrial tile, scuff marks evidence of her pacing. Someone would need to mop this section twice, wouldn’t they? She could draft a formal complaint about inadequate floor maintenance after... after whatever verdict emerged from those swinging doors. After they determined if Enid would—

The data. Focus on measurable variables.

Fact: A child three seats down leaked various bodily fluids at approximately four-minute intervals.

Fact: The monitors down the hall emitted beeps at irregular frequencies that defied mathematical modeling.

Fact: Wheels squeaked against the linoleum in patterns that suggested inefficient staff movement protocols.

Fact: Enid’s breath had caught exactly thirty-seven times before they’d—

The equation fragments scattered.

Suddenly, the exit sign’s red glow beckoned. She could leave. She should leave. The doctors had Enid’s records now; Wednesday’s presence contributed nothing beyond collecting data for future reference. Yet her spine remained fixed to the plastic chair — a torture device poorly disguised as furniture — while calculations spiraled through her mind: oxygen saturation rates, average emergency response times, the precise shade of cyan that had painted Enid’s fingertips when—

“Coffee?”

Wednesday's neck muscles seized. Divina stood before her, paper cups extended like peace treaties. Dark smudges ringed her eyes where mascara had migrated — an observation as invasive as counting someone’s remaining heartbeats.

“You need this.” The playful lilt that usually colored Divina’s voice was gone, replaced by something flat and brittle. “You’ve been here since four AM. It’s now…” The glow of her phone screen washed over her face in sickly blue. “Eight-seventeen.”

Before she could resist, Wednesday’s fingers closed around the cup. Heat seeped through the paper, a sensation that inversely correlated with how cold Enid’s skin had been when—

“Some of the team’s coming,” Divina said, claiming the adjacent seat. “Yoko’s finding parking. Should be here soon.”

Something writhed beneath Wednesday’s ribcage. “That’s unnecessary. The situation is contained.”

“Right.” Divina’s tone carried an encyclopedia of subtext. “So that’s why you’re sitting here alone, calculating every possible disaster scenario with that mortician’s stare of yours?”

“I’m documenting emergency response protocols.” The lie tasted of antiseptic and unfulfillied hypotheses. “For future.”

“Mhm.” Divina’s coffee cup tapped against her lower lip. “Pure scientific curiosity. That’s why you haven't shifted an inch since they took her. Definitely not because you’re—”

The double doors parted with a hiss. Jade entered first, her usual serenity fractured into sharp angles and hesitant movements. Kaia followed, droplets still falling from her dark hair onto her shoulders, the scent of ice rink chemicals clinging to her practice gear. Talia (not Dr. Talia, not in this inadequate purgatory of beeping monitors) trailed behind, her fingers white-knuckled around medical textbooks pressed against her chest.

They moved as a single unit, reading each other’s microexpressions and subtle adjustments with instincts honed from countless shared experiences on and off ice. Wednesday’s stomach clenched as they drew near; their presence amplified the antiseptic smell and made the overhead lights buzz louder, sharper, until—

(Different variables, different equation. A different waiting room, different monitors, a different boy who’d smiled too bright and fallen too far, and left her drowning in probabilities that all ended in zero.)

“Any updates?” Jade’s voice scraped the air.

Wednesday’s teeth ground together. Variables. Present the variables.

“Supposedly stable,” she forced past her lips. “Responding to treatment. The wrist fracture presents…” Her tongue faltered for a moment. “Greater complexity than baseline scans indicated.”

Silent looks spread among the other girls, laced with years of context Wednesday couldn’t decode. Kaia claimed the chair opposite her, shards of ice still trickling from her hair onto her jacket. “You’re the one who found her.”

A statement, not a question. Wednesday’s grip tightened around the coffee cup until it emitted a warning crackle. “My research coincidentally aligned with that temporal window.”

“At four AM?” Talia’s brows knitted together as she studied Wednesday's face. “That’s quite the coincidence.”

“I don’t acknowledge coincidences.” The words burst out with unexpected urgency. “Only empirical patterns.”

“Like how she color-codes her texts to you?” Something soft underlay Kaia’s words. “Pink for Victorian medical facts, blue for physics calculations, purple for—

“That’s entirely irrelevant to the current—”

“Green for when she’s excited about a new stunt sequence,” Jade interjected, the corner of her mouth curving. “Though lately they’ve all revolved around your rehearsals.”

Wednesday’s spine stiffened. “I fail to see how Enid’s organizational systems—”

“She reorganized her entire schedule.” Talia lowered herself into the chair beside Kaia, medical texts still clutched tightly. “Changed her training times, reworked her recovery routine. All to ensure she’d never miss a session for you.”

A muscle twitched in Wednesday's jaw. “The production requires precise—”

“She alphabetized her medical journals.” Divina’s voice carried an unusual note. “Enid never alphabetizes anything. But suddenly they’re all arranged by author, subject, and—” She paused thoughtfully. “Historical period.”

“That’s…” Wednesday’s mental processes struggled with the information. “Purely professional dedication.”

Kaia snorted. "Yeah, because Enid Sinclair — the girl who labels all her hockey gear with glitter pens — suddenly developed an interest in proper filing systems.”

“You should see her notes from your morgue scene blocking.” Jade’s eyes crinkled at the edges. “She drew little skeletal diagrams in the margins. With ribbons.”

“Pink ribbons,” Talia added with a grin. “On the femurs.”

An unfamiliar sensation attempted to settle beneath Wednesday’s sternum. She systematically dismantled it. “Her attention to anatomical detail is... acceptable.”

“She practiced that fall sequence for six hours the other day.” Kaia's volume dropped. “Said she had to get it perfect because—” Her eyes met Wednesday’s. “Because you’d notice if she didn’t.”

The coffee cup in Wednesday’s hands emitted another warning creak. “I maintain identical standards for all—”

“She’s never tried this hard to impress anyone.” Divina’s words fell soft as the first winter’s snow. “Not even when she was making the Olympic team.”

The coffee in Wednesday’s cup had gone cold, mirroring the chill that had seeped into her bones hours earlier. She peered into the murky liquid, watching it ripple with each tremor of her hands.

“Remember when she hijacked the whiteboard to explain Victorian preservation methods to Coach?" Kaia leaned back in her chair, nostalgia warming her expression. “Her entire face lit up when she drew those little ice blocks with faces. She spent twenty minutes explaining why they needed expressions.”

“Her kidney diagrams show surprising anatomical detail,” Wednesday murmured, the memory surfacing unbidden. Her fingertip traced the rim of her cup. “She perfectly captures the tissue degradation patterns.”

Five pairs of eyes turned to her. Wednesday focused on the scuff marks on the floor, her neck tingling under their scrutiny. Each tile had exactly sixteen specks of dirt — she’d counted them four times now.

“That was when it started, wasn’t it?” Jade’s voice held a comprehension that made Wednesday’s chest ache. “The late-night sessions. She burst through the door at dawn, arms overflowing with morgue architecture books, rambling about historical preservation techniques.”

“Which she decorated,” Talia’s smile widened impossibly. “In—”

“Pink.” The word scraped against Wednesday’s throat, prompting her to hastily clear her throat and regain composure. “With completely illogical notes about temperature variations. She drew tiny thermometers in every margin, each one labeled with increasingly absurd preservation theories.”

“You remember every detail of her notes?” Divina tilted her head to the side.

“I maintain thorough records of all research materials.” The lie tasted as artificial as the hospital’s lemon-scented cleaner. Her throat tightened around unspoken truths — how she had spent hours memorizing Enid’s looping handwriting, the way her exclamation points always curled at the end, how her enthusiasm spilled across every page in a riot of pink ink and half-formed theories.

A new voice cut through her spiral: “Just like you maintain detailed records of her coffee preferences?”

Yoko stood at the entrance, exhaustion etched into her features, steam curling from the cardboard tray of cups in her hands.

“Three shots vanilla, extra whip, caramel drizzle.” The words tumbled out before Wednesday could stop them. “It completely destroys the coffee’s chemical composition. She might as well drink melted candy.”

The team exchanged looks that made Wednesday’s stomach clench. She could read the messages passing between them, each glance loaded with knowledge about their teammate — about Enid — and how she had somehow managed to slip past every barrier.

“I simply notice patterns,” Wednesday added, her voice smaller than intended. “The excessive sugar content suggests—”

“That you’ve memorized how she stirs it?” Yoko snorted, moving between them to distribute drinks. “Or calculated exactly how many millimeters of whipped cream make her smile brightest?”

“Statistical analysis is—”

“Yeah, but what about the way you watch her?” Yoko’s words struck a little too hard. “The whole production team sees it, Wednesday. How your eyes track her every movement in rehearsal. The way you subtly shift your position to catch her if she falls, always one step ahead of—”

“Basic safety protocols.” The cup crumpled in Wednesday’s grip, collapsing with a wet crunch. Coffee dripped between her fingers, but she barely noticed. “Nothing more.”

Yoko studied her face. “We need to talk.” Her eyes flicked toward the others, who were no longer even pretending to not listen. “Alone.”

Something deep in Wednesday’s chest constricted, like a Victorian corset being pulled too tight. She managed a single nod and then rose on unsteady legs to follow Yoko to a corner of the waiting room. The others huddled around Talia’s medical texts, trying to avert their gazes while their ears visibly strained to overhear.

“She keeps your notes.” Steam rose from Yoko’s cup in lazy spirals, drawing Wednesday’s tired eyes. “She has this whole system, color-coded by scene and movement, with little charts tracking every correction you’ve ever given her.”

Something deep within Wednesday’s chest twisted. “Her organizational methods—”

“She never wrote anything down before you.” Yoko’s voice softened with meaning Wednesday couldn’t bear to comprehend. “She just... acted. Pure impulse and adrenaline until—” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “Your structure changed that. Changed her.”

Wednesday’s fingers found a loose thread on her sleeve, tugging at it gently. “The production requires documentation of—”

“The championship game.” Yoko interjected, eyes sharpening. “Two years ago. You heard about it?”

“The records mentioned a standard injury during—”

“Yes, but did you know that she went after their enforcer before she’d even healed? He was twice her size.” Yoko’s cup trembled slightly. “She didn’t wait for backup. Just... threw herself at him. Kept swinging even after—” Her jaw clenched tightly.

A beat of silence.

Then two.

“Some of us know what it’s like,” Yoko whispered. “Maybe even you. That moment when you start questioning how much it would take to just... stop. When even breathing feels like too much effort.”

Wednesday’s fingers stilled.

“You’ve done that math too.” The words slipped out before she could catch them. “I spent a year calculating all the optimal methods of... disappearing. Spreadsheets analyzing every variable until—" She paused, reclibrating her words. “Until I realized some questions shouldn’t be answered.”

“When?”

“Junior year. After—” The memory caught in her throat. “That’s beside the point. Mother eventually found my notes. She ordered for me to construct a scale model of Victorian gallows instead, explaining that if I was going to obsess over death, I might as well do it historically.”

"Did it help?"

“I started cataloging survival mechanisms instead.” Her fingers traced invisible patterns on her sleeve. “I learned to transmute the void into academic inquiry.”

She caught herself. “But this isn’t about me. It’s about Enid’s complete disregard for basic mortality rates. Her insistence on treating death like some sort of—”

“Game? Like driving motorcycles off cliffs?" Yoko’s words struck too close to home. “Or street racing with a broken collarbone? Cave diving without gear, just on a dare?”

Wednesday’s heart stumbled. “Her file didn’t—”

“We hide a lot.” Yoko's cup creaked in her grip. “The fights. The nights she’d disappear and come back covered in blood. That time she climbed the radio tower in a lightning storm because she needed to ‘feel something real.’”

“I’ve seen it all — she lived with me after running away at sixteen,” Yoko continued, her face filled with memories that Wednesday couldn’t bear to read. “First, it was the nightmares. Then... pills to stay awake. Pills to sleep. Pills to numb everything.”

“That often manifests in response to—”

“Trauma?” Their eyes locked, understanding passing between them. “Rebuilding yourself from nothing? Yeah, I’ve seen that story. In her. In me. In you.” She paused. “In whoever you’re thinking of right now.”

“At least she was seeking sensation.” Wednesday’s voice wavered. “Her behavioral patterns suggest—”

“Deflect all you want,” Yoko replied gently. “But I saw your face when I walked in. This isn’t just recognition; this is is memory.”

Wednesday’s fingers found the thread again, pulling it slowly. “Memories are corrupt. They degrade with time.”

“Some memories burn too deep to forget,” Yoko said, setting her cup down. “They leave scars you can’t escape.”

The thread snapped. Wednesday watched as it wrapped around her finger, the tip going white. “I documented everything once. Every incident, every promise, every lie.” Her nail beds turned pale. “As if quantifying destruction could contain it.”

“Wednesday—”

“The human body survives approximately six minutes without oxygen,” she continued, the words spilling out. “Brain deterioration begins at four. Permanent damage occurs at—” A slight throat clearing interrupted her. “He knew all the numbers. Tested each limit while reciting them.”

Yoko went perfectly still, afraid to disrupt this fragile moment unfolding between them.

“The staged accidents…” Wednesday’s voice quaked. “He called it performance art. Said I was the only one who understood his... vision.” Her lips twisted. “Because I’d already calculated every possible exit trajectory myself.”

“How long were you together?”

“Two years, four months, seventeen days.” Each number reopened old wounds. “Until he wrapped his car around a tree, with a family of four in the oncoming lane.”

Silence filled the space like smoke.

“Enid’s different,” Yoko ventured. “She’s not trying to—”

“She jumped off a balcony.” There was no hesitation. “At that party. For fun. To prove she could. And now—” She suppressed a sigh. “What if this is just the beginning? What if she keeps pushing until—”

“She’s not him,” Yoko said, touching her arm. “And she’s not you either.”

“She makes mortality rates sound like poetry.” Something fundamental fractured in Wednesday’s voice. “Treats Victorian preservation techniques like bedtime stories. Catalogs death with pink highlighters, and I can’t—” Her hands trembled. “I simply wouldn’t survive watching another person I—”

She stopped breathing.

“Care about?” Yoko grimaced, bracing herself. “Someone who makes you want to stay alive?”

Wednesday’s heart skipped. “If she starts again... If this becomes... when she decides that testing limits matters more than—”

“More than her life? More than you?” Yoko finished softly. “More than—”

“Miss Addams?”

A nurse appeared beside them. “Miss Sinclair is asking for you.”

Magma flooded Wednesday’s stomach. She turned back to Yoko, who opened her mouth to—

“She’s been quite insistent,” the nurse added. “Something about Victorian medical practices?”

Wednesday's feet moved of their own accord. Behind her, Yoko began to speak, poised to share any wisdom that might ease the situation.

But the nurse was already guiding her away, and Wednesday’s mind filled with a different set of numbers: room 413, fourth floor, cardiac wing, and the exact shade of pink that Enid’s hair had been when Wednesday last saw her smile.

Chapter Text

Fluorescent tubes sputtered overhead, each flicker driving needles deeper into Wednesday’s temples. Four hours and seventeen minutes since the ambulance had screamed into the emergency bay. Numbers across her wrist that should have steadied her racing thoughts, should have provided the same solid foundation that provided framework for experiments, but even mathematics had betrayed her all night.

Her fingers locked around the half-crumpled coffee cup, its contents long since gone stone cold. The same temperature as morgues, as preservation fluid, as—

Through the ICU doorway, medical monitors painted Enid’s skin in statistical probabilities of blue and green. The heart monitor chirped a steady rhythm at 72 — worlds better than the terrifying 42 when they’d first rushed her through these doors. Blood pressure glowed: 112/68. The oxygen sensor pulsed with each breath: 97%.

Thank god. Thank god. Thank god. Numbers don't lie. Numbers can’t lie.

Yet no machine could capture how Enid’s hair spread across the hospital sheets like watercolors bleeding into fresh snow, or how small she looked drowning in starched sheets, all her impossible energy contained in this sterile box. A hummingbird trapped in formaldehyde.

Wednesday’s boots squeaked against the linoleum while her mind sprinted through morgue blueprints, through centuries-old medical texts, through anything to avoid noticing how the coffee cup trembled between her fingers. If she started calculating mortality rates again, if she factored in response times and blood loss percentages—

(Different room. Different monitors. Different ending. Focus on the vitals in front of you.)

A soft sound escaped Enid’s lips — barely a whimper — and Wednesday’s curated distance shattered like dropped glass. Her feet carried her forward before her brain could object, pulled by something stronger than logic or self-preservation.

“Your dedication to dramatic entrances remains impressive,” she rasped, throat raw from hours of swallowing back words. “Though your timing could use improvement.”

Silence answered. But Enid's fingers twitched against the sheets, seeking… what? Warmth? Connection?

Wednesday’s hand drifted forward without conscious command, hovering inches above Enid’s skin. Close enough to count the constellation of freckles across her wrist. When had she begun cataloging their patterns? When had she—

The gap between their hands felt like light years, like milliseconds, like the space between breaths. One touch would break it all — her walls, her defenses, her promise to never again let anyone—

Enid’s breath caught, stumbled, smoothed out. The monitor’s steady beeping counted heartbeats while Wednesday’s pulse thundered in her ears like a gathering storm. Professional distance demanded she step back. Maintain objectivity. Preserve the barrier between observer and subject. Instead—

“Your statistical analysis of Victorian medical practices requires revision,” she murmured, fingers still suspended in that liminal space between connection and isolation. “Clearly your research on proper preservation techniques was... incomplete.”

The sentence fractured, but it was better than the alternatives burning behind her teeth: Don’t you dare leave. Don’t you dare make me watch someone else—

A strand of honey-gold hair had fallen across Enid’s face, tangled in her lashes. Wednesday’s hand redirected without permission, brushing it back with a gentleness that startled her, that terrified her. Her fingertips grazed Enid’s temple, and electricity arced through her nervous system, setting every synapse alight.

