Archive of Our Own

Enid’s words rang between them, sharp but low, and it was almost endearing how she tried to mask the growl under her tone. Almost.

Wednesday let her eyes linger on Tyler, dissecting him the way she might a pinned beetle under glass. His stance was too taut, too prepared, like a spring that had been coiled in the wrong hands. He wasn’t approaching yet. Not physically. He was letting the stare do the work for him, letting his presence spread through the room like smoke.

The party itself carried on in oblivion. Music thumped—an obnoxious bass-heavy thing that seemed designed to test the structural integrity of the speakers. Multicolored lights sliced through the dimness, flashing across students’ faces in rapid succession, giving them the uncanny look of stop-motion puppets, jerked mid-movement. Someone in the corner was laughing too loudly. Someone else was crying on the stairs. The smell of spiked punch and adolescent desperation was enough to make Wednesday want to file a complaint with the CDC.

Enid, however, was still staring at Tyler. Her nails pressed faint crescents into her arm. Her body had shifted subtly toward Wednesday, like instinct was making her gravitate to the safest gravitational pull in the room—and it happened to be a girl in black braids who collected poisons for fun.

“Apparently his incompetence extends to the concept of boundaries,” Wednesday murmured, just for her.

Enid’s ears twitched. “You—you don’t think he’s gonna…?”

Wednesday tilted her head. She considered the question as though it were a chessboard, pieces already placed. “Transform here? Amongst so many witnesses? Even Hyde instincts aren’t so gauche. No, he’s waiting for the right stage. A quieter backdrop. Somewhere he can play butcher without an audience.”

Enid’s lips pressed together, worry creasing her brow. Wednesday saw it, catalogued it, and decided she disliked it. Not because the expression didn’t suit Enid—it suited her too well. But because it was provoked by him.

She turned back toward Tyler, allowed her gaze to meet his. It was not a look of challenge, nor of acknowledgment. It was colder than either. A look that said: you do not matter .

But she knew predators. She knew the arrogance in their blood. To ignore him completely would be to feed the delusion that he was being clever, invisible in his own right. Better, then, to dismantle him here, in front of witnesses.

Wednesday reached out without preamble and slipped her hand into Enid’s.

The effect was immediate.

Enid stiffened, not with rejection, but with the stunned rigidity of someone who had just been struck by lightning in the middle of a dance floor. Her eyes widened, pupils blown large in the flash of colored lights. The way her chest rose—too quick, too sharp—was almost audible against the bass.

Wednesday, meanwhile, carried on as if she had merely adjusted her gloves. Her hand remained in Enid’s, fingers cool but unyielding. She did not lace them, did not soften. Affection, for Wednesday, was a precise tool: applied only where it served its purpose.

She leaned ever so slightly toward Enid and murmured, “You asked me once if I liked parties. Tonight I find them useful.”

Enid swallowed. “U-useful?”

“Yes. To make certain individuals aware of their irrelevance.”

She turned her head deliberately, just enough to catch Tyler in her periphery. His jaw tightened. His fist flexed.

Wednesday’s lips curved—not into a smile, but into the faintest suggestion of satisfaction.

Enid’s heartbeat was practically pulsing through her palm. She didn’t pull away. She wouldn’t.

The party continued in fractured vignettes around them. Someone was spilling their drink over the couch. Bruno was dancing badly, and several onlookers were pretending it was ironically funny. The lights stuttered again, catching Enid’s face in intervals—soft, open, loyal. Then Tyler’s: harsh, shadowed, seething.

Wednesday squeezed Enid’s hand once, deliberately. Not tender, not gentle. Possessive.

“Stay close,” she said, tone as flat as if she were reminding Enid not to misplace her keys. “He’ll interpret distance as weakness.”

Enid’s mouth opened—maybe to argue, maybe to reassure—but she shut it again, cheeks coloring under the neon. Instead she pressed imperceptibly closer, shoulder brushing Wednesday’s.

Tyler finally moved. Not toward them, not yet, but across the room—closer to the bar, closer to the shadows. Still watching. Always watching.

Wednesday tracked him with the detachment of a surgeon eyeing a tumor. “I thought I had excised him from my life,” she muttered. “Yet here he is again. Like mold.”

Enid huffed a laugh that was more nerves than humor, but it still counted. “Not a very flattering metaphor for your ex.”

“He isn’t an ex,” Wednesday corrected, sharp. “That word implies romance. What I had with Tyler was an experiment. One that yielded predictable results: disaster.”

She let that hang in the air, purposeful enough that anyone overhearing would file it away. The rumor mill could work in her favor, if weaponized correctly.

Enid, still holding her hand, shifted again. There was a line of tension in her shoulders, but also—something else. Something softer, underneath, like warmth threading its way through steel.