“I suppose this means you’ll be insufferable about proper safety protocols now,” she whispered, thumb tracing the curve of Enid’s cheekbone. “Though your record suggests you’re pathologically immune to common sense.”

The fluorescents maintained their merciless drone, but something in Wednesday’s chest began to unknot. Each monitor beep dissolved another thread of tension, each regular rhythm proving that Enid was here, was breathing, was—

Those sea-glass eyes fluttered open, bright as sunrise after endless night.

For one endless moment, their gazes locked. Wednesday's fingers remained pressed against Enid’s cheek, betrayed by a gentleness she hadn’t meant to reveal.

“Void girl.” Enid’s words slurred at the edges, medication turning her consonants soft. Her lips curved upward, eyes filled with something that made Wednesday’s chest tight. “Thought I dreamed those pretty eyes in the dark.”

Wednesday’s lungs forgot their purpose. Her hand trembled against Enid’s skin. Distance. She needed distance. She—

“Your perception remains unreliable.” The words scratched past her teeth. “Though given your current chemical composition, that’s hardly surprising.”

Enid’s smile widened, drug-sweet and exhausted. Her right arm lay wrapped in pristine white plaster, propped on sterile pillows like a mocking reminder of...

“You actually came,” she breathed, pressing her cheek into Wednesday’s palm. “Even when I mess up all your special science words.”

“I don’t make social calls.”The lie tasted like copper, especially with her thumb still tracing patterns on Enid’s skin. “Merely maintaining... observational consistency.”

“Mm.” Enid's eyes fluttered shut, then snapped open, pupils dilating with something like panic. “That why you’re touching my face? For science?”

Heat bloomed across Wednesday’s neck. She started to pull back, but Enid made a sound of protest that shattered something in her chest.

“Don’t,” Enid whispered, her uninjured hand shooting up to trap Wednesday’s fingers against her cheek. “Like having you here. Makes everything less... floaty.”

Wednesday’s heart skipped three beats in succession. Enid’s skin blazed against hers, fever-warm and electric and alive. So impossibly, wonderfully alive.

“Your eloquence remains devastating,” she murmured. “Though I suppose that’s an improvement from your delirious text messages about Victorian medical practices.”

“You got those?” The words melted together like watercolors in rain. “Thought I imagined... sending them. Wanted to impress you with... historical stuff…”

“I was primarily concerned with your complete disregard for—” But something dangerous and molten had begun seeping through her veins, melting places she’d kept frozen. “Your enthusiasm remains simultaneously fascinating and terrifying.”

Enid hummed, burrowing deeper into Wednesday’s palm. Her fingers tangled weakly in Wednesday’s sleeve. “Can’t believe you came,” she repeated, voice small as a secret. “Didn’t think anyone would…”

Each word landed like a physical blow. “Your teammates are terrorizing the nursing staff as we speak,” Wednesday managed. “Their protective instincts seem somewhat delayed, given recent events.”

“Not them.” Enid’s fingers tightened on her sleeve with surprising strength. “You. You came. Even though… even though we barely…”

“Yes, well.” Wednesday's throat closed around unspoken truths. “Someone needed to document your spectacular disregard for safety protocols.”

“Liar.” The word held no bite, only a soft understanding that ached beneath Wednesday's ribs. “You were worried.”

Wednesday stared at their points of contact — Enid’s fingers twisted in her sleeve, her own hand cradling Enid’s cheek — and felt something dangerous crystallizing in her chest.

“Worry implies emotional investment.”

"Then what do you call..." Enid's eyelids drooped, fighting gravity. “Coming at 4AM? When I texted about... void eyes and Victorian things?”

“Academic curiosity.” The words rang hollow as empty beakers. “Your messages displayed intriguing indicators of—”

“You counted my breaths.” Enid’s thumb traced ice-burn circles on Wednesday’s wrist. “In the texts. Between responses. Could feel you... measuring everything.”

Wednesday’s jaw clenched. “Basic medical monitoring.”

“No one’s ever…” Enid swallowed hard, something raw bleeding into her voice. “You shouldn’t have to... I mean, this isn’t your responsibility. Any of it.”

“Responsibility suggests obligation.” Wednesday's fingers betrayed her, shifting against Enid's cheek. “I simply prefer my subjects alive.”

“Subjects?” A ghost of Enid's usual playfulness flickered through the drug haze. “That what we’re still calling... whatever this is?”

The question was loaded with implications neither dared examine. Wednesday’s lungs compressed around truths she refused to name. “This is nothing. As I said, merely professional—”

“You should leave.” Enid's fingers twisted tighter in her sleeve even as she spoke. “You’ve been here forever, and you have... the production, and... I keep making you…” She tried to pull away, pain flashing across her face as the movement jarred her injured wrist. “I’m just going to keep... disappointing you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Wednesday's hand moved without permission, steadying Enid’s shoulder. “Your self-sacrificial tendencies are both inefficient and—” She caught herself, gentled her voice. “Unnecessary.”

“‘m serious.” Enid’s eyes burned with horrible honesty. “You deserve better than... than someone who can't even follow basic safety rules. Who makes you worry at 4AM about... about stupid choices and—”

“Enough.” The word cracked like breaking glass, making Enid flinch. Wednesday forced her tone softer, steadier. “Your attempt at martyrdom is noted. And rejected.”

“Wednesday—”

“I promised myself I wouldn’t do this again.” Her thumb traced the arch of Enid's cheekbone, contradicting her firm tone. “Count breaths in hospital rooms. Watch vital signs. Calculate survival rates between heartbeats. I don’t…”

The words died in her throat, crushed beneath memories she couldn’t face. Not here. Not yet. Not with Enid looking so small against clinical white, when past disasters threatened to overlay present reality like double-exposed film.

“You don't have to tell me.” Enid’s voice barely carried past her lips, fragile as frost. “About the ‘again.’ About why your hands shake in hospitals.”

Wednesday's fingers froze against Enid’s cheek. The tremor in them betrayed her now. “I don’t—”

“I know.” Enid's fingers found Wednesday’s free hand, intertwining as naturally as chemical bonds forming. The gesture startled them both into momentary silence. “Just like I don't have to tell you about February. Or why I sometimes need to... to feel something real.”

The heart monitor marked out several steady beats between them. Wednesday’s muscles tensed to pull away. To rebuild her barriers. To—

“Your definition of ‘something real’ requires revision,” she said instead. “Preferably before you attempt any more experiments with gravity.”

“Says the girl who keeps her film set at morgue temperature.” A weak smile flickered across Enid’s face like distant lightning. “We're kind of a mess, aren't we?”

“Speak for yourself.” But Wednesday’s thumb traced gentle constellations across Enid’s knuckles. “I maintain perfect composure.”

“Liar.” Enid’s eyelids grew heavier, medication pulling her under the tide. “You're as scared as I am.”

Wednesday's spine straightened to steel. “I don’t experience—”

“Yes, you do.” Enid squeezed her hand. “It’s why you keep trying to step back. And why I keep... telling you to go. Because this is…” Her cast gestured vaguely between them. “It’s becoming real. And real things can…”

“Break?” The word escaped like air from a punctured lung.

“Yeah.” Enid’s gaze fixed on their joined hands. “I don’t want to be the thing that breaks you.”

Something beneath Wednesday’s ribs cracked open. “Bold of you to assume I can be broken.”

“Wednesday.” The way Enid shaped her name — gentle, concerned, knowing — made her want to run. Made her want to stay. Made her want impossible things. “We need to talk about... boundaries. After. When I’m not floating on whatever they put in my IV.”

“Naloxone.” Medical terminology offered safer ground than the rest. “Standard protocol for—”

“I mean it.” Enid’s eyes locked onto hers, sharp despite the medication haze. “About limits. About... not letting me pull you into my destruction. About you not letting me use you as... as another way to feel real.”

Wednesday’s throat constricted like a sealed vacuum chamber. “And if I refuse such boundaries?”

“Then you’re as reckless as I am.”" Enid's smile turned sad. “And one of us should probably have some sense.”

The door’s click interrupted whatever response might have formed. A nurse entered — the same one who’d led Wednesday here — carrying a clipboard and wearing the professional smile of someone who’d learned to expect resistance.

“Time for vitals check,” she announced, already moving toward the monitors. “How are we feeling, Miss Sinclair?”

Enid’s fingers clamped around Wednesday’s hand. A microscopic change, but Wednesday felt the tremor that raced through her. “Fine,” Enid managed. “Totally fine. Maybe we could skip—”

“Breathing seems elevated.” The nurse frowned at the monitor, reaching for Enid’s uninjured wrist. Her entire body went rigid.

“Don’t—” Enid tried to pull back, her heart rate spiking on the display. “I said I’m fine, you don’t need to—”

“Your oxygen saturation suggests otherwise.” Wednesday cut through Enid's rising panic, steady as absolute zero. She kept her hand exactly where Enid clutched it, didn’t acknowledge how those fingers now gripped hers like it was the only thing keeping her afloat. “Your dedication to medical misinformation remains impressive.”

Enid’s eyes snapped to her face. The nurse’s hands continued their work, but Enid barely seemed to register them now, focused entirely on Wednesday.

“Perhaps,” Wednesday continued, thumb drawing invisible fractals across Enid’s knuckles, “you’d care to explain your theory about Victorian recovery protocols? The one involving illegal ice shipments and questionable preservation methods?”

A shaky laugh escaped Enid’s lips. “You actually... remembered that?”

“Your enthusiastic decimation of historical accuracy proves difficult to forget.” Wednesday’s tone remained measured, clinical, even as her free hand moved to brush hair from Enid’s forehead. “Though your interpretation of morgue temperature regulations requires significant revision.”

The nurse worked around them, but Wednesday caught her noting Enid’s response. How her pulse had steadied, how the tension gradually leaked from her frame as Wednesday continued discussing increasingly absurd Victorian medical practices.

“There,” the nurse said finally, stepping back. “All done. Though I have to say,” she added with a knowing look between them, “this is the calmest you’ve been during checks.”

Pink bloomed across Enid’s cheeks. “Wednesday just has very strong opinions about proper corpse storage,” she mumbled, then immediately winced. “That sounded less weird in my head.”

The door sealed them back in artificial quiet, broken only by monitoring equipment. Wednesday watched exhaustion creep back into Enid's features, medication dragging her under despite her evident struggle.

“Stop fighting it,” Wednesday murmured, noting how Enid’s fingers still hadn't released their grip. "Your body requires rest to process the medication properly.”

“Don’t want to sleep.” Enid's words slurred, her eyes battling gravity again. “You might... might not be here when I wake up.”

Ice flooded Wednesday’s stomach. “I have no immediate obligations that require my attention.”

A lie.

“Promise?” Enid’s ocean eyes fixed on her face, raw as an exposed nerve. “Not gonna disappear? Even though I’m... even after I…”

“Your self-deprecating spiral lacks originality.” Wednesday's thumb resumed its path across Enid's knuckles. “Regardless, someone needs to prevent you from attempting elaborate Victorian-era escapes.”

A tired smile ghosted across Enid’s lips. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” she mumbled. “Not when the void finally... finally stayed.”

Her eyes drifted shut, then snapped open. Wednesday found herself leaning closer, pulled by laws of attraction she couldn't quantify. “Sleep, Enid. The monitors will keep tracking your questionable vital signs, and I’ll…” She recalibrated. “I’ll maintain my observational position.”

“Fancy way of saying... you’ll watch me breathe.” Enid's smile turned dreamlike, soft around the edges. “Like you have… have been.”

“You’re well aware it's purely scientific interest.” And yet Wednesday’s free hand had moved to Enid’s hair, fingers carding through it with a gentleness that startled them both. “Your previous data points required verification.”

Enid hummed, pressing into the touch. “Stay, void girl,” she whispered, already half-submerged in sleep. “Just... stay.”

“Sleep.” Wednesday’s voice dropped lower, almost hypnotic. “I’ll catalog your completely incorrect medical theories when you wake.”

“Promise?” The word floated like mist.

Wednesday’s fingers continued their gentle path through Enid’s hair. “Yes,” she breathed, watching Enid finally surrender to unconsciousness. “I promise.”

She stood motionless in the quiet, counting Enid’s breaths, trying to ignore how something fundamental had shifted between them. How her walls had developed more fractures in the exact shape of the girl who now slept peacefully under her touch.

The monitors beeped steadily, marking time in heartbeats, while Wednesday remained still — a shield between this impossible light she hadn’t meant to find and whatever darkness might try to claim it.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The void had teeth.

Wednesday’s fingers spasmed against the steering wheel, each knuckle cracking in sequence like ice breaking over a frozen lake. The night pressed against her windshield, its darkness writhing and snapping with shapes that shouldn’t exist outside of dreams. Her throat closed around a sound she refused to make — the same choked silence that had filled her lungs when Xavier had—

The speedometer needle quivered past eighty-five, just as it had that night. Xavier’s voice threaded through the rain-streaked darkness, each mortality statistic rolling off his tongue like a lover’s promise.

Montreal’s streets unfolded like a maze of dark veins pulsing with occasional bursts of light. Headlights swept across her windshield, carving white-toothed grins in the glass. Each flash burned against her retinas — bright, sharp, hungry — like Xavier’s teeth catching just before he’d—

The accelerator slammed under her heel, the engine screaming as buildings blurred away.

2:08 AM.

The dashboard clock’s red digits blazed through the darkness, each pulse syncing with the thunder in her chest. It had been two hours since she’d launched from sweat-soaked sheets, the scream still echoing off the walls of her Quebec City apartment. Her skin crawled with phantom touches, each nerve ending sparking with images that had torn her from sleep:

Xavier’s fingers circling Enid’s wrist. His whispers, carried on the wind, promises of beauty braided with pain…

Wednesday’s hands tightened around the steering wheel, leather creaking beneath clenched knuckles.

Focus on something else. Something real.

Like the black silk pajamas clinging to her skin, the sweat-dampened fabric catching on the seat. Or her bare feet cramping against unfamiliar pedals — no time for shoes, no time for anything but motion when the walls of her apartment had begun breathing with Xavier’s rhythm.

The car’s heater fought against the chill of autumn air, but couldn’t touch the ice spreading through her veins. Each highway sign marking the distance from home scraped against her rational mind: two hours of darkness, two hundred kilometers of pure instinct.

The wheel slipped through her fingers as muscle memory guided her onto Rue St-Denis. Apartment buildings surrounded her, their dark windows reflecting nothing but the starless sky — except there: apartment 13 leaked a golden glow through gauzy curtains, Montreal’s own 2 AM lighthouse.

Turning the key, the engine died with a shudder that rippled through the frame. Silence slammed against her eardrums, broken only by the ticking of metal cooling and the rush of blood past her temples.

Wednesday’s fingers traced the ignition once, twice, three times — each touch a potential retreat. The production schedule on her phone illuminated tomorrow’s routine: 8 AM meeting, 10 AM screen test, 2 PM location scout. Her throat constricted around the lie of normalcy.

Her phone vibrated against the console, the screen flaring blue-white in the darkness. Tyler’s name flashed above “chemistry reading tomorrow” — three words that sent acid rising in her throat. The phone registered each slight tremor of her fingers, showcasing the faded scars on her hands. Scars Xavier had traced with his camera lens, whispering about preservation and beauty while her skin split beneath his artistic vision.

Metal creaked as the car door swung wide. The chill of Montreal slashed through her silk pajamas, raising goosebumps across her skin. Barefeet hit the concrete, sending shockwaves up through her bones — one step, two steps, three — each footfall driving another nail into the coffin of professional distance. Of boundaries. Of safety.

2:19 AM.

The gold numbers on apartment 13’s door glinted like animal eyes. Wednesday’s heart slammed against her ribs, hard enough to bruise. A soft sound drifted under the footsteps — Enid’s voice humming that same Chopin nocturne she had played the night she had first met—

Wednesday’s knuckles pressed against her sternum, counting heartbeats: one-two-three, like a waltz tempo. Her hand lifted toward the door, fingers curling into a fist that shook as she closed the distance.

The door opened on protesting hinges. Lamplight spilled into the hallway, catching on Enid’s pink-tipped hair, each strand flickering like a separate flame. Shoulders tensed and then relaxed as her pupils dilated, dark waves that consumed bright blue as they fixed on Wednesday’s pajamas, on her bare feet against the carpet.

“Wednesday?” The name emerged in a sleep-rough rasp, sharpening with each heartbeat of silence. “What’s…”

Wednesday’s tongue pressed against her teeth, the practiced explanation dissolving before it could form. Her spine straightened under Enid’s gaze — a reflex, like prey spotted in open water.

But those eyes traced the shadows beneath Wednesday’s eyes, the bitten-raw edge of her bitten lip, the visible pulse hammering in her throat. Each point of observation sent electricity rippling across Wednesday’s skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“I…” The sound scraped past her vocal cords. Her fingers tangled in the silk hem, twisting until threads popped. “The production schedule requires—”

“Don’t.” Enid’s good hand reached out, hovering close between them. Heat radiated from her skin in waves, each one lapping against Wednesday’s chilled arms. “You’re shaking.”

Was she?

Wednesday’s gaze snapped to her hands, fingers twitching against the fabric. Point-zero-three centimeters of displacement. Her lips silently formed medical terminology: autonomic responses, sympathetic nervous system, somatic manifestations.

Each term built another wall between them.

“Hey.” Enid’s voice dropped to whisper. “Come inside?”

It wasn’t quite a question, nor a command either; it was a pull, something akin to gravity. Wednesday’s feet shifted on the carpet, one foot moving forward, then the other. In a beat, she crossed the threshold, drawn into the warmth of the apartment.

Light assaulted Wednesday's retinas — warm yellows bled into sunset-pink throw pillows while neon-green sticky notes created patterns across the margins of medical textbooks. Steam spiraled from a galaxy-painted mug. Hockey stick handles tangled with stunt pads in a chaotic splash of primary colors against the walls, each piece of equipment marked by scuff marks and scars of hard-earned practice. Everything tasted of coffee grounds, antiseptic, and something sweet — perhaps lip gloss, or hope.

“Your wrist.” Wednesday’s pupils contracted, focusing on the black fiberglass imprisoning Enid’s arm. The edge of the cast was pressed against her chest, creating a worn spot on the fabric of her shirt. “How is it—”

“Still attached.” Enid’s smile flickered, muscles tightening around her eyes. “Unlike my sanity after hours of therapy.” She rolled her shoulder forward, creating a protective curve. The cast pressed deeper into her sternum, marking pain in cotton wrinkles.

“But that's not why you’re here at 2 AM, looking like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Ghosts are much more predictable.” Wednesday’s pulse drummed in her throat. “Their motivations tend to be straightforward — revenge, unfinished business, the occasional real estate dispute…”

Enid laughed softly. “Only you would categorize types of haunting.” Her fingers brushed against Wednesday's sleeve. “You’re freezing.”

The silk rippled under Enid’s touch, only one point of contact but heat still burned to Wednesday’s skin. Her feet remained rooted, yet her body swayed forward like a compass finding true north. Her stomach contracted, muscles recalling what distance had forgotten.

“I shouldn’t—” A metallic tang coated Wednesday's tongue. “This is highly unprofessional and—”

“When's the last time you slept?” Enid’s thumb traced circles on the silk. Each rotation sparked new sensations. “Actually slept, not just passed out over production notes?”

Wednesday’s teeth ground together. “Sleep is inefficient.”

“Not an answer, void girl.”

The nickname cracked something open within her. Wednesday’s eyes caught how the moonlight glinted in Enid’s hair, turning from pink to silver. How shadows collected in the hollow of her throat. How so much life thrummed in that singular pulse point, despite everything.

(Bathroom tiles. Winter-white skin. Pulse stuttering beneath desperate fingers—)

“You died.” The words burst forth. “In the dream. He—”

Enid’s eyes flashed mercury-bright as her fingers slid down to intertwine with Wednesday’s

“Come on.” Her whisper resonated to bone. “Let’s get you warm. Find you real clothes.”

Professional distance was eight steps back. Safety lay behind car doors and city limits and—

Her fingers tightened around Enid’s.

The bedroom looked exactly like Wednesday imagined — mint walls fading into lavender curtains, coral throw pillows scattered across unmade sheets. Plastic stars dotted the ceiling, their glow forming patterns that defied known astronomical charts. Medical journals towered on the nightstand, pink tabs bristling like warning flags.

“Here.” Enid’s fingers slipped from Wednesday's, and air rushed into the space between their palms. The dresser drawers scraped open, clothes rustling until a piece of black emerged. “It’s from my old team. And the only thing I own that might meet your... aesthetic requirements.”

Wednesday’s fingers caught the fabric. Soft. Worn. Still carrying traces of that impossible strawberry scent that clung to everything Enid touched.

Enid’s smile wavered as she sank onto the mattress. Her legs folded in a practiced sequence — right knee first, then left, her cast hovering above the pastel sheets. Muscles around her eyes tensed with each minor adjustment. Her spine curved, shoulders rotating to cradle her injury without word.

“You planning to stand there all night?” Enid’s hand patted the mattress beside her. “Or are you going to tell me why you're really here?”

Wednesday’s throat tightened. She slipped the hoodie over her silk pajamas, buying precious seconds to regain her composure. But being enveloped by Enid’s scent clouded her thoughts.

“The production schedule—”

“Stop.” Enid’s voice cut soft but solid. “You didn’t drive two hours in pajamas just because of shot lists.”

Wednesday’s feet scraped against the carpet, three steps to the bed’s edge. The mattress dipped, springs adjusting as Enid shifted closer, not quite touching but near enough for Wednesday to feel her warmth.

“In my dream,” she began hesitantly, “you were on the morgue set. With... him.”

Enid remained perfectly still beside her, waiting. Patient in a way Wednesday didn’t feel she deserved.

“Your eyes…” Wednesday’s fingers intertwined together, knuckles whitening. “They were… empty glass. Formaldehyde pale. While he was teaching you his methods of… preservation. How to make pain beautiful. You were smiling, but your eyes…” Her lungs caught against her ribs, air refusing to move.

“Wednesday…” Enid’s fingers threaded through hers, applying gentle pressure to her trembling joints.

“It’s irrational—” Words scraped out. “You’ve never even met him. He’s been gone for years. The statistical probability of—”

“Hey.” Enid’s thumb traced circles on Wednesday’s skin. “Look at me?”

Wednesday’s jaw locked, her gaze shifting to their hands instead — studying Enid’s warm fingers against her winter-pale ones.

“I’m right here,” Enid whispered. “Very much alive. Very much myself. And definitely not preserved in anything except maybe coffee and spite.”

Something caught in Wednesday's throat — half-laugh, half-sob. “Your humor is questionable.”

“You're almost smiling.” Enid pressed her shoulder against Wednesday’s, solid solid and muscle. “Want to tell me about him?”

“No.” The word snapped out before breath could catch it.

“Okay.” Enid relaxed her shoulders and settled her cast across her thighs. “How about the new scenes you’re blocking instead?”

“Your landing sequence needs adjustment.” Wednesday’s thumb traced circles on Enid's palm. “The angle creates unnecessary strain on your—” She glanced at the cast. “On certain joints.”

“I’ve been preparing for the modified version.” Enid’s voice quickened with excitement. “I’m rolling through instead of taking direct impact. Like that old hockey move where—” She stopped, eyes latching to Wednesday’s face. “What?”

“Your orthopedic reports indicated extensive complications.” Her consonants sharpened. “Yet you’re already working on advanced maneuvers.”

Enid’s smile flickered, tension tightening around her eyes. “I’m being careful! Besides, the production schedule—”

“Is irrelevant compared to your recovery.” Wednesday pressed her fingers into Enid’s palm. “The sequence can be delayed. Or modified. Or—”

“Hey.” Enid twisted slightly, her knees brushing against Wednesday's thigh. “The movie matters, Wednesday. Your movie. When’s the last time you discussed it without worrying about…” Her laugh came out sharp as she tapped the fiberglass. “About all this.”

Wednesday’s jaw worked silently. “The film’s artistic integrity is not my primary—”

“It should be.” Enid’s fingers hovered near Wednesday’s cheek, warmth radiating across the gap. “You used to light up discussing Victorian preservation techniques. Now you only... calculate risks. Ever since I…” Her voice cracked. “Since you found me…”

“Because you nearly—” Wednesday’s vocal cords seized.

“But I didn’t.” Enid tightened her grip. “I’m still here. And I promise — no more secrets. No more hiding injuries or pain or... anything. Even if it makes me look weak, or—”

“Weak?” Wednesday's spine straightened. Her eyes finally met Enid’s. “You think surviving trauma makes you weak?”

“I—”

“You competed professionally with multiple fractures. Performed stunts while processing a past that would destroy lesser beings. Fought your way through addiction and yet…” Her free hand trembled as it lifted to trace Enid’s jawline. “You shine brighter every day. Do not confuse bravery for weakness.”

Tears caught starlight in Enid’s eyes, refracting across her lashes. “Wednesday…”

“You turn mortality rates into music,” Wednesday replied, her words splintering at their edges. “You turn medical journals into art. You find light in the darkest places. And I…” Her thumb gently caught a tear tracking down Enid's cheek. “I refuse to watch you dim yourself for anyone. Not even for me.”

A shaky laugh escaped Enid. “Even if I decorated the morgue props with glitter?”

“Even then.” Wednesday's mouth curled up at one corner. “Historical influences can withstand—”

“There’s my void girl,” Enid said, her smile widening despite the tears. “The same one who spent three hours lecturing the props department about proper Victorian blood storage.”

“I mean it though.” Enid’s smile faded, her features softening. “No more hiding things. No more pushing through injuries or…” She swallowed hard. “Or trying to handle everything alone. Even the small stuff.”

Wednesday traced Enid’s cheekbone with her thumb, mapping its curve. “Specify.”

“You know, like when my wrist hurts during blocking, or if I’m tired, or…” Enid leaned into the touch. “If the dark gets too loud some nights.”

“And in return?”

“In return, you start focusing on what matters.” Enid placed her good hand over Wednesday’s where it rested against her face. “This film is your vision, Wednesday. Your beautiful, twisted, perfectly macabre vision. And you’ve been so busy watching me that you’ve forgotten to enjoy creating it.”

“I haven’t forgotten—”

“When’s the last time you got excited about a preservation scene?” Enid’s thumb brushed across Wednesday’s knuckles. “Or spent hours adjusting the chamber temperature? Or threatened the lighting department with crime statistics?”

Wednesday opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“Exactly.” Enid’s voice softened. “I want my gothic void girl back. The one who makes death beautiful. I promise to be there every step of the way, be honest about my limits, and follow proper medical protocols…” A slight smile played on her lips. “Mostly.”

“Mostly?” Wednesday raised an eyebrow.

“Well, I can’t promise to stop decorating the medical documents with heart doodles. That’s just part of my process now.”

Despite herself, Wednesday felt the corner of her mouth twitch. “Your artistic interpretations of vital organs are unique.”

“Also…” Enid’s gaze flicked to her cast and then back. “I've been thinking about the commute. Since I can't drive for a while and the production schedule is getting more intense…” Her breath caught. “I was looking at apartments in Quebec City. Just temporarily, you know? To make things easier.”

Wednesday’s muscles tensed, starting at her spine. Her fingers stilled their movement on Enid’s cheek as numbers formed in her mind: driving distances, proximity to medical facilities, housing availability rates—

“Stay with me.”

The words struck air before the calculations were complete. Enid’s pupils dilated, her irises shrinking to thin blue rings.

“I have a spare room—” Wednesday’s throat muscles tightened as she recalibrated. “The building has a proper elevator, unlike this architectural nightmare. The hospital is exactly 7.2 minutes away. And the temperature controls are…” She swallowed hard. “Adequate.”

“Yes.”

Wednesday’s pulse quickened against her throat. “Yes?”

“Yes, I’ll stay.” Enid’s smile spread like the dawn. “Yes, I’ll be honest about everything. And yes…” Her eyes brightened to a summer-sky blue. “I’ll help you make this film exactly as horrifyingly beautiful as you imagined. No more letting fear dim the void.”

A surge of warmth ignited under Wednesday’s ribs. “Your metaphors need work.”

“And yet your fingers are still tangled with mine.” Enid’s voice became lighter. “And that’s definitely a smile.”

The café resembled what Wednesday imagined the inside of a unicorn’s stomach might look like — assuming unicorns had a severe Pepto-Bismol addiction.

Pink assaulted every surface: the walls, the chairs, even the ceiling were painted in various shades of rose and blush that made her retinas burn. Heart-shaped fairy lights draped across exposed beams, twinkling with a kind of artificial cheer that felt more like psychological warfare.

“Isn’t it perfect?” Enid practically vibrated beside her, her good hand gesturing at the pastel nightmare surrounding them.

“If by ‘perfect’ you mean ‘an architectural manifestation of everything wrong with modern society,’ then yes.” Wednesday narrowed her eyes at a particularly offensive mural of frolicking woodland creatures. “Though I suppose it could serve as an excellent study in methods of visual torture.”

Enid’s laugh echoed, drawing curious glances from nearby patrons. “You’re just mad because there isn’t a single black surface in the entire building.”

“An oversight bordering on criminal negligence.” Wednesday’s gaze caught Enid’s fingers trembling slightly as she pushed her pink-tipped hair behind her ear. A subtle tell, but one that raised warning signals in Wednesday’s mind, which she promptly noted for later analysis.

They approached the counter, where a barista wearing a tiara made from coffee beans beamed at them with unsettling enthusiasm. The menu board behind her looked like it had been attacked by a glitter bomb, with each drink name more horrifying than the last.

“The usual for me,” Enid chirped, then turned to Wednesday with a grin that spelled trouble. “And she'll have—”

“Black coffee.” Wednesday cut in before Enid could subject her to whatever sugar-laden monstrosity she had in mind. “The darkest roast available. Preferably something that could strip paint.”

“Boring,” Enid sing-songed, but her smile held a softness that made Wednesday’s stomach flip. “You should try my caramel macchiato sometime. It’s like drinking happiness!”

“I prefer my beverages without the risk of immediate diabetes onset.” Still, Wednesday found herself tracking how Enid swayed ever-so-slightly — a slight unsteadiness that most people wouldn’t notice. But Wednesday wasn’t most people, and Enid...

Well, that was a hypothesis she wasn’t ready to test.

They claimed a corner table, with Wednesday positioning herself to maintain optimal sight lines of both exits (purely tactical, of course). Enid collapsed into her chair without her usual grace, though she masked it with a bright smile.

“So,” Enid began, fingers drumming against her cast. “About last night…”

Wednesday’s throat tightened as memories of silk pajamas and midnight drives, of walls crumbling beneath ocean-deep eyes flooded back. “Yes,” she managed, voice carefully neutral. “I suppose we should discuss… that.”

“You know,” Enid ventured, taking a sip that left a smudge of whipped cream on her upper lip, “most people just text when they have nightmares. They don’t usually drive two hours in silk pajamas.”

“I don’t subscribe to what ‘most people’ do.”

“Clearly.” Enid’s smile softened any sting from the word. “But I have to say, you showing up at my door like some romance heroine? Not exactly what I expected for our first sleepover.”

“I—” Wednesday hesitated. How could she explain that Enid’s apartment had been the only place that felt safe? That the nightmare had left her raw and trembling, and somehow her body had known where to find shelter? “The timing was... circumstantial.”

“Right.” Enid’s good hand inched across the table, almost touching Wednesday's, their warmth mingling. “Because everyone drives through the night just... circumstantially.”

“The human brain’s capacity for seeking comfort remains fascinating.” Wednesday’s voice came out smaller than she hoped. “Perhaps I should document the experience — ‘The Effects of Emotional Displacement on—’”

“Wednesday.” Just her name, spoken with such tender understanding, cracking something open in Wednesday’s chest. “You came to me.”

Wednesday tightened her grip around the cup until the ceramic protested. “I... the nightmare... it felt—”

“Real?” Enid’s thumb brushed Wednesday’s knuckles, feather-light. “Like when you found me in the bathroom?”

Wednesday’s breath caught. Images flashed behind her eyes: pink hair spread across white tile, skin cold as winter glass, pulse fluttering beneath her fingers. “That was different.”

“Was it?” Enid’s voice softened further. “Because I remember pieces — how you held me, how your voice shook when you ordered me to stay, the things you promised if I’d just open my eyes…”

“You were conscious for that?” Heat rose in Wednesday’s neck.

“Semi-conscious.” Enid’s smile glimmered “Kept drifting in and out. But I remember... your hands, trembling as you wiped my face, the way you counted my breaths like they were precious things.” She paused, something vulnerable flickering across her features. “How you sounded when you begged me not to leave you.”

“I don’t beg,” Wednesday managed, though her voice cracked.

“No?” Enid’s fingers intertwined with hers. “So you didn’t promise to let me highlight all your first editions? Even the Poe collection?”

Wednesday’s lips parted, then closed. The memory of those desperate promises burned on her tongue.

“Temporary insanity brought on by sleep deprivation.”

“If you say so, void girl.” Enid’s thumb traced absent patterns on Wednesday’s skin. “Though maybe that’s another reason why you came last night? You needed to make sure I was still here? Still…” She swallowed hard. “Still yours to keep safe?”

Wednesday’s mind short-circuited, every carefully crafted response dissolving under the warmth of Enid’s touch. The scientific part of her brain tried to catalog this reaction — elevated heart rate, compromised verbal functions, and an unauthorized flutter in her stomach — but even that analysis faltered when Enid’s thumb drew another pattern across her skin.

“I simply…” Wednesday cleared her throat, searching for composure that had apparently taken an extended leave of absence. “Your apartment provided adequate shelter from the storm.”

“The storm that started after you arrived?” Enid’s eyes lit up dangerously. “Very practical.”

“Environmental conditions are—” Wednesday's words died as she finally noticed the whipped cream still clinging to Enid’s upper lip. Her fingers twitched with the inexplicable urge to reach across and wipe it away. For hygiene purposes. Obviously.

“Are what?” Enid tilted her head, golden strands falling across her face in a way that made Wednesday’s stomach tighten. “You’re staring at my mouth.”

“You have…” Wednesday gestured vaguely, frustrated at her sudden struggle with motor functions. “There’s whipped cream…”

“Oh?” That impossible smile widened. “Where exactly?”

Wednesday’s throat went dry. This was ridiculous. She had spent three hours explaining embalming techniques to the props department last week. She could certainly handle a simple observation about facial hygiene.

“Your upper lip requires attention,” she managed to say, immediately regretting her choice of words as Enid’s eyes burned with unholy glee.

“Does it now?” Enid leaned forward, that cream mustache a declaration of war against Wednesday’s sanity. “And are you offering to take care of it?

A strangled sound escaped Wednesday's throat — one that would not be documented in any future records of this conversation. “That’s not— I merely meant—”

“Because you know,” Enid continued, clearly enjoying Wednesday’s rapidly deteriorating composure, “you promised to let me corrupt all your first editions. Seems only fair you get something in return.”

The café’s temperature must have malfunctioned because Wednesday’s face was definitely burning. She reached for her coffee cup, only to find it mysteriously empty. When had that happened?

“Your tendency toward chaos extends to basic dining etiquette,” she said finally, proud that her voice remained mostly steady. “It’s... distracting.”