For a moment, Wednesday considered it. The simplicity of Enid’s presence, the way her pulse betrayed every thought she tried to hide.

Then she looked back at Tyler.

“Let him watch,” she said, quieter this time. “Predators starve when denied their illusions. Tonight, I will feed him only reality.”

And with that, she guided Enid—not asked, not suggested, but guided—toward the center of the room, where the light cut sharpest and there was no mistaking who belonged at her side.

The bassline thrummed against the walls like an arrhythmic heartbeat. Purple light bled into green and back again, staining the sweat-slick faces of Nevermore students as they crowded shoulder to shoulder, spilling drinks onto sticky floors and howling lyrics they didn’t fully know. Someone had managed to rig a smoke machine in the corner, coughing out grayish plumes that made the space feel like a den of adolescent wolves in heat, shifting and restless.

Wednesday cataloged all of it with the detached precision of someone observing insects in a jar.

Her attention, however, snagged again on Tyler. He hadn’t moved. Still anchored near the far side of the room, watching with a stillness that cut through the chaos around him. The kind of stillness predators wore before the strike. He wasn’t smiling—not the awkwardly charming curl of lips he’d once tried to weaponize around her—but his mouth was set in a tight line. His eyes tracked her every step like crosshairs.

And Enid felt it. Wednesday could tell. The werewolf’s shoulders had stiffened, her nails tapping absently against her arm, betraying nerves she was otherwise trying to bury under bubbly distraction. Every time she laughed too brightly at someone brushing past, her ears twitched.

Wednesday leaned in, low enough that Enid had to tilt her head to catch the words over the music. “Ignore him.”

Enid flicked her eyes up, startled. “What?”

“Tyler.” Wednesday’s gaze didn’t waver. “He’s here for me. And by proxy, you.”

Enid’s throat bobbed. Her lips pressed together in a thin line before she gave a quick nod, like agreeing would make her heartbeat stop galloping.

It didn’t. Wednesday could hear it anyway.

A DJ swap shifted the tempo, and the crowd roared when the new track slid into a high-energy, throbbing beat. Couples migrated to the center, some ironically, most not. Arms looped around waists, bodies swayed together, lights fractured over their faces.

Wednesday turned back to Enid, calculating. This was opportunity disguised as irritation. Because Tyler wasn’t the only one staring anymore. Bruno—who had been hovering on the edge of his own party like a forgotten host—was watching too. His gaze lingered on Enid, hopeful and yearning in a way that made Wednesday’s skin itch with secondhand discomfort.

How convenient. Two birds, one stone.

She didn’t give herself time to reconsider. Wednesday hooked her hand around Enid’s wrist—not roughly, but enough to make her point—and tugged her forward.

Enid squeaked. “Wait—what—”

“We are dancing,” Wednesday announced flatly, as if it were as simple as executing a murder weapon blueprint.

Enid blinked at her, almost tripping over the edge of the makeshift dance floor. “You—you don’t dance.”

“I do now.”

“Why?” Enid’s voice pitched higher, panic and bewilderment tangled together.

Wednesday’s expression didn’t so much as flicker. “Because if I let you argue, someone else will ask first.”

Enid’s brain short-circuited. She gaped, opening and closing her mouth like a fish thrown ashore. “You—you wanted to dance with me before anyone else—”

“That is the distilled version, yes.”

If Enid had a tail, it would’ve been wagging so hard the floorboards might have given way. Instead, she laughed—a sound high and giddy, her cheeks pinkening under the neon wash. “Oh my god.”

The words were probably meant for herself, but Wednesday let them hang there like victory.

She placed one hand on Enid’s hip—clinical, efficient—and took the other in her own, guiding her into the rhythm with the unbending will of someone who had already decided the outcome.

Enid, for her part, looked like she might spontaneously combust. Her eyes darted between Wednesday’s face and their joined hands as though she couldn’t decide which was more impossible. Her steps stumbled at first, but her body fell into rhythm quickly, instincts smoothing the edges where her brain was short-circuiting.

Around them, the students screamed louder, like their volume could match the tempo. Shadows bent and warped across the ceiling with each flash of light. Somewhere, someone spilled another drink and cursed about their shoes.

And at the edges of it all, Tyler’s stare burned like a brand. Bruno’s too—though his was softer, sadder, a boy watching something he had wanted slip forever out of reach.

Wednesday, however, didn’t falter. Her chin tipped just enough to catch Tyler’s eye across the room. Then, with deliberate precision, she tightened her hold on Enid’s waist, pulling her infinitesimally closer.

It wasn’t softness. It was strategy. But Wednesday was sharp enough to admit—even if only to herself—that strategy had begun to blur into something else.