“Is it just the etiquette that’s distracting?” Enid's free hand rose to her lip, deliberately wiping away the cream with her finger befor popping itinto her mouth. “Or is there something else catching your attention, void girl?”

Wednesday’s brain temporarily stalled, rendering her speechless. She watched, helpless, as Enid’s tongue darted out to catch a missed spot, pink like the tips of her hair and infinitely more dangerous.

“I…” Words. She needed words — any words. Preferably in a coherent order. “Your... medical journal organization requires review.”

Enid’s laugh filled the space between them, bright and impossibly fond. “Only you would deflect gay panic with study suggestions.”

“I don’t panic,” Wednesday protested automatically, even as her heart performed increasingly complex stutters. “I simply maintain... professional interest in your... academic progress.”

“Mhm.” Enid’s eyes glowed like sunlight on ocean waves. “Very professional. That’s definitely why you’re wearing my hoodie and holding my hand.”

Wednesday glanced down at their intertwined fingers, noting how Enid’s warmth seemed to seep into her perpetually cold skin. The contrast fascinated her — like watching sunrise bleed into midnight. She needed to pull away. She needed to reconstruct those walls. She needed to—

“You’re doing that thing again,” Enid murmured, tracing another maddening pattern across the back of Wednesday’s hand with her thumb.

“What thing?” Wednesday’s voice emerged soft.

“Where you try to turn everything into a scientific observation.” Enid’s smile was painfully tender. “Like if you categorize it properly, maybe it won’t feel so…”

She trailed off, leaving the unspoken end lingering between them. Wednesday’s throat tightened around all the things she couldn’t say — how Enid had slipped through every crack, how she had painted Wednesday’s grayscale world in impossible colors, how the thought of losing her made breathing feel like drowning.

“Your hypothesis lacks sufficient evidence,” she managed to say, though she made no move to reclaim her hand.

“Does it?” Enid tilted her head. “Because you’re still wearing my hoodie. And you drove in the night to find me. And now you’re sitting in this pink nightmare of a café, letting me hold your hand while I corrupt your coffee with happiness.”

“I don’t let you do anything.” But Wednesday’s lips betrayed her, curving slightly. “You simply... happen. Like a particularly persistent natural disaster.”

“A disaster you, once again, drove two hours to see.” Enid’s eyes blazed with something dangerous yet bright. “In pajamas.”

“Perhaps I’m developing Stockholm Syndrome.” Wednesday’s thumb brushed across Enid’s pulse point, moving of its own accord. “A concerning side effect of prolonged exposure to… your light.”

“Is that what this is?” Enid’s voice softened, though her smile remained. “Because sometimes, when you look at me like that, it feels like…”

She paused, something vulnerable flickering across her face. Wednesday’s heart performed a series of increasingly complex flips. They were stepping too close to the edge of... whatever this was. This impossible thing growing between them, too fragile to name but too powerful to deny.

“Like what?”

Enid’s eyes met hers, ocean-deep and full of terrifying possibility. “Like maybe I’m not the only one who—” She swallowed hard. “Who finds themselves calculating the exact distance between Quebec City and Montreal. Who memorizes the precise shade of someone’s eyes. Who keeps reaching for…”

She gestured vaguely between them with her cast. Wednesday watched a blush creep up Enid’s neck, painting her skin in shades of dawn.

“For what, exactly?” Wednesday’s voice emerged rough, her fingers tightening around Enid’s as something molten and terrifying bloomed in her chest. “What are you reaching for?”

“I think you know,” Enid murmured, shifting slightly in her seat.

“Perhaps.” Wednesday’s eyes fixed on their joined hands. “But precision in methodology is crucial for accurate results.”

A soft laugh escaped Enid. “Even now, you’re trying to make it scientific.” Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. “Very void girl of you.”

“Science provides structure.” Wednesday’s thumb traced absent patterns on Enid’s wrist. “Unlike certain pink-and-blue-haired chaos agents who insist on disrupting every careful calculation with their…” She nodded vaguely at Enid. “Their impossible light.”

“My light?” Enid’s fingers twitched almost imperceptibly against hers.

“You infect everything.” The words spilled out before Wednesday could catch them, unleashing a flood she couldn’t control. “Like some sort of psychological pathogen, first it was just the medical texts — which you’ve ruined, by the way, no proper scholar uses heart-shaped sticky notes — but then…” She swallowed hard. “Then it spread.”

Enid's free hand slipped beneath the table, but her smile remained steady.

“The morgue set first. You made preservation feel like poetry instead of science. Drew anatomical diagrams with ribbons, quoted Victorian medical journals while doing impossible spins on the ice. You started infecting my careful documentation with your chaos until—”

“Wends—” Enid’s voice came out quieter than usual, but Wednesday was lost now, drowning in admissions she couldn’t stop.

“Until suddenly I'm categorizing different shades of pink. Calculating the statistical probability of your smile appearing at exact moments. Memorizing the precise angle of light needed to make your eyes look like summer storms. And my apartment—” She released a shaky breath. “You’ve completely corrupted my apartment.”

Enid leaned back slightly, her cast resting against her stomach.

“There are medical journals everywhere. I kept yours, with pink sticky notes marking the pages I’ve already memorized. Yet your annotations make me see them differently. Actual glitter has imprinted on my preservation tools. Do you know what that does to historical accuracy? And yet—”

The pressure of Enid’s fingers against Wednesday's hand lessened almost imperceptibly.

“And yet I find myself keeping your coffee order stocked. That ridiculous sugary concoction that defies basic chemistry. I’m buying throw pillows. Throw pillows, Enid, because you once told me that all couches need ‘softening,’ as if furniture requires emotional adjustment. I’ve started making notes about room temperature regulation because you mentioned being cold that one time, and somehow your comfort has become a variable I can't stop calculating—”

A strand of pink-tipped hair fell forward as Enid’s head tilted slightly.

“You’ve invaded every careful defense. Every protocol. Every…” Wednesday’s voice caught. “The void used to be quiet. Organized. And now it’s full of your laugh, and those ridiculous doodles, and the way you make death feel like... like something worth living for. Until I can’t remember why I built these walls in the first place. Until I—”

Enid’s hand slipped from hers completely, settling in her lap.

“Until I find myself driving through the night because my bed feels too empty without you beside me. Until I’m letting you destroy priceless first editions because your handwriting somehow makes them more valuable. Until I’m sitting in this offensive establishment, drinking coffee that tastes nothing like happiness, despite your clearly compromised taste buds, all because you—”

Wednesday finally looked up, really looked, and the words died in her throat as she took in Enid’s pallor, the slight tremor in her shoulders, the way her ocean eyes had gone distant and glassy.

“Enid?”

Alarm clawed up Wednesday’s throat as she watched Enid blink slowly, like someone surfacing from deep water. “Are you alright?”

“Mm?” Enid’s smile flickered back to life, though it wavered at the edges. “Oh, sorry. Just zoned out for a second. You were saying something about my terrible taste in beverages?”

“You’re pale.” Wednesday’s eyes narrowed, medical knowledge spinning through her mind. “And your hand is—”

“I’m always pale compared to you,” Enid attempted a laugh that didn’t quite land. “Must be all that time in the morgue set. The void is rubbing off.”

Wednesday’s gaze dropped to where Enid's cast pressed against her middle. “You’re holding your stomach.”

“Am I?” Enid glanced down as if surprised to find her own arm there. “Oh. Yeah, just a stomachache. Nothing major.”

“I get them all the time,” Enid waved her good hand dismissively, though Wednesday noticed it tremble. “It’s a side effect of living off Red Bull and protein bars during hockey season. Ask Yoko — she has a whole lecture about my ‘concerning relationship with proper meal schedules.’”

Wednesday leaned forward, scrutinizing every micro-expression on Enid’s face. “Perhaps we should—”

“It happens all the time,” Enid interrupted, waving her off with her good hand, though the movement seemed to cost her. “Just another thing about being an athlete, honestly. I’m pretty sure my stomach’s been plotting revenge since juniors.” She gently patted her stomach to emphasize her point, hoping Wednesday wouldn’t notice the instinctive wince that crossed her face.

Wednesday’s jaw tightened. “That’s not a compelling argument for—”

“Hey.” Enid’s voice gentled, though something flickered in her eyes. “I’m fine. I promise. Just need to…” She shifted in her seat, her cast sliding against the table. “Actually, speaking of revenge plots, I should probably visit the bathroom. Be right back?”

“Enid—”

But Enid was already rising, her movements careful and measured, setting off warning signals in Wednesday’s mind. “Don’t go anywhere, void girl. We still need to discuss… everything.”

Wednesday watched her weave between tables, noting how Enid’s uninjured hand traced the backs of each chair she passed and how her shoulders remained too straight, too careful. Everything inside Wednesday urged her to follow, to verify, to calculate the exact probabilities of—

But Enid had asked for space. She had promised honesty about her limits and swore there would be no more secrets.

Still, as Wednesday’s eyes followed Enid’s path toward the back hallway, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing something vital — some crucial variable in an equation she couldn’t quite solve.

Wednesday tracked time in heartbeats, each one marking the growing distance between Enid’s departure and her promised return. The café’s artificial cheer seemed to intensify in her absence, the pink walls closing in like the chambers of a candy-coated iron maiden.

One hundred and forty-seven beats.

Her fingers drummed against the ceramic cup, now cold and empty, echoing the void growing in her chest. She noticed her hands were shaking — when had that started? She forced them still, wrapping them around the cup until her knuckles turned white.

Two hundred and twelve beats.

The bathroom door hadn’t reopened.

Images flashed through her mind: Enid’s pallor growing more pronounced with each passing minute, the careful way she had held herself, how her smile had cracked at the edges when she had insisted it was “nothing major.”

Two hundred and eighty-nine beats.

Something’s wrong.

The thought crystallized with the certainty of rigor mortis settling in. Wednesday’s gaze remained fixed on that closed door, recalling another bathroom, another night when Enid had concealed her pain behind smiles that never reached her eyes. When she’d found her collapsed against the porcelain, pink hair spread like watercolors bleeding into violence...

Three hundred and forty-one beats.

Her chair scraped against the tile as she stood, the sound piercing through the café’s cheerful ambiance. Each step toward the hallway felt like wading through formaldehyde — slow, viscous, preserving every detail of this moment with perfect clarity: the way her pulse hammered against her ribs, how her throat tightened around possibilities she struggled to name, the exact shade of pink that painted the walls the same color as Enid’s hair...

Three hundred and ninety-four beats.

The bathroom door stood before her, its surface reflecting the café’s twinkling fairy lights like stars gone awry. Wednesday’s hand hovered over the handle, remembering Enid’s promises of honesty, of no more secrets, of allowing someone in...

(But some habits are harder to break than bones.)

Four hundred and twenty-seven beats.

The sound hit her first — harsh, wet retching that twisted her stomach. Then came the shuffling, the quiet whimper that Enid tried to suppress, the sound of someone desperately struggling to hold themselves together while falling apart.

Wednesday’s hand closed around the handle.

“Enid?”

Silence answered, broken only by ragged breathing and what might have been a muffled curse.

“I’m fine!” Enid’s voice cracked around the lie. “Just... just give me a minute. Everything’s totally—”

The rest faded into another round of retching.

Wednesday’s fingers tightened on the handle until the metal bit into her skin. “I’m coming in.”

“No, don’t—”

But Wednesday was already moving, calculating probable causes and analyzing variables, and trying desperately not to remember the last time she’d found Enid collapsed in a bathroom, trying not to hear that pulse fading beneath her fingers...

The door succumbed to her touch.

And there was Enid — her impossible, infuriating Enid — curled around the toilet as if it were the only thing keeping her upright, pink-tipped hair falling in a curtain around her face as she heaved. Her cast pressed against her stomach, white-knuckled fingers gripping the porcelain, her entire body trembling from the effort from suppressing whatever pain she had tried to mask with smiles and deflections.

Something in Wednesday's chest shattered.

“Oh, void girl.” Enid managed a weak laugh that dissolved into a groan. “This isn’t... exactly how I planned our first date to go.”

The door clicked shut behind Wednesday with a quiet finality. Without conscious thought, she dropped to her knees beside Enid, her fingers gently gathering the loose strands of golden hair, a touch that surprised them both.

“So much for my master plan,” Enid mumbled between shaky breaths. “Guess this ruins my chances of getting that first kiss, huh?”

Wednesday’s thumb traced absent circles against Enid’s neck, measuring her pulse while pretending not to notice how it quickened at the contact. “Your timing remains impressively terrible.”

“Story of my life.” Enid’s attempt at laughter dissolved into another wave of heaving. Wednesday held her hair back while other hand settled between her shoulder blades for support. “God, this is so not sexy.”

“Because that was clearly my primary concern.” Still, Wednesday’s touch remained impossibly gentle as she braced Enid. Her mind raced through medical protocols, even as her heart twisted at each pained sound Enid tried to stifle. “How long has this been happening?”

“Would you believe me if I said just now?” Enid's forehead pressed against the cool porcelain, eyes squeezed shut. “Total coincidence. Completely unrelated to—” She cut herself off with a grimace, cast pressing harder against her stomach.

Wednesday’s free hand moved to Enid’s other wrist, counting beats against her skin. “Your dedication to deflection is both impressive and entirely ineffective.”

“Yeah?” Enid’s smile was pale yet present. “Like how you’re pretending you're not worried?”

“I’m merely collecting data again.” Despite her words, Wednesday’s fingers brushed tenderly against Enid’s sweat-dampened forehead. “Your persistent attempts at humor while clearly unwell suggest concerning psychological patterns.”

“It’s called coping, my love.” Enid leaned into the touch, despite herself. “Besides, someone has to keep things light while you’re planning my autopsy.”

Something dangerous and protective surged in Wednesday’s chest. “That’s not—” She swallowed hard, recalibrating. “We should get you home.”

“Trying to get me into bed already?” Enid smirked, then immediately winced. “Okay, maybe not my best timing.”

“Your dedication to inappropriate commentary while experiencing severe gastrointestinal distress is…” Wednesday’s voice softened unexpectedly. “Uniquely you.”

“Aw, you say the sweetest things.” Enid attempted to sit up, but swayed dangerously. Wednesday's arm slipped around her waist, steadying her with an instinct that felt both perilous and necessary. “Though I have to say, this probably isn’t what you meant when you talked about holding me.”

Wednesday’s grip tightened slightly. “Can you stand?”

“Probably?” Enid’s head dropped to Wednesday’s shoulder, her breath warm against her neck. “Though fair warning, my legs feel about as stable as Tyler’s acting career.”

Despite everything, Wednesday's lips twitched. “Perhaps we should avoid career-ending injuries in a public restroom.”

“Better leave that to the ice rink, huh?” Enid replied, but she didn’t resist as Wednesday carefully helped her to her feet, one arm securely around her waist. “My hero, saving me from death by bathroom tile. Again.”

“Your theatrical tendencies remain intact, I see.” Wednesday's lips tightened, trying to ignore the joke, but her touch stayed gentle as she supported Enid’s weight. “Though perhaps we could continue this performance somewhere with better lighting and significantly less risk of bacterial infection?”

“Taking me home already?” Enid's smile was tired but genuine. “And here I thought you weren’t that kind of girl.”

“I’m taking you home to receive proper medical attention,” Wednesday corrected, though her cheeks warmed traitorously. “After which, we will discuss your concerning habit of hiding symptoms until they become emergencies.”

“Mm, sexy. Tell me more about your medical protocols.”

“Enid.”

“Sorry.” Enid’s head dropped back to Wednesday's shoulder as they made their way toward the door. “Defense mechanism. Makes the whole ‘ruining our first date by puking my guts out’ thing feel less mortifying.”

Wednesday’s thumb traced absent patterns against Enid's hip as she helped her forward. “Bold of you to assume this qualifies as a date.”

“No?” Even pale and shaking, Enid managed to sound playful. “Because I distinctly remember you holding my hand and waxing poetic about how I’ve infected your void with my light.”

The drive passed in a blur of rain-slicked streets and Wednesday calculating the shortest route back to Enid’s apartment. Every few minutes, her eyes flicked to Enid curled up in the passenger seat, head pressed against the cool window, fingers tracing absent patterns on her cast. Each streetlight painted her skin in sickly shades that made Wednesday’s heart clench.

“Your concern is showing,” Enid murmured without opening her eyes, her lips curved in a ghost of her usual smile.

“Your deflection is showing,” Wednesday countered, but her hand found Enid’s knee, steadying her as they turned onto her street.

The apartment lights were on when they arrived, warm gold spilling across the parking lot. Wednesday’s arm slipped around Enid’s waist automatically as they walked inside, her touch gentle but firm — ready to catch her at the slightest stumble.

They found Yoko sprawled across the couch, hockey plays creating a fortress around her. She glanced up as they entered, her eyes catching on their joined stance before she rolled dramatically. “Please tell me you didn’t throw up on a date again.”

“Excuse you,” Enid protested weakly, still leaning heavily against Wednesday. “I’ll have you know this time was completely different.”

“Oh?” Yoko’s eyebrow arched. “Do tell.”

“This time, I made it to the bathroom.” Enid’s grin was tired but triumphant. “Progress!”

Wednesday’s arm tightened imperceptibly around her waist. “Your definition of progress needs serious revision.”

“See?” Enid's head dropped onto Wednesday’s shoulder. “She’s not even mad that I ruined our chance at a first kiss. Unlike Maxim, who—”

“That’s because this one is actually worried about you,” Yoko interrupted, a knowing look in her eyes as she observed Wednesday unconsciously adjust her grip to better support Enid. “Unlike his designer shoes.”

“I’m merely monitoring a concerning medical situation,” Wednesday replied automatically, even as her thumb traced protective circles against Enid’s hip.

“Right. Again.” Yoko’s smile turned sly. “That’s why you’re holding her like she might disappear if you let go.”

“Proper support is crucial for—”

“She’s got you there, Wed.” Enid leaned closer, practically melting into Wednesday’s side. “You’re being very hands-on with your medical observation.”

“Um, what happened to keeping it in the bedroom?” Yoko snorted. “But seriously… someone has to,” she then added, her voice just loud enough to be heard. “Since someone keeps skipping meals and then wonders why her stomach rebels.”

Wednesday felt Enid stiffen slightly against her, though her voice remained light. “Hey! I ate breakfast!”

“Caramel macchiatos are not a food group,” Wednesday and Yoko chimed in unison.

“Betrayed by my own void girl.” Enid clutched her chest dramatically. “Et tu, Wednesday?”

“Your theatrical tendencies suggest you have enough energy for proper nutrition,” Wednesday observed, yet her touch remained gentle as she guided Enid toward her room. “Perhaps we should continue this performance after you’ve actually rested?”

“Only if you promise to stay and make sure I follow doctor’s orders.” The words were playful, but something vulnerable flickered behind Enid’s eyes. “For science, obviously.”

“Obviously.” Wednesday’s lips twitched despite herself. “Though your definition of ‘science’ is questionable at best."

“That’s gay panic in medical terms,” Yoko called after them. “In case anyone was wondering.”

“You’re just jealous that she likes my void eyes better than your explosion patterns,” Wednesday found herself saying, evoking delighted laughter from both Enid and Yoko.

“Oh my god.” Enid pressed her face into Wednesday’s neck. “She makes jokes now. I’ve completely corrupted you.”

“A concerning side effect of prolonged exposure.”

“You love it,” Enid mumbled, already half-asleep against her shoulder.

Wednesday said nothing but tightened her arm slightly around Enid’s waist as she helped her toward the bedroom. Behind them, Yoko let out a quiet sigh — relief mixed with something that resembled old worry.

“Hey, Wednesday?” Yoko called just before they disappeared down the hall. “Can you make sure she actually eats something later? When she can keep it down?”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Enid protested.

“Of course not.” Wednesday’s tone was neutral, but her mind was already cataloging patterns: the way Enid had pushed food around her plate during rehearsals, how she’d avoided planned dinners with perfectly crafted excuses, the way she’d document— “Still, proper nutrition is crucial for optimal performance.”

“Very clinical. Very void girl,” Enid yawned.

Yet, she didn’t pull away as Wednesday guided her forward. She didn’t resist as careful hands helped her toward the bed, which still faintly smelled of Wednesday’s perfume from the night before.

“Stay?” The word was barely a whisper, vulnerable in a way Enid rarely allowed herself to be. “Just until I fall asleep?”

Wednesday’s heart performed several flips. “Purely for medical observation.”

“Of course.” Enid's smile was soft with sleep and something deeper as Wednesday settled beside her. “Can’t let your favorite test subject slip away, right?”

“Bold of you to assume you're my favorite.”

“Mm.” Enid’s eyes were already drifting shut, her body curling instinctively toward Wednesday’s warmth. “Keep telling yourself that, babycakes.”

Chapter Text

Wealth had a scent — stale polish mingled with the faint tang of lemon oil, combined with something deeper and older. Oak, perhaps. Or varnish. It clung to the room like a memory Wednesday couldn’t scrub clean.

Her finger moved slowly around the rim of her glass. She wouldn’t drink. The wine inside — a dark, gleaming red — remained untouched. Untouchable. The fork beside her plate caught the light, its polished surface slicing thin lines across the white tablecloth, three angles sharp enough for… particular purposes.

Across the table, Tyler Galpin’s spoon hovered mid-air, caught in some kind of performance. Twenty-seven minutes — twenty-seven — of that same fixed smile, like a mask left too long in the sun. His eyes met hers again, unblinking. Persistent. Calculating. He looked like the kind of person who’d practiced charm in front of a mirror until the edges dulled into something rehearsed.

Wednesday glanced at her phone. The device lay face-down, its silence louder than the clinking of glasses and the quiet hum of conversation around her. No messages. No updates. No word about Yoko, or pink-tipped hair fanned out across crumpled sheets, or fever-bright eyes that flickered open and closed like a broken signal.

How long had it been now? Two hours? Two and a half?

The numbers pressed against the inside of her skull, squeezing, while the kilometers between Quebec City and Montreal stretched taut. If she picked up the phone now — no. She dragged her eyes back to the table and let her nails dig into her palm beneath the napkin.

Focus.

Tyler shifted beneath the table, his knee brushing against the edge with enough force to send a ripple through the silverware. Her gaze snapped to him, and for a moment, he froze. Just a flicker, a half-second pause, before he leaned back again, casual and confident — too confident. His suit screamed money, the kind you didn’t earn but inherited, threads crafted with influence rather than skill. He smoothed a hand down the front slowly, a show of power that landed with all the subtlety of one of his line readings. Armani didn’t make men dangerous; it made them comfortable.

“I was telling Father,” Tyler began, “about our unique connection in the morgue scenes. How preservation really brings out something... special between us.”

Wednesday’s fingers tightened around the wine glass. It creaked under her grip — the crystal trembling just enough to betray her restraint. One degree more, and it would shatter into a spray of shrapnel.

Hana’s eyes darted to the glass, then back to Wednesday’s face. Her shoulders stiffened. She knew the signs.

“Perhaps we should discuss the new blocking for—” Hana attempted, but Tyler leaned forward before she could finish. Too close. Always too close.

“Wednesday,” he said, elongating her name as if she were a string he expected her to follow. It sounded wrong coming from him, his tone a mix of misplaced confidence and something she refused to define. It felt like watching someone handle preserved specimens with unwashed hands—careless and disrespectful.

He smiled. “I thought we could run lines after dinner—really dive into Dominick’s feelings for Viper. Father says the investors are concerned about our... intensity.”

The fork beside her plate gleamed brighter, sharper. The angles resolved into clean trajectories, numbers scrolling behind her eyes: the exact pressure needed to pierce fabric, the force required to cut muscle, how many seconds it would take to silence him. Reliable calculations, unlike the tremor in her chest that pulled her back to Enid’s voice—cracked and uneven, breaking on the word “stay.”

She blinked, and the world snapped back.

Her phone sat beside her plate, its black screen resembling volcanic glass. Two hours and thirty-three minutes. That’s how long it had been since she’d left Enid curled beneath pastel sheets, fever painting constellations across her skin.

“Speaking of intensity,” Raymond began, his voice rising above the quiet din of the dining room. “Did I mention my first Oscar acceptance speech?” He leaned back, his wine glass catching the golden chandelier light, swirling the liquid with an ease that came only from practiced vanity. “The raw emotion of that moment—”

His words faded into the background as Wednesday’s phone lit up beside her plate.
Light pooled across the white linen. One message burned into the black screen: She’s asking for you.

Four words snapped her attention, small but undeniable, like a distant scream through a forest.

For a moment, the room dissolved into static—Raymond’s monologue, Tyler’s incessant tapping, the clinking of silverware all blurred together, irrelevant.

Something stirred inside her—primal, sharp-edged, and ancient, as if awakening from centuries of dormancy. Her pulse quickened with one simple truth: she was needed. No words, no extraneous explanations. Just she’s asking for you.

Hana's gaze flicked to Wednesday’s hand, now hovering near the knife’s handle. Her fingers curled slowly around the polished silver, not lifting it but close enough to make Hana’s breath hitch. The glint of the blade caught the light. Recognition flashed across Hana’s face—the kind born from too many near-misses, too many moments like this.

“Tyler,” Hana jumped in, her voice a shade too bright. “About those costume adjustments for the falling sequence—” Her words tumbled out in a rush, a desperate attempt to steer the conversation back to safer ground.

But the knife slipped from her thoughts, falling back into the mental catalog of possibilities as cold, hard numbers flashed behind her eyes.

147 minutes at the posted speed limit. 112 if she drove like someone willing to risk a ticket. 93 if she took the backroads she'd memorized that night. She could almost hear the tires and feel the vibration of the engine beneath her hands.

The calculations tightened around her like a noose, leaving her feeling like she was drowning. It reminded her of pink-tipped hair spread across cold bathroom tile—limp and lifeless in ways she couldn't dwell on right now. It was like hearing Enid’s voice crack on void girl, the words splintering under the weight of fever, which painted her skin in smudges of red and gold, like watercolors bleeding into paper.

She blinked hard, forcing the memory away.

Tyler’s mouth moved, shaping words she refused to hear—something about “chemistry building,” probably. It didn’t matter. Her mind snapped back to Montreal—golden hair and pastel sheets, skin burning against her palm.

Her fingers twitched instinctively, recalling precisely how much pressure it took to support Enid’s weight, the tilt of her wrist as she brushed damp hair from her face. The kind of touch you don’t consider until it’s all that matters.

The void widened with every second she lingered here, yawning and infinite, swallowing everything that wasn’t 257 kilometers of asphalt and the only heartbeat that mattered. It wasn’t just distance; it was need.

The sommelier drifted to her side, gliding as if summoned, a practiced smile on his face. “Perhaps the Château Margaux?” he offered, his voice smooth and rehearsed. “To complement the—”

His words stumbled and fell away when Wednesday’s gaze locked onto his—cold, focused, relentless. He cleared his throat, shifting slightly, like a mouse trying not to draw the attention of a hawk.

“I don’t drink with incompetence,” Wednesday said, her tone flat enough to erase whatever charm the sommelier thought he possessed. She dismissed him with a glance as her phone dimmed, Yoko’s message fading into darkness, though it remained branded behind her eyes.

Tyler chuckled. “Come now, Wednesday,” he said, drumming his fingers against his glass like an idle threat. “Father always says a good wine opens the creative channels. Maybe it’ll help you find Viper’s... softer side.”

Her fingers brushed against the knife again. It felt clinical. Professional. It reminded her of the morgue set, where tools were laid out in perfect symmetry while Enid perched nearby, pink highlighter caught between her teeth, asking questions she had no business asking but never failed to.

“The only thing getting softer,” Wednesday said, freezing the room, “is your already tepid grasp on basic character motivation.”

“Children,” Raymond interjected, his hand flattening over the wine list like a diplomat offering peace. “Let me tell you about the vineyard I visited after my third Oscar win. The sommelier there—”

The rest of Raymond’s story—something about lighthouses and sacrifice—faded into silence as her phone buzzed again. Another message glared at her: She keeps mumbling about eyes and medical accuracy.

Her breath hitched.

Something inside her shattered—molten, searing, and primal. It coiled around her lungs, each breath shallow and jagged, as if the air itself conspired against her. The room felt smaller, the walls closing in, the distance between her and Enid stretching impossibly wider.

“Wednesday?” Hana’s voice reached across the table, soft yet piercing enough to halt her spiraling thoughts. Concern tinged her words, the kind that came from someone who recognized the signs. “Are you—”

“Completely focused on our scene work,” Tyler cut in with a soft laugh. His smile widened, sharp yet hollow, a borrowed expression that didn’t quite suit him. “As I was saying about—”

The fork creaked under Wednesday’s tightening grip. Hana’s gaze snapped to the movement, her expression shifting to cautious wariness, like someone who had faced danger before. Slowly, her hand drifted toward her water glass, fingers poised for distraction, her shoulders tense as if bracing for impact.

“You know,” Raymond continued, leaning forward. His hand gestured in sweeping arcs, a performance in itself. “This reminds me of a particularly tense dinner scene in my period drama about—”

Her phone buzzed again. She’s asking why you left. Says something about promising to stay until she fell asleep.

Her heart stuttered, each beat slower, more sluggish. She had promised. The memory flickered through her mind—Enid’s fevered murmur of “stay,” the faint smile she’d tried to conjure before drifting off.

The void in her chest condensed, shrinking into a singular, crushing point. It was a black hole, drawing everything inside her into its gravity—her breath, her thoughts, everything.

Ice rattled against crystal as Tyler lifted his glass. “To our unique connection,” he began, his father’s money and influence dripping from every syllable. “And to exploring it more... intimately.”

“Did you know,” Wednesday said, lifting her gaze, “that the Victorians had particularly creative methods for dealing with unwanted attention?”

Hana sputtered into her wine. Raymond’s eyebrows lifted, curiosity sparking in his eyes, no doubt storing away her tone for his next big project. But Tyler—Tyler just smiled. Wider. Hungrier.

Fortunately, the dessert arrived just in time, a parade of pristine white plates, each adorned with sweeping arcs of chocolate that bled across the porcelain in jagged lines. It reminded Wednesday of dried blood patterns, the kind she’d studied under fluorescent lights, searching for meaning in the chaos.

“—and that’s when I realized,” Raymond laughed, his voice soaring over the clink of crystal and silver, “the true meaning of sacrifice in that lighthouse scene—”

But his sentence was cut short. Vivid red wine splashed through the air, painting Hana’s cream blazer in jagged Rorschach-like stains.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry!” Raymond’s charm faltered into genuine concern. He grabbed a napkin, dabbing ineffectively at Hana’s sleeve as his words flowed out in a steady stream. “Let me help you clean that up before it sets. A stain like this needs immediate attention.”

“It’s fine, really—” Hana attempted to protest, but her words were swept away by Raymond’s cascade of apologies. He guided her to her feet, his relentless commentary on stain removal filling the air as they exited.

The silence they left behind had sharp edges.

Tyler’s chair scraped forward, the sound grating on her nerves with every agonizing inch. The space between them closed, replaced by his cloying cologne—designed to impress but ultimately suffocating. It evoked thoughts of formaldehyde and false smiles, of surfaces polished just enough to conceal what lay rotten beneath.

“Finally.” His voice dropped, curling low and intimate, wrapping around her like a garrote that tightened with each word. “I’ve been waiting to get you alone.”

Her fingers curled into her thigh, pressing hard enough to sting. Numbers. Calculations. Preservation techniques. Anything to ground herself and pull her mind from the haze creeping in as the room’s edges blurred and her focus splintered.

“You know,” Tyler said, leaning closer until the scent of wine and entitlement became unbearable, “Father says the investors are particularly interested in our chemistry. The way we play off each other…”

His hand crept across the table, fingers splaying like a spider weaving its web, inching closer to hers. “It’s electric.”

The chandelier above scattered light across the table, fractured beams catching in the crystal and refracting into jagged bars that closed in on her. The space around her shrank with each passing second. Her throat tightened around words that wouldn’t come, responses that refused to form. She couldn’t give him what he wanted. Couldn’t feed the attention he so clearly craved.

“I was thinking,” he continued, “maybe we could discuss Viper’s... vulnerability. Over drinks. At my place.”

Somewhere in Montreal, Enid burned with fever, probably curled into herself, her cast pressed against the pastel sheets. Pink-tipped hair spilled across the pillow like a faded watercolor. The image tightened around Wednesday’s chest, squeezing until each breath came shorter and sharper than the last.

Tyler’s fingers crept closer. “You’re so good at playing mysterious,” he said, mistaking her silence for surrender. “But I see through it. I notice how you watch me during our scenes…”

The temperature dropped with every word, though a sheen of sweat prickled at the base of her spine. Her body screamed for her to move, to say something, to stop this before—

“Wednesday.” His voice slid out, a whisper, a promise, a threat. “Let me show you what real chemistry feels like.”

The edges of her vision blurred and darkened. Tyler’s voice twisted, distant and distorted, as if it came from underwater. Memories of another unwanted touch, another suffocating presence, intruded on her thoughts. Different time, different place, same feeling of walls closing in, of air becoming solid...

“Just imagine,” Tyler murmured, his hand hovering near her wrist, close enough for her skin to feel the ghost of his presence. “What we could create together.”

Then his fingers closed around her wrist.

The touch detonated something raw and feral, tearing through the barriers she’d spent years fortifying. Warm candlelight dissolved into the harsh glare of a hospital. Tyler’s cologne twisted, souring into the sharp scent of antiseptic mixed with the metallic sting of old blood.

The restaurant blurred, its edges bleeding into memory.

“Only you understand,” his voice slipped through the cracks in her mind, low and velvety, echoing the same cadence he’d used on the rooftop that night. 3 AM. Cold air biting at her skin. “Only you see the beauty in darkness like I do.” The words curled around her, suffocating, each syllable a tether pulling her deeper into a past she couldn’t escape.

The chandelier’s glittering crystals shattered into blinding flashes, morphing into the pulse of emergency lights. Each flicker marked another crisis, perfectly staged, another scene demanding her devotion. The dining room faded further, replaced by the claustrophobic weight of gurneys and the smell of iodine clinging to the walls.

“If you leave…” His voice echoed. She could see him clearly—perched on a ledge, silhouetted against the city lights, his audience screaming from below. “You’ll be responsible for what happens next.”

The threat wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

Xavier’s ghost tightened its grip around her throat. “See how much you need this? Need me?” His words slithered through her memory, mocking, possessive. “No one else would come at midnight. No one else would calculate the perfect angle of impact…”

Her fingers twitched against the tablecloth, muscle memory pulling her back to trembling hands and a phone that grew heavier with every call. 911. Again. And again. And again. Each call timed for dramatic effect, each hospital visit a stage, another opportunity to test her loyalty under the harsh glare of fluorescent lights.

“Worried about me?” His smile spread beneath the unforgiving lights of the hospital. Satisfaction shone in his eyes as he cataloged her disheveled appearance and the panic etched on her face. “That’s how I know we’re meant to be,” he would say “No one else would understand this... connection.”

The dining room closed in on her, the walls constricting with every breath. Tyler’s words wrapped around her, too familiar, echoing Xavier.

Different voice, same suffocating weight. Same script. Same feeling of being forced into someone else's performance, every move choreographed to keep her trapped.