Enid’s laugh bubbled up again, nervous and sparkling, but her gaze locked on Wednesday’s. The wolf wasn’t looking at anyone else anymore, not even Bruno’s shadow hanging nearby.

Just her.

And that, Wednesday decided, was the point.

The bass pulsed through their feet, weaving its way into Enid’s spine until it was impossible not to move. She laughed again, softer this time, more to herself than to the crowd, and leaned closer as if the music demanded it.

“You know,” she said, voice pitched high so it could cut through the noise, “I honestly thought if this ever happened, I’d have to get you drunk first.”

Wednesday’s eyebrow ticked up, the smallest gesture of incredulity. Her grip on Enid’s hand didn’t waver. “That will not happen.”

Enid’s grin widened, sharp with playfulness. “Never say never.”

“I say precisely what I mean,” Wednesday replied, her voice like a scalpel—precise, unwavering, slightly dangerous. She leaned closer, enough that Enid could feel the cool brush of her breath over the heat of her cheek. “Besides, you seem to forget something.”

Enid tilted her head, suspicious. “What?”

“I kissed you first.” Wednesday’s tone was matter-of-fact, like she was reminding Enid of an overdue assignment. “Out of necessity, of course.”

Enid’s jaw dropped, then she shook her head so quickly her hair nearly whipped Wednesday in the face. “Oh, no, no, no—you do not get to call that ‘necessity.’”

“It was,” Wednesday countered, unflinching. “A strategic diversion.”

“Diversion, my tail.” Enid laughed, the sound bright enough to cut through the bass. She pulled back just enough to look Wednesday square in the eye, still swaying with her. “You kissed me. You wanted to. And you can’t just dress it up as some big scary strategy to make it sound less… less… kiss-y.”

Wednesday’s lips twitched—whether toward irritation or the ghost of a smile was impossible to say. “Everything is strategy, Enid. Even this dance.”

Enid’s heart gave a traitorous lurch at the word this . She bit back another grin, though it slipped free anyway. “You’re impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Around them, the floor shuddered under the thrum of bass. Neon lights slashed their faces in alternating purples and greens, like the world itself couldn’t decide which one of them to spotlight.

Tyler’s gaze still cut across the room like a blade. Bruno’s lingered from the edges, bruised and heavy, a boy caught in the slow realization that the chapter he’d been hoping to reopen had already been written in someone else’s handwriting.

But Enid didn’t see either of them anymore. Not really. Not when Wednesday was looking at her the way she did now—steady, deliberate, like she was making a point in a debate she refused to lose.

Enid squeezed her hand, just a little, her grin softening at the edges. “Strategy or not… you still did it first.”

Wednesday inclined her head, dark eyes glinting. “Correct.”

And for once, she didn’t elaborate.

Enid was still shaking her head, laughing to herself, when Wednesday tugged her subtly closer—an almost imperceptible tightening of her hand, her shoulder dipping in to close the space between them. The crowd swallowed them whole, bodies bouncing and swaying, but somehow there was still a small orbit carved just for the two of them.

“Turns out," Enid said, leaning in as her hair brushed against Wednesday’s cheek. “You're actually a great dancer, who would have thought?”

Wednesday’s reply came instantly, clipped. “I’m walking in place to a poorly arranged beat. That does not qualify as good dancing.”

Enid’s smile widened. “Oh my god, you’re such a buzzkill. You’re literally holding my hand and swaying with me without stepping on my feed. I say that's good.”

“You mean willingly participating in a ritualistic herd movement designed to mimic mating displays, then yes, I suppose that is what’s happening,” Wednesday deadpanned.

Enid snorted, loud enough to draw a look from a girl dancing nearby, but she didn’t care. She tossed her hair back and grinned. “I’ll take it. You’re still doing the good dancing with me .”

Wednesday’s gaze lingered on her for a fraction too long before cutting away, scanning the crowd like she had to prove her point to herself. “That was intentional.”

Enid pretended to gasp, clutching her chest with her free hand. “Wait. Did you just admit you wanted to dance with me in the first place?”

“I admitted to nothing of the sort. I simply did it before you could ask.”

Enid leaned in closer, their noses nearly brushing, her grin brighter than the strobing lights. “So… what you’re saying is you really, really wanted to.”

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed, but her mouth betrayed her with the barest quirk at the corner. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re not denying it,” Enid shot back, sing-song.

For a moment, the music carried them, Enid laughing while Wednesday’s stillness seemed deliberate, like her entire body was resisting the idea that she was enjoying this at all—even as her grip refused to let go.

Across the room, Tyler lifted Bruno’s questionable cocktail to his lips again, his jaw tightening with every swallow. His knuckles whitened around the glass. The Hyde simmered under his skin, restless, itching. His eyes darted back to them again and again, each look darker than the last. He shook his head, sharp, like he was trying to physically rattle it away. Not here. Not yet. But the urge was crawling higher, clawing inside his ribs.