“You can’t leave,” Xavier’s voice bled into the moment, twisting into Tyler’s touch, his fingers ghosting over her skin like a phantom. “Who else would appreciate the artistry of your darkness? Who else would call at dawn to discuss mortality rates and the beauty of inevitability?”

Her lungs tightened, caught between the present and memories of sleepless nights spent tracking his location, mapping probabilities, waiting for the inevitable call. Each crisis was a masterpiece of timing, orchestrated to perfection—always when she had plans, always with just enough witnesses to make her refusal look like cruelty.

“See how perfectly damaged we are together?” His voice would crack at just the right moment, vulnerability slipping into his tone like a practiced line. “No one else would rush to the ER at midnight. No one else would…”

“Wednesday?” Tyler’s voice pierced through the memory, jolting her back to the crystal chandeliers and the soft flicker of candlelight. He leaned closer, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You seem distracted. Thinking about our... potential?”

The chair scraped back, the sound jagged like bone dragged across steel. Her body moved on autopilot, mechanical and detached, a survival strategy honed in another life. Another boy. Another attempt to claim ownership of her darkness.

The night air hit her like a slap, forcing her lungs to expand. Her keys dug into her palm, the sting grounding her; the small trickle of blood felt more tangible than anything that had happened inside.

257 kilometers. That number burned into her mind.

She hesitated, caught between instinct and logic—then turned toward Quebec City instead.
The drive unfolded in disjointed fragments. Streetlights carved wounds into the darkness, their fleeting glow too brief to guide her but sharp enough to sting. Her phone buzzed in the passenger seat, a constant hum of unanswered questions she couldn’t bring herself to confront. Each kilometer marker bled into the next, counting down to something unnamed — a truth she couldn’t yet grasp firmly enough to preserve.

Her apartment welcomed her with familiar shadows: clinical, controlled, and safe. The air was cool and untouched, her sanctuary untainted by the chaos she carried within.
Until it wasn’t.

With every breath, the walls seemed to tighten around her, the air thickening with the ghosts of things she’d tried to leave behind. The faint scent of strawberry shampoo lingered, sweet and disarming. Pink highlighters glowed at the edges of her vision, their cheerful color mocking the futile attempts to create a clinical space. Medical journals lined her desk, annotated in impossible ways — with hearts, tiny stars, and margins transformed into constellations. And that light. That infuriating, impossible light. It had corrupted her carefully curated darkness, spilling into corners it didn’t belong.

Her legs buckled, sending her sprawling beside her bed. The same bed that had jolted her awake the night before, haunted by nightmares of Xavier’s hands on Enid. Now, it felt too large, too empty, too—

A sound tore free from her throat — a jagged, ugly thing she’d never dared to show another soul.

Her fingers scrambled for purchase, curling into the sheets, tangling in her hair, gripping anything solid as the tide rose. Everything she’d kept carefully preserved behind glass — every feeling, every truth — rushed out, a dam finally breaking.

Her phone lit up once more, breaking through the darkness with a final message: She’s finally sleeping. But she misses you.

Everything shattered.

All the distance, the safety of cold observation, and the walls she’d built brick by brick to keep herself intact crumbled beneath pink-tipped hair and unyielding ocean eyes. Beneath the memory of Enid’s fevered skin against her palm. Of probability ratios recited with the cadence of poetry. Of darkness softened, shaped, and made bearable by a light she never meant to let in.

She buried her face in her knees, her breath hitching as tears came — slow at first, then unstoppable. Here, where no one could watch. Where no one could label them as weakness, twist them into proof of devotion, or use them as fuel.

The distance between Quebec City and Montreal had never felt more like purgatory: 257 kilometers of separation between suffocation and breath. Between manipulation and truth. Between carefully preserved specimens and messy, chaotic, beautiful life.

For the first time since Xavier, she allowed the feelings in.

In the darkness of her apartment, surrounded by medical journals decorated with hearts and notes written in pink ink, Wednesday Addams finally understood the difference: the distinction between drowning and the process of learning how to breathe again.

The scent of burning pine needles overwhelmed Wednesday’s nostrils—nature's own form of chemical warfare.

She sat rigidly on a fallen log, its surface polished smooth by time and countless strangers. Before her, flames twisted in their endless dance with oxygen, each crackle and pop serving as a brief, violent punctuation mark. Beautiful, really. Even destruction followed patterns, measurable and predictable in a way that soothed her more than it should have.

Across the clearing, chaos erupted.

A makeshift soccer game had taken root, its feverish energy spreading throughout half the camp in minutes. They chased the ball with wild abandon, their movements resembling an uncoordinated kindergarten ballet recital. Arms flailed, legs tangled, and collisions were frequent enough to mimic a study on entropy in motion.

Under different circumstances, such unrestrained disorder would have sent Wednesday scrambling for her research notes on mass hysteria. Here, she simply observed, resigned to the inevitability of group dynamics in unsupervised settings.

And then there was Enid.

She moved like sunlight glinting off water—unpredictable, flickering, impossible to capture. Her laughter rang out across the clearing, unbound and unselfconscious, weaving through the air until it wrapped itself tightly around Wednesday’s chest. Warmth blossomed within her, a familiarity she had begun to associate less with decay and more with preservation.

Enid's pink-tipped hair spilled loose from its restraints, wild strands carving arcs through the air as she darted past Divina’s clumsy block. Wednesday’s eyes narrowed, tracking the movement of Enid’s injured arm.

Angles. Force distribution. Risk factors. The numbers added up to a single conclusion: reckless idiocy. A distal radius fracture required six to eight weeks for proper recovery under ideal circumstances—yet here was Enid, barely days post-injury, bounding across uneven terrain as if basic medical advice were merely a suggestion.

“Ha!” Enid's triumphant shout shattered the evening calm as the ball soared past Ajax’s outstretched hands and landed decisively in the makeshift goal. “That’s what happens when you challenge an Olympic athlete!”

“Former Olympic,” Divina wheezed, bent double and clutching her knees. “And that was definitely out of bounds.”

“There are no bounds,” Enid announced, throwing her arms wide, encompassing the wilderness around them. “We’re free spirits now. Untamed. Unbound by your arbitrary rules of organized sports.”

Enid’s eyes found Wednesday's across the clearing, bright and filled with something that defied definition. Wednesday’s stomach tightened, a flicker of heat igniting somewhere beneath her ribs. Clearly, it was a reaction to the suspicious trail mix Eugene had passed around earlier—some unfortunate chemical interaction, nothing more.

A loud pop from the fire brought Wednesday’s attention back to the flames. She studied their movements, tracking the patterns of burn rates and oxygen consumption. It was easier — safer — to focus on the measurable and the quantifiable. Anything to keep her mind from lingering on how Enid’s smile seemed to carry its own light, rivaling the setting sun.

No.

Focus. Measurable. Quantifiable. Safe.

Raymond had somehow conjured a guitar from the depths of his luggage—because of course he had—and was now butchering what might have once been a Johnny Cash song. A small group of crew members swayed around him, their expressions somewhere between profound emotional connection and the early stages of food poisoning.

“And then,” Eugene’s voice floated over from the chaos of his lopsided tent, “she made me reorganize the entire prop morgue because, and I quote, the instruments weren’t arranged by ‘historical influence and aesthetic appeal.’”

Laughter rippled through Eugene’s small audience. Wednesday’s jaw tightened. The Victorian medical instruments had, in fact, been improperly cataloged. The six hours she’d spent correcting their placement had been an act of professional integrity — nothing more.

A soccer ball rolled to a stop at her feet, nudging against the log with an almost apologetic thud. Footsteps followed — light, quick, unmistakable. Wednesday kept her gaze firmly on the fire, the orange glow dancing in her eyes.

“Mind if I invade your solitude?”

Hana’s voice cut through the quiet, casual but unapologetic. She didn’t wait for permission, claiming the space beside Wednesday on the log. Close enough for conversation, yet maintaining what Wednesday’s extensive research identified as “socially acceptable personal space.”

“Your metaphor is structurally unsound,” Wednesday replied, her gaze still locked on the flames. “A void, by definition, cannot be shared.”

“And yet, here I am.” A smile colored Hana’s words. She stretched her legs toward the fire, the soles of her boots caked in mud and pine needles—evidence of the hike Wednesday had spent actively resenting. “Sharing your carefully curated emptiness.”

Wednesday’s lips betrayed her, twitching faintly in a way that could almost be mistaken for amusement. “Your understanding of basic physics is concerning.”

“Says the girl who keeps the morgue set at temperatures that OSHA would love to investigate.” Hana bumped her shoulder against Wednesday’s, a fleeting but deliberate breach of personal space that should have triggered a lecture. Instead, it landed with an ease that was harder to dismiss. “Though I hear someone’s been making it more... lively these days.”

Laughter rippled through the clearing, drawing attention to the soccer match. Enid had claimed Ajax’s shoulders as her personal stage, gesturing wildly as she reenacted what she proclaimed to be her “greatest goals in history.” Her cast caught the firelight, gleaming with each dramatic wave of her arm, narrowly avoiding knocking Divina to the ground. Chaos swirled around her like a storm, magnetic and impossible to ignore.

“I simply maintain proper period influence,” Wednesday said, her tone deliberately flat. She tried to ignore the way her gaze lingered on Enid’s wild, unrestrained performance. “The Victorian era had specific preservation requirements.”

“Mhm.” Hana’s tone shifted, gnawing at the edges of Wednesday’s composure. “And the pink sticky notes you use to organize your medical texts? Historically accurate, I assume?”

Wednesday’s fingers found a loose thread on her sleeve, twisting it between her thumb and forefinger. “Purely for categorical efficiency.”

“Right.” Hana leaned back, bracing herself on her palms as if settling in for a longer discussion. “Just like how you’ve memorized the exact distance to every hospital between here and Montreal? A safety precaution, I’m sure.”

“Correct.” Wednesday tightened her fingers until the thread snapped with a faint, satisfying sound.

Hana hummed softly, her gaze drifting back to the soccer game, where Enid’s laughter carried over the crackling flames. “You know,” she said, lighter but no less deliberate, “I used to do the same thing. Catalog every detail of my scene partners—breathing patterns, micro-expressions, how they liked their coffee.” She paused. “I told myself it was just method acting.”

“Your parallels lack nuance,” Wednesday replied, searching for another loose thread. This one held firm, resisting her attempts to unravel it.

“Subtlety isn’t always the goal.” Hana laughed softly, the sound warm and devoid of judgment. “I just thought I’d share my own data points—for scientific comparison, of course.”

The fire snapped again, sparks leaping into the sky like tiny shooting stars before vanishing into the dark. Enid had abandoned her Ajax-shaped throne and was now teaching Divina what she called a “proper victory celebration.” Her movements were wild and unrestrained, each step filled with the chaotic energy of a struck match—bright, unpredictable, and utterly captivating.

“She makes everything harder,” Wednesday said, the words slipping out before she could compartmentalize them. Her gaze remained on the fire as her chest tightened. “Variables that should be simple become... unstable.”

“Some of the best things in life are unstable.” Hana’s voice was quieter now, softer, like the steady hum of something meant to soothe. “Chemical reactions. Weather patterns. Hearts.”

Wednesday’s spine straightened. “I don’t—”

“Need to explain?” Hana interjected, her tone gentle but firm, leaving no room for argument. “Or justify? Or find the words for something that doesn’t need dissection just yet?” She stretched her legs toward the fire and leaned back on her palms. “That’s okay too. Some specimens take time to be preserved properly.”

The metaphor tugged at the corners of Wednesday’s lips, betraying an involuntary hint of amusement. Trust Hana to turn scientific terminology into a weapon, transforming even her defenses into tools for analysis.

“Besides,” Hana continued, her eyes following Enid as she nearly toppled over in an overzealous reenactment, “the best stories take time to build atmosphere. Your production has been a masterclass in that.”

A comfortable silence enveloped them.

Distant laughter interrupted the stillness, a fading echo of the chaos unfolding nearby. Wednesday’s hands had finally stilled in her lap, the restless urge to fidget retracting like an outgoing tide. In its place arose something more intense, pressing down on her chest. It tasted of antiseptic and fluorescent lights, of footsteps echoing through hospital corridors late at night.

Enid’s laughter burst forth again, but something about its pitch—a particular tone—caught Wednesday’s attention, causing her spine to stiffen.

“She treats pain like a game,” the words slipped out unbidden, breaching the walls she usually kept tightly constructed. Her fingers traced the weathered surface of the log beneath her. “She makes a performance of pushing limits, but there’s no... craft to it. No deliberate manipulation of audience response. Unlike—”

The name lodged itself in her throat, two syllables she had spent years erasing from her vocabulary. Yet, here they were, forcing themselves to the surface.

“Xavier used to do the same thing.” Her tone shifted, becoming cold, an instinctive retreat into familiar safety. “Though his approach was considerably more... choreographed.”

“Xavier?” Hana’s voice wavered, uncertainty lacing her words. Then recognition washed over her face, spreading like frost on glass. “Xavier Thorpe? The method actor who—” She paused, recalibrating. “I didn’t know you two…”

“Were together?” Wednesday’s tongue curled around the words. “Yes. Though ‘together’ implies a level of genuine understanding that was... statistically improbable.”

At that moment, Enid attempted a clumsy cartwheel, her cast flashing in the fading light. The motion should have prompted Wednesday’s calculations—force, torque, bone density—but her mind snagged instead on a different memory: stage lights glinting off silver bracelets polished to resemble medical restraints. Xavier had worn them obsessively, claiming they helped him “channel authentic darkness.”

“He was... memorable on set,” Hana said carefully, as if treading on thin ice. “Always pushing for more intense scenes, more realistic danger. The crew would draw lots to see who would be stuck spotting him during stunts.”

Wednesday’s fingers grazed a deeper, darker groove in the log. It reminded her of cigarette burns pressed into skin. “He had a particular gift for making self-destruction look artistic.” Her nail absently traced a pattern: one-two-three.

“I remember him going on about method acting,” Hana continued. “Something about finding the balance between control and chaos. He’d quote Stanislavski while dangling off set pieces, testing how long he could hang on with just one hand…”

A brittle laugh escaped Wednesday. “Stanislavski was just his starting point. By the end, he’d moved on to medical journals. He claimed they offered better insights into the relationship between real pain and performance.”

The following silence was broken only by fading laughter and the soft murmurs of the fire. Wednesday’s gaze dropped to her hands, fingers tracing the faint scars etched across her skin. Each scar carried a story: nights spent scouring downtown Montreal for Xavier, splinters from breaking into boarded-up buildings where darkness whispered of bad drug deals and worse endings.

“He used to leave his journal open on my desk,” she said, her voice hollow, a monotone that felt safer than the emotions clawing at her edges. “Every entry was meticulously crafted—vulnerability mixed with threat, equations for terminal velocity braided with poetry about my void.” Her jaw tightened, a muscle flickering beneath her pale skin. “After every argument, I’d find a new entry. Each one perfectly calculated to draw me back. He even annotated them with time stamps, like trophies, showing exactly how many hours he’d spent composing his pain.”

Wednesday didn’t look up.

“You know what his favorite game was?” Her fingers absently moved over her knee, tracing patterns only she could see. “He’d get high—something expensive that made him see colors where there weren’t any—and then he’d find a rooftop. Always at 3 AM. Always calling me.” Her voice dipped, tightening around the words. “He’d quote statistics while balancing on the edge, waiting until I was exactly four blocks away before stepping back. He said my desperation was ‘the purest art he’d ever captured.’”

Hana’s breath hitched. “Wednesday…”

“The night of the accident…” Her voice was steady and cold, as if detachment might keep her hands from trembling. “He called from his car. Said he was testing a new theory—something about impact force and artistic authenticity. He asked me to listen. To document every detail.” Her nail pressed into her palm, the sharp pain grounding her against the memory. “I heard everything. The acceleration. The calculations he recited. The moment he saw their headlights…”

She paused to recalibrate. When she spoke again, her tone had changed. “A family of four in a blue minivan. The father taught high school chemistry. The mother coached little league. Their youngest had just lost her first tooth.”

Facts. Data. Safer than the alternative. Safer than recalling the screech of metal on metal, the screams that followed, and the way Xavier’s voice twisted into laughter as he marveled at the ‘perfect cinematography’ of it all.

“The papers called it a tragedy.” Her lips contorted into something that resembled a smile, but it was more of a bitter imitation. “They claimed he died doing what he loved—pushing boundaries and seeking truth through artistic expression.” Her gaze fell to the glowing embers. “They didn’t mention how he practiced that curve for weeks or how he calculated the exact speeds and angles for maximum impact. They didn’t mention how he timed it perfectly, knowing I’d be waiting at home, knowing I’d spend the rest of my life remembering what I could have stopped.”

“Do you know what his last words were? Right before the impact?” Wednesday's voice splintered, breaking like ice under too much pressure. “‘Make sure they get my good side, darling. This’ll be my finest performance yet.’”

“And now...” Hana continued, her tone as gentle as snow settling on open ground. “You see her taking risks, pushing limits, and every alarm bell starts ringing.”

Wednesday’s fingers curled tighter against her thigh, her nails biting into the fabric. She finally looked up at Enid, who gestured animatedly, her expression bursting with unfiltered joy. No calculated angles. No choreographed anguish. Just life—chaotic, reckless, and unrestrained. Somehow, that hurt more to watch.

“She hides her injuries differently.” The words spilled out slowly, jagged like splinters breaking through skin. “No dramatic reveals. No perfectly timed collapses. She just... smiles through it. Keeps going until she can’t anymore.” Wednesday's jaw tightened, her teeth pressing together with a faint creak. “Sometimes that’s worse. At least he wanted me to see the damage. He wanted me to... to fix it.”

“Wednesday.” Hana shifted beside her, angling fully toward her. “Enid isn’t Xavier. She’s not orchestrating her pain or crafting it into some performance for an audience. She’s just...”

“Reckless?” The word escaped on a bitter laugh. “Determined to test every limit? Convinced she’s invincible?” Her voice softened again, tinged with sadness. “I’ve memorized these patterns, Hana. Cataloged every variation of self-destruction. The variables might change, but the equations? They always end the same way.”

“Do they?” Hana tilted her head. “Because I remember how Xavier used to talk about darkness — as if it were something to be consumed. Something to drown in.” She paused, letting her words settle before continuing, “But when Enid talks about your void, she makes it sound beautiful. Something worth preserving, not destroying.”

Wednesday’s throat tightened, her mind racing for a response she couldn’t quite articulate. Her gaze drifted back to Enid, drawn ineluctably, as if the girl were a lodestone and Wednesday the iron. Enid had produced a pen from nowhere and was now gesturing animatedly, trying to persuade Ajax to let her add what appeared to be an anatomical diagram to her cast.

“She makes everything harder,” Wednesday repeated. “Every carefully measured distance. Every calculated brick in my walls. She just... walks through them. Doesn’t even notice they exist.”

“You know what I see when I watch her with you?” Hana's voice softened, carrying the warmth she reserved for their most emotional rehearsals. “She doesn’t try to break down your walls. She just sits beside them, sharing stories about Victorian preservation methods and drawing little hearts in the margins. And before you realize it, there’s a door where there wasn’t one before.”

“That’s worse.” Wednesday twisted her fingers together in her lap, her nails digging crescent shapes into her skin. “He used to break down doors. Make grand entrances. Every moment was calculated, planned for maximum impact.” Her gaze shifted back to Enid like a compass locking onto true north. “But she just... exists. She brings color into spaces I’ve spent years organizing. Makes the void feel less... void-like.”

“And that terrifies you more than any performance ever could.” Hana sighed. “Because it’s real. Because she’s not trying to be anything except herself.”

Wednesday remained silent.

“Talk to her.” Hana’s words slipped gently between the cracks in Wednesday’s defenses. “Not about production schedules or Victorian preservation methods. Talk about the real things. The things that keep you awake at 3 AM, calculating hospital distances.”

“That would be highly unprofessional.”

“More unprofessional than showing up after a two-hour drive in silk pajamas?”

Something sharp and unnameable flickered within Wednesday. “Your investigative skills are concerning.”

“I’m an actor. Observation is my job.” Hana’s smile was evident in her tone. “Just like yours. And right now? You’re so focused on framing the perfect shot that you’re missing the whole picture.”

“Mixed metaphors are beneath you,” Wednesday replied, though her gaze never left Enid. The girl was in the midst of an exuberant explanation, her pink-tipped hair bouncing as she attempted to teach Eugene the finer points of goal celebration rituals. Eugene’s face twisted in confusion, but Enid’s laughter carried over the fire, unbothered and relentless.

"She deserves to know," Hana urged gently. "Why you flinch every time she takes a risk. Why you’ve memorized her vital signs. Why you—"

"Calculate every possible way she could—" Wednesday's voice faltered, a crack in her usually stoic demeanor. She exhaled sharply. "The variables are too complex. Too many failure points. Too much risk."

"Or maybe it’s simpler than that." Hana stood up, brushing pine needles off her jeans. "Sometimes preservation doesn’t require formaldehyde or containment. Sometimes it just needs... honesty."

Hana's hand briefly rested on Wednesday’s shoulder, a touch steady and warm that lingered longer than it should have. Without another word, she moved toward Raymond, who was butchering "Wonderwall" with theatrical desperation and far too much vibrato.

The fire had faded to glowing coals, pulsing like the heartbeat of something ancient and alive. Wednesday stared into the embers, each flicker marking another fragment of possibility, of probability, of…

Her feet moved before her mind could analyze, categorize, or measure the steps she was taking.

Enid lay sprawled in the grass, her pink-tipped hair fanning out like watercolors blending into shadow. Her chest rose and fell steadily, but it was her radiant, unrestrained smile—utterly destructive to analytical frameworks—that captured Wednesday's attention as she drew closer.

"Wends!" Enid propped herself up on her good elbow. "Come to join the chaos?"

"Actually..." Wednesday crouched beside her, their hands finding each other like magnets drawn together. Her fingers intertwined with Enid’s, the words coming slower than she’d intended. "I was wondering if you might... that is... would you consider examining local geological formations with me?"

"You want to... look at rocks?" Enid asked, her brow furrowing in that impossibly endearing way that made Wednesday's chest tighten.

"A walk," Wednesday clarified, her voice stiff, as if dragged from her unwilling throat. "I thought we could... walk. Together. For research purposes."

Understanding dawned on Enid’s face, soon replaced by something softer that threatened to unravel Wednesday’s carefully constructed thoughts.

Enid stood, brushing bits of grass from her clothes. "Research, huh? And here I thought you just wanted to spend time with me."

"The two aren’t mutually exclusive," Wednesday said, the admission escaping before she could contain it, quieter than she intended.

As they moved toward the tree line, Wednesday caught Hana’s gaze across the glowing embers. It was a knowing look, soft and unsurprised. But for once, Wednesday didn’t calculate probabilities or catalog the variables crowding her mind.

For once, she just walked forward. Enid's presence beside her radiated warmth stronger than the fire they left behind, pulling her into the inevitable equation they were slowly becoming.

Chapter Text

Memories didn’t just linger — they tore, leaving wounds that never fully healed.

Wednesday understood this all too well, especially as her fingers drummed on her thigh in a rhythm too precise to be accidental. Tap. Tap. Each beat tightened the noose around her chest, her pulse thrumming like the seconds before a blade fell.

The forest leaned closer, its branches brushing her skin like the cold, brittle hands of the past. Words coiled in her throat, clogging the air that should have been hers to breathe.

“You’re doing that thing again.” Enid’s voice sliced through the silence — smooth but jagged, sweet enough to sting. Honey over broken glass. “You know, the thing where you disappear. In here.” She paused, her finger tapping lightly against her temple.

Wednesday’s shoulders went rigid, her spine a straight line. “I’m observing,” she replied, her words clipped, almost mechanical. Detached. As if studying their surroundings could explain why Enid had the uncanny ability to sneak beneath her defenses.

“Right.” The laugh that followed was soft — too soft. It rolled over the space between them, warm and light enough to sink into Wednesday’s ribs, lodging somewhere inconvenient. “Because murderous woods just scream romance, don’t they?”

“This isn’t—” The words faltered, collapsing mid-sentence as Enid’s shoulder grazed hers. The contact was fleeting but decisive, a spark that traveled too far, too fast, scattering her thoughts like ash. Focus. Just... focus. “The clearing ahead offers adequate visibility.”

“Adequate.” Enid stretched out the word, letting it hang like a smirk, curling upward at the edges. “Such high praise coming from Her Majesty, Queen of Eternal Gloom.”

The crunch of pine needles beneath their feet marked their steps like a clock ticking backward, each sound dragging them further from the chaos they’d abandoned — and deeper into something worse.

The path ahead turned sharply, curling into the blackness like a secret it had no intention of sharing. Darkness slithered at the edges of Wednesday’s vision, shapes that were almost familiar. Almost. She never meant to let anyone this close to the void — certainly not someone who doodled hearts in margins and talked about embalming like it was poetry.

“You know,” Enid began, her voice light but pointed, “most people ask, ‘Hey, want to take a walk?’ instead of launching into a full-on TED Talk about rock layers or whatever.”

“Most people are exhaustingly predictable.”

“And I’m not?”

Wednesday's hands curled into fists, her nails digging shallow crescents into her palms. Measurable things. Tangible things. She forced herself to catalog them: the way Enid's steps faltered, just slightly, each inhale catching on something unsaid. The smiles that lingered at the corners of her lips but never fully emerged. Evidence. Proof. Anything but the warmth radiating from her shoulder.

“Your commitment to chaos is... unique,” Wednesday said finally.

“I'll take that as a compliment.” Enid's hand found hers, the touch so assured and easy that it completely disoriented her. How could something so simple turn her entire world upside down? “Although,” Enid added, her thumb tracing those small, infuriating circles over Wednesday's knuckles, “you're being especially cryptic tonight. Even for you.”

“Perhaps the atmosphere is affecting my verbal efficiency.”

“Or maybe,” Enid murmured, her thumb continuing to glide over Wednesday's knuckles, “whatever's haunting your void decided it needed a little peace and quiet.” Her tone was light, but something beneath it felt gentle, probing, and far too close.

The words lodged in Wednesday’s throat. How did Enid manage this? Breaking through walls fortified by years of cold indifference, armed with nothing but a touch too gentle to defend against? Somehow, even the parts of Wednesday that she kept hidden — especially those parts — felt... lighter. Not exposed. Just less unbearably heavy.

“Bold of you to assume I’m not constantly haunted."

“Normally, I'd agree.” Enid's voice softened, dipping into that infuriating warmth that seeped into Wednesday's veins — unwelcome but impossible to resist. “But tonight... it’s different. Like you’re carrying something heavier than your usual dose of doom and gloom.”

Wednesday said nothing, her gaze fixed on the winding path ahead.

It stretched on, like a vein cutting straight to the heart of something she dared not name. Her free hand betrayed her, trembling before she could stop it, and she knew Enid noticed. Of course she did. The answering squeeze came instantly, firm and steady — an anchor tethering her to a storm she hadn’t consented to but couldn’t escape.

“The clearing’s close.” The words tumbled out, desperate to fill the silence before it suffocated her completely.

“Wednesday.” Just her name, but Enid said it like it was something fragile, something worth holding carefully. The tenderness of it hit her like a punch to the stomach. “We don’t have to—”

“I need to.” Wednesday swallowed hard, her voice dropping as she added, “Just... stay close.”

Enid tightened her grip, grounding Wednesday in a way that only she could. “Always, void girl.” Her voice softened, but the grin was still present, hiding beneath her words. “Even in the creepiest of woods.”

The forest began to recede, the trees becoming sparse and brittle, like skin stripped from bone to reveal the raw, unprotected core beneath. Wednesday’s focus, however, was elsewhere — on the way Enid’s thumb brushed against her hand. Small, steady, and deliberate, each motion felt like an untranslatable word, a secret language etched into her skin — one she hadn't meant to learn yet had become fluent in.

“So,” Enid said again, breathless yet laced with humor, “this is your idea of fun? Dragging a perfectly injured athlete up the murder mountain after dark?”

“Your talent for mislabeling simple geographical features is astounding,” Wednesday shot back. “This doesn’t even qualify as an incline.”

“Tell that to my everything.” Enid’s dramatic sigh should have felt heavier, but the complaint faded as she leaned closer, her shoulder brushing against Wednesday’s again. “But, I gotta admit, the ambiance is on-brand. Very gothic romance horror slasher flick.”

Something lodged in Wednesday’s throat, as if the word romance had sprouted claws. “Your genre analysis,” she managed, “is deeply flawed.”

“Maybe.” Enid nudged her arm. “Or maybe I just like how squirmy you get when I compare your aesthetic to a romance novel.” Her grin was practically audible, daring Wednesday not to react.

“I don’t squirm.”

“No?” Enid leaned in closer, her grin glowing in the dark. “Then what would you call... whatever it was your face just did?”

“Reasonable disdain,” Wednesday retorted, “for inaccurate literary parallels.”

Enid’s laugh rang out, echoing between the trees and sending an owl into frantic flight. It shouldn’t have made Wednesday’s pulse falter, shouldn’t have warm tendrils snaking into her chest. And yet, it did.

“God, I missed this.” Enid’s voice softened, the playful edges fading into something quieter, almost wistful. “You, making every sentence sound like the end of the world.”

Wednesday remained silent, watching as the path sloped upward. She instinctively shifted to support more of Enid’s weight. It was practical — necessary. Minimizing strain, ensuring recovery — logical things. Yet none of that explained how perfectly Enid’s body fit against hers, as if it belonged there, as if it had always belonged there.

“Almost there.” She hesitated, her voice dipping lower. “The elevation... you’ll see.”

“Mysterious and cryptic,” Enid teased, her breath hitching slightly as they climbed, but her smile never wavered. “Honestly, you’re spoiling me. What other girl gets a late-night tour of the perfect horror movie setting?”

They emerged from the trees like divers breaking the surface of water, the forest peeling away as the last tangled branches fell behind them. Enid’s sharp inhalation sent ripples through Wednesday’s chest.

The clearing spread wide, raw beneath the sweep of the moon and stars. A river wound through the woods below like a silver ribbon, its surface dotted with the glow of fireflies — tiny, flickering stars that blurred the line between sky and earth. Mist clung to the valley, as though the world below was slowly dissolving into a dream.

“Oh.” Just that single syllable, yet it carried everything — wonder, awe, and something deeper that made Wednesday’s chest feel impossibly full and hollow at the same time. “Oh.”

Moonlight traced the curve of Enid’s face, silver brushing over her skin like a painter’s careful touch. For a fleeting moment, caught between the remnants of sunset and the promise of moonrise, it felt as if time had melted away — as if anything — everything — was possible. Wednesday should’ve looked away. Should’ve braced for what always came after. Should’ve—

“You can see why I needed...” The sentence unraveled halfway. She attempted again, searching for composure. “The atmospheric conditions are... ideal for...”

“Hey.” Enid’s hand tightened around hers, anchoring her to the moment. “We can just... be here. For a minute. Before whatever storm is brewing in that brain of yours decides it needs to escape.”

Something twisted in Wednesday’s chest, a sensation she had no words for. “Your metaphors,” she spoke instead, “are disturbingly anatomical.”

“Says the girl who’s probably memorized every autopsy report ever written,” Enid teased, her grin as soft as Wednesday’s hand. She led her toward a fallen log perched near the cliff’s edge, its surface worn smooth by years of quiet witnesses to this view. “Come on, mon amour. Let’s watch the moon rise while you pretend you’re not working up the nerve to tell me something terrifying.”

“I don’t get terrified.”

“No?” Enid sank onto the log, pulling Wednesday down beside her. Their shoulders brushed, the faint spark of contact defying the chill settling over the clearing. “Then why,” Enid asked gently, “are you shaking?”

Wednesday hesitated, drawing in a breath.

“Sometimes...” The word scratched its way out, unsteady, as if it had been trapped for too long. “Preservation requires... distance.”

Enid didn’t move; she stilled, as if any shift might break the fragile balance of the moment. But her thumb continued its gentle tracing over Wednesday’s knuckles, as if spelling out promises in the language only they could understand.

“That’s why you push people away?” Enid asked, her voice low and free of accusation or judgment. Just quiet, careful understanding. “To preserve them?”

A bitter laugh slipped from Wednesday's lips before she could stop it. “To preserve what’s left of—” She caught herself, clearing her throat. “Some specimens,” she continued carefully, “are safer behind glass.”

“And some things were never meant to be specimens at all.”

Wednesday’s jaw clenched, her teeth grinding together as though the pressure could keep her thoughts from spilling out. The moon had fully risen now, its glow pooling across the clearing, twisting and writhing at the edges of her vision — fragments of memories she had buried but never fully silenced.

“You don’t understand what happens when...” The rest caught in her throat. “When darkness sees itself reflected in someone else.”

“Maybe not.” Enid shifted beside her, the gleam of her cast catching the moon — a flash of brightness that felt like everything Wednesday tried so hard to forget. “But I know what happens when someone is too scared of breaking things to even try holding them.”

A tremor rippled through Wednesday’s body. “I’m not—”

“Scared?” Enid tilted her head. “Then why won't you look at me?”

Keeping her gaze locked on the valley below, where the mist coiled and crept, devouring the landscape inch by inch, Wednesday said, “Because some things, once seen, can’t be unseen.” Her voice dropped. “And some roles, once played...”

“Leave scars?”

Wednesday’s breath hitched. Of course Enid would do this — cut through the layers of her careful deflections, naming the truth she had been circling. “Among other things.”

The silence that followed was counted in firefly flashes. Then Enid spoke again, her voice delicate, as if sharing a secret. “You know what I think?”

“Rarely anything grounded in logic.”

Enid laughed softly, the sound more of a sigh than joy. “I think...” She faltered for a moment, but when she continued, her voice was steady. “Whoever left those scars made you believe you’re dangerous. Like you need to be locked away, boxed up so no one gets hurt.” Her fingers tightened around Wednesday’s. “But void girl? You’re not a specimen. You’re not meant to live behind glass. You’re—”

“Stop.” The word snapped out. “You don’t know what I’m capable of.” Her voice broke slightly. “What I’ve let happen. What occurs when someone looks at darkness and mistakes it for... beauty.”

“You’re right.” The quiet admission caught Wednesday off guard, and she turned her head to Enid despite herself. Those ocean-deep eyes held hers. “I don’t know. Because you haven’t let me in. But Wednesday?” Enid’s gaze didn’t falter, not for a second. “Your darkness doesn’t scare me. It never has.”

“It should.”

“Should it?” Enid’s smile softened, impossibly tender. “Because from where I’m sitting, the only person your void has ever really hurt... is you.”

Something deep in Wednesday’s chest splintered — the final crack in the walls she had built stone by stone over the years. Words swelled in her throat, rising like a tide too strong to hold back, threatening to pull her under. She needed to look away, to patch the fractures before everything spilled out. She needed to—

“His name was Xavier.”

Enid’s hand tightened around hers, the pressure subtle yet grounding, a lifeline against the dark tide of memory threatening to drag her down. The fireflies below blurred and shifted, smearing into stars, into headlights, into—

“He was...” The words faltered, dissolving into the ache in her chest. How could she explain it? How darkness could wear a smile like a knife’s edge? How it could slip between your ribs so quietly, so effortlessly, that you didn’t notice you were bleeding until it was too late?

“Take your time.” Enid murmured, her thumb continuing its quiet trace across Wednesday’s knuckles. The motion was steady and infinite, like she was drawing constellations only they could see. “We’ve got all night.”

Wednesday’s free hand curled into a fist against her thigh, nails digging into the fabric. “He understood preservation,” she began. “The beauty in stillness. In holding things exactly as they were meant to be.” Her breath hitched quietly, and she swallowed hard. “Until he didn’t.”

The wind stirred the branches behind them, its soft whispers curling around her like echoes of another night, another conversation. Wednesday inhaled slowly, forcing herself to breathe past the memory’s grasp.

“He was an actor,” Wednesday said at last. “Method acting, he called it. Always chasing authenticity—in darkness. In pain.” Her voice threatened to falter. “He turned it into... poetry.”

Enid didn’t speak, didn’t push. She simply stayed, her warmth a barrier holding back the void that threatened to consume. When Wednesday wavered, Enid leaned closer.

“I thought—” The words caught, choking her. “I thought I’d found someone who understood. Someone who saw the world the way I did. Who knew that beauty doesn’t live in light, but in shadow.” A laugh escaped her. “I was wrong.”

“Wednesday...” Just her name, soft and careful, cradled like something fragile. It shouldn’t have made her chest ache the way it did.

“Don’t.” Kindness wasn’t something she could face, not now, not with the truth clawing its way up her throat. “There are things you don’t understand. Things you need to.” Her free hand gestured vaguely between them. “Why this can’t... why we can’t…”

“Hey.” Enid's voice pulled Wednesday back from the edge. “Whatever excuse you’re about to throw at me — too dangerous, too dark, too... whatever — I’m not going anywhere.” Her thumb pressed firmly against Wednesday’s hand. “Unless... you want me to?”

Wednesday’s head jerked up, her gaze locking onto those endless ocean eyes. “That’s exactly what—” The words faltered, her breath catching as she recalibrated. “He said things like that too. In the beginning. Before he started...”

The rest tangled and stuck, refusing to come out clean. How could she explain it? The slow erosion of boundaries? How manipulation could don the mask of love, smiling softly as it stole pieces of you? How devotion, twisted just so, could carve a path to destruction?

“Before he showed you his version of darkness?” Beneath that softness, Wednesday sensed the unmistakable steel.

A tremor coursed through her body, faint but relentless. “He called it art,” she whispered. Enid’s grip tightened around her fingers, steady and protective, as Wednesday continued. “He said I was the only one who could ever truly understand his... craft.”

Moonlight glinted off the tears pooling in Enid’s eyes, transforming them into shards of diamond. But her voice, when it came once more, was steady. “What did he do?”

Wednesday’s heart pounded hard enough to shake her ribs. This was it — the line between before and after, the moment she couldn’t take back. Once the words escaped her lips, there would be no undoing them. No freezing this fragile bond between them in formaldehyde, safe and untouched by what she carried.

Thunder rumbled low on the horizon, a warning or perhaps a benediction, as if the storm itself were holding its breath. Waiting.

Wednesday’s fingers trembled against Enid’s. Her free hand dug into the rough bark of the log beneath them, its texture biting into her skin, grounding her in something solid — something real — as the pull of memory threatened to unravel the present.

“It started small.” Her voice sounded distant, hollow, as if it belonged to someone else. “Little tests. Ways to prove my dedication to his... art.” Her jaw tightened. “Three AM phone calls to discuss probability rates. Meetings on rooftops, where he said we could ‘capture authentic fear.’ Every crisis perfectly orchestrated, perfectly staged.”

Lightning split the horizon, casting pale light over Enid’s face. Her eyes shimmered with galaxies of concern, but she remained silent, steady, allowing Wednesday to navigate through the shadows on her own terms.

“He’d stand on ledges.” The words poured from her lips, like blood leaking from a wound she couldn’t staunch. “Calculate the perfect height for maximum impact. Quote statistics while balancing on the edge, his feet solid, his smile—” Her breath snagged, breaking the sentence in two. “He said I was the only one who truly understood. The only one who saw the beauty in the void.”

“Wednesday…”

“Please.” Wednesday's fingers tightened around Enid’s, her grip desperate and instinctive. “Please. I need to—” She swallowed hard, forcing herself to continue. “You need to understand why I can’t let anyone else—” She gestured vaguely.

A raindrop struck the log between them, quickly followed by another. The storm advanced, its sound a drumbeat on the edge of the world, but neither flinched. Neither moved.

“Every emergency was a performance.” Wednesday’s voice flattened, becoming clinical and detached, as if reciting from a medical journal. “Every hospital visit, every crisis... He timed his calls perfectly. Always when I had plans. Always with witnesses to make my refusal seem calculated. Cruel.”

Thunder rumbled closer, a low growl through the clearing. Enid shifted, her fingers tugging Wednesday infinitesimally closer, a quiet act against the storm — both the one overhead and the one threatening to tear Wednesday apart.

“The night of the accident…” It tangled in her throat like barbed wire. Wednesday’s free hand rose instinctively to her neck, her fingers brushing against the ghostly ones that lingered. “He wanted me to listen. To document it. Every detail.” She paused. “He said it would be his masterpiece. His finest performance.”

Raindrops began to fall steadily now, tracing silent paths down their faces, indistinguishable from the tears they refused to note. Enid’s thumb, which had been tracing endless circles, stilled against Wednesday’s skin, her touch frozen in anticipation of what was coming.

“A family of four. In a minivan.” The words slipped from her lips in a monotone, preserved just enough to be bearable. “He’d practiced that curve for weeks. Calculated the exact speed needed for—” The truth caught again. “He made me listen to all of it. The impact. The screams. And his laughter when—”

A sob tore from Wednesday’s throat, raw and painful, like an old wound reopening. Her fingers spasmed against Enid’s, instinctively trying to retreat into the defensive walls that had kept her safe. But Enid didn’t let go. Her grip remained — gentle yet firm — holding Wednesday together when she felt like she might unravel.

Wednesday’s shoulders hunched forward, her body folding in on itself as if trying to contain the void swelling in her chest. She hadn’t intended to say it — hadn’t meant to unearth these poisoned words and let them seep into the fragile space between them. Now they were out, ready to spread like darkness, contaminating everything they touched.

“Wednesday.” Enid’s voice was soft, a tenderness that tightened Wednesday’s chest painfully. “Look at me. Please?”

Thunder rumbled again, overhead this time. But Wednesday remained frozen, unable to move or even breathe. Headlights flashed behind her eyes, distorted by rain-streaked glass. Laughter twisted into screams amidst the sickening sound of metal crumpling.

“Hey.” The gentle pressure of Enid’s cast brushed against her cheek, tilting her head up until her eyes met Enid’s. Ocean meeting void. Somehow, Enid’s touch radiated warmth, defying the cold around them. “You’re here,” Enid said softly, her words pulling Wednesday back inch by inch. “With me. Not there. Not with him.”

Wednesday’s gaze locked onto Enid’s face, searching for something she couldn’t name. Judgment? Horror? The moment when light would finally reject darkness, when Enid would see the void for what it was — empty, endless, and devouring.

But there was no rejection in Enid’s eyes. Only understanding. And something deeper — something resolute — that made Wednesday’s pulse falter. It terrified her, this essence that lived in Enid’s gaze. It was more frightening than any darkness she had ever known.

“They called it a tragedy,” Wednesday whispered. “At the funeral, everyone said he died doing what he loved.” Her laugh was jagged, brittle as frost on glass. “Nobody mentioned how he practiced. How he chose them — deliberately. The father who taught chemistry. The mother who coached little league. Their youngest daughter, who’d just lost her first tooth.” Her voice splintered. “How he knew I’d be waiting at home. Knowing what was coming. Helpless to—”

“Stop.” Enid’s voice was steel wrapped in velvet. It was the same strength Wednesday had heard in the library that first day when Enid had stared down her icy defenses without flinching. “You weren’t helpless,” Enid continued, her thumb brushing away a tear Wednesday hadn’t even realized had fallen. “You were manipulated by someone who twisted your dedication, your loyalty, into a weapon. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?” Wednesday’s voice frayed at the edges. “Because when I see you… push through injuries, when you hide pain behind that smile…” She stopped, swallowing against the bitter taste of copper and regret. “The patterns — they’re impossible to ignore. The probability of—”

“Hey, no.” Enid’s good hand tightened around Wednesday’s. “Don’t do that. Don’t turn me into a problem you can solve. Don’t make me another specimen you’re trying to preserve under glass.”

“I can’t watch someone else—” Flashes of Xavier surfaced unbidden: standing on rooftops, perched on ledges, always performing, always pushing until the boundaries shattered beneath him. “To be the audience for another performance of—”

“Wednesday.” Enid leaned in closer, their foreheads nearly touching. Rain slid between them, cold against their skin, but neither moved to wipe it away. Her cast rested against Wednesday’s shoulder while her other hand remained entwined with hers. “Listen to me,” she said, her voice trembling. “What I do — it’s not a performance. It’s not manipulation. It’s just…” She paused, hesitating. “It’s just survival.”

Lightning flashed once more over the sky, briefly illuminating the tears pooling further in Enid’s eyes. In that fleeting light, Wednesday glimpsed beyond the smiles and relentless energy, revealing something darker — something far too familiar.

“When you grow up knowing that weakness gets punished,” Enid said, “you learn to smile through anything. You keep moving, no matter what, because stopping means…”

She trailed off, but Wednesday felt the tremor rippling through her body. Acting on instinct, she lifted her free hand to cup Enid’s face. Her thumb brushed along the curve of Enid’s cheekbone, pausing on faint, jagged scars she hadn’t noticed before. She committed them to memory, each line telling a story she wished she had recognized sooner.

“The CPS records.” The words escaped Wednesday like a revelation. All those medical files she’d read with detached interest, meticulously documented injuries wrapped in vague explanations. “Your medical history… it indicated—”

“Yeah.” Enid's laugh was shaky, watery, barely holding together. “Turns out some people shouldn’t be parents.” She attempted a smile, but it faltered into something brittle and self-deprecating — a mask Wednesday had never seen her wear before. “On the bright side, I got pretty good at stunts. Nothing teaches you how to fall like figuring out which ways hurt the least.”

Something clenched deep in Wednesday’s chest. For so long, she had been dissecting parallels to Xavier, searching for patterns of manipulation in every concealed bruise and hidden scar. What she should have seen was… “Enid…”

“No, it’s okay,” Enid said quickly. “I got out. I found my real family.” Her gaze locked onto Wednesday's. “My friends… they saved me. They gave me a place to belong. But some habits—” Her voice faltered momentarily, then steadied. “Some habits are harder to break than bones, you know? Like hiding injuries, pushing through pain, trying to feel something.” She swallowed hard, her next words coming out in a whisper. “Or being terrified of letting someone see what’s underneath the smile. All the mess. All the cracks.”

“And yet here you are,” Wednesday murmured, a sense of wonder creeping in. “Letting me see.”

“Yeah, well.” Enid exhaled, her breath mingling with the rain. “Apparently, some people are worth the risk, even if their morgue is kept at temperatures that probably violate the Geneva Convention.”

A sound escaped Wednesday’s throat, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Trust Enid to make jokes even now, with both their souls stripped bare. “Your humor is deeply concerning.”

“You love it.” Enid’s grin softened, fading into something quieter and more serious. “Just like I…” She hesitated, then forged ahead. “Just like I love how you see through every mask I try to wear. How you notice every change in my breathing and memorize my medical history like it’s a puzzle only you can solve.” Her voice dipped. “How you look at me like I’m something worth keeping — even when I’m coming undone.”

“I can’t—” She tried again. “If something happened to you because I missed the signs again, because I allowed myself to believe in something that—”

“Wednesday.” Enid’s voice softened, coaxing her out of the storm. “You’re not him. And I’m not looking for an audience.” Her cast pressed against Wednesday’s shoulder, grounding them both. “I’m looking for someone who sees me. All of me. Even the broken parts. Even the darkness I keep pretending isn’t there.”

“You’re not broken.”

“Neither are you.” Enid’s smile softened, impossibly tendee. “Just a little haunted, that’s all.” She paused, letting the words linger before continuing with a small, hopeful grin. “Maybe we could be haunted together? Share a void or two.”

Something deep in Wednesday’s chest gave way — not a fracture, but an unfolding. Like frost surrendering to the first blush of flowers, like death yielding to spring.

“Your metaphors are subpar.”

“Yeah?” Enid leaned in just enough for their breaths to mix. Her eyes shimmered with galaxies of uncertainty, tempered by a flicker of hope. “What about your walls? Do they need work too?”

“They’re already compromised,” Wednesday admitted. “You and your light keep slipping through the cracks, making me want things I have no business wanting.”

“Good.” Enid’s gaze dropped to Wednesday’s lips, then lifted again, a subtle movement that sent a jolt through Wednesday’s entire nervous system. “Because I’m done pretending I’m not falling for you. Done acting like my heart doesn’t trip over itself every time you talk like a gothic poetry collection or when you get that little furrow in your brow while taking notes, or—”

“Enid.” Wednesday’s thumb brushed lightly over her bottom lip, silencing her mid-ramble. Her heart stuttered, flipping wildly in her chest. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Using too many words when actions would suffice.”

A grin curved across Enid’s lips — not the radiant facade she showcased to the world, but something softer and more genuine. “Is that your way of telling me to shut up and kiss you?”

Wednesday smiled.

“Is this okay?” Enid asked breathlessly as she leaned in closer, her words nearly brushing against Wednesday's skin. “Us? This? Because if you need more time, or space, or—"

Without hesitation, Wednesday closed the distance.

Their lips met for the first time, soft and tentative like morning frost. The rain fell around them, unnoticed and irrelevant, as they surrendered to the quiet and inevitable collision of void and light.

A small sound escaped Enid’s lips, somewhere between a sigh and surrender, shattering Wednesday's composure into something raw and uncontrollable.

Wednesday's fingers slid into Enid's rain-soaked hair, pulling her closer. Enid responded with a tenderness that felt almost unbearable in its sincerity. Each point of contact sent sparks through Wednesday’s body, unraveling everything she thought she knew about preservation and decay, about darkness, about light, about—

Suddenly, a flash illuminated the clearing, followed by muffled giggles and the unmistakable sound of frantic typing.

Wednesday broke away from the kiss, instinctively pulling Enid closer to shield her while pivoting toward the source of the disturbance. What she encountered was not an ambush, but Hana and Divina crouched behind a fallen log, their faces aglow from their phone screens, grinning like eager wildlife photographers.

“Oh my god,” Divina squealed, her fingers a blur on her phone screen. “The group chat is going to implode. Look at this lighting! The rain! The aesthetic!” She hugged her phone to her chest as if it were a precious artifact. “It’s like something out of a romance novel!”

“I can’t believe it finally happened!” Hana exclaimed, practically vibrating with excitement. Her usual calm demeanor had vanished, replaced by giddy energy as she cradled her phone. “In the rain! With moonlight! It’s better than anything we’ve ever shot!” She paused, tapping her chin with mock seriousness. “Although the morgue scenes did have that delicious enemies-to-lovers tension—”

“If those photos surface anywhere—” Wednesday began, her voice dipping into a dangerously low register that had been known to send the boldest production assistants fleeing.

“Are you kidding me?” Divina interrupted, her grin sharpening into something diabolical. “These are going straight into my wedding slideshow. I’ve been curating material since day one!”

“Your what?” Wednesday and Enid demanded in unison, which only made Hana and Divina’s grins stretch wider.

“Oh, you know,” Hana said dismissively, as if summing up their entire relationship was trivial. “The slideshow Divina’s been putting together since the moment you two started making heart eyes at each other. She even has a whole folder titled, ‘Wednesday’s Gay Panic Around Pretty Athletes.’”

“I do not—” Wednesday began, but her words faltered, fading away as Enid’s laughter rumbled softly against her shoulder, warm and impossibly affectionate.

“Actually,” Enid replied, her eyes lighting with a familiar brand that always signaled trouble for Wednesday, “could you send me that last one? You know, for research purposes.”

“Research?”

“Mmhm.” Enid’s grin softened as she looked at Wednesday, her gaze full of life. “I need to document how the void blushes. You know, for historical accuracy.”

Wednesday opened her mouth, ready to argue — to assert that she did not blush, that her circulatory system functioned with perfect precision, and that this whole situation was an affront to professionalism. But before she could say anything, Enid kissed her again. It was a quick, gentle press of lips that stole her words and sent Divina into another round of high-pitched squealing and rapid-fire camera clicks.

“My ship,” Divina sighed dramatically, clutching her phone. “It’s finally sailing. After years of pining and all those medical discussions that were obviously just excuses for you two to stare at each other—”

“The mortuary science debates were entirely legitimate,” Wednesday insisted, though her fingers remained threaded with Enid’s. Despite her best efforts, the corners of her lips betraying her with a reluctant smile.

“Sure they were, void girl.” Enid’s thumb resumed its gentle stroke against her palm. “Just like you definitely didn’t memorize my coffee order for ‘scientific documentation.’”

“That was purely for observational consistency—”

“The photos beg to differ!” Hana chimed in, her fingers scrolling through what seemed like a whole archive of incriminating evidence. “Oh! Remember when Wednesday nearly stabbed Tyler with a prop scalpel because he touched Enid’s water bottle?”

“I hate all of you,” Wednesday muttered, though there was no real anger in her tone. Not when Enid was nestled close at her side, their fingers intertwined as if they’d always been meant to be that way. Not when the walls she had fortified for years were finally crumbling, allowing the light to seep through.

Wednesday was starting to realize that some specimens were better preserved in warmth than in darkness. Even if that warmth came with obnoxious friends and their insufferable phone cameras.

And maybe — just maybe — she wouldn’t mind seeing those photos in the slideshow Divina was so eagerly curating.

Not that she would ever admit it, of course.