Meanwhile, Bruno nursed his own plastic cup, but his drink had long since gone warm in his hand. His shoulders slouched against the wall, half in shadow, watching. There was no mistaking the slump in his chest when Wednesday tugged Enid closer. No mistaking the faint sag of hope in his eyes when he realized the smile Enid was giving Wednesday was one he’d never seen turned his way. He was defeated, yes—but not ready to step aside. Not yet.

Enid, blissfully unaware of the storm behind her, tilted her head toward Wednesday again, the pulsing lights catching on the tips of her ears, making them glow pink. “Okay, but for real—this is better than I thought.”

Wednesday blinked at her. “Better than what?”

“Better than the version in my head.” Enid shrugged, still swaying with her, eyes bright. “Like I said, I thought I’d have to, like, beg you. Or get you tipsy. Or blackmail you with embarrassing photos. But nope. You swooped right in and now here we are.”

“Blackmail would have been ineffective,” Wednesday replied, as if she were reciting from a textbook. “And intoxication is a cheap tactic. I prefer to confront things directly.”

Enid tilted her head, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “Directly, huh? More like ‘stealing my moment.’”

Wednesday’s chin lifted a fraction. “Claiming it before you could ruin it with unnecessary dramatics.”

Enid laughed so hard she nearly tripped, but Wednesday’s grip steadied her instantly. “Unnecessary dramatics? Me?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my god, just so ridiculous of you.”

“And you’re predictable,” Wednesday countered, dry as ever, but her fingers didn’t slip away.

Enid softened, her grin gentler now as she peered up at her. “Yeah, tell me something that I don't know. You're still holding me anyway.”

Wednesday said nothing, though her silence had weight—like a wordless concession.

The music swelled, the bass rattling through the floorboards, but the orbit around Wednesday and Enid stayed intact. Enid was still laughing under her breath, riding the high of winning every single banter-round, when a sharp, deliberate clearing of a throat cut through the chaos.

Bruno.

He shoved himself off the wall like he’d been storing all his courage there and strode forward, his drink sloshing dangerously in hand. The strobe lights caught his expression—flushed, set, desperate in a way that was almost comical if it weren’t so heavy.

“Alright, alright, shut it down for a sec!” His voice cracked halfway through but the mic he snatched from the DJ booth made up for it with an ear-splitting squeal. A few dancers booed, others groaned, but enough heads turned for silence to ripple through the crowd.

Enid blinked, startled, but didn’t let go of Wednesday’s hand. Tyler lowered his cup, his jaw locking tight.

Bruno raised his free hand, trying for confident but landing somewhere between jittery and theatrical. “Ladies and gentlemen—uh, and everything in between—can we just acknowledge something historic tonight?”

The crowd muttered, restless, a little impatient.

Bruno’s grin sharpened. “We have, in this very room, none other than Wednesday Addams. Nevermore’s own savior. ”

The room didn’t erupt into cheers so much as a mixed bag of applause, scattered hoots, and a few people pretending to care. But it was enough to draw every pair of eyes toward Wednesday—who, in return, gave Bruno a stare sharp enough to kill small mammals on the spot.

Enid gasped quietly, turning to her. “Oh my gosh—he’s talking about you.”

“I’m aware.”

Bruno, sensing the moment slipping, threw his arm wide, nearly sloshing his drink over his shirt. “Come on, Wednesday! Come up here with me. Don’t be shy.”

“She’s not shy,” Enid corrected instantly, like a reflex. Then she looked at Wednesday, eyes wide and pleading. “But you should go. Just for a sec.”

Wednesday’s glare could have leveled the stage where Bruno stood, but Enid’s grip on her hand softened the blow. That was the problem—she could deflect Bruno easily. She couldn’t deflect Enid.

“You cannot possibly expect me to—”

“Yes, I can. And I do,” Enid said, smiling that soft, stubborn smile that meant Wednesday’s fate was sealed.

So Wednesday found herself tugged forward, each step a reluctant march toward the stage. The crowd parted just enough to let her through, a few curious stares tracking her as though she were some exotic animal reluctantly performing.

Bruno beamed, seizing the moment. “There she is!” He clapped his hands like he’d just summoned a deity. “Now before we all get completely wasted tonight, Wednesday Addams is going to give us a speech.”

The cheer that followed was messy, half-hearted, but loud enough to sting. Wednesday froze in place at the top of the stage, her expression icily unimpressed. She turned her head, ever so slightly, and delivered a glare to Bruno that promised his untimely demise.

Then, slowly, she looked down—past the crowd, past the lights, past everything else—and found Enid.

The werewolf stood just below the stage, smiling up at her, soft and proud and unshaken by the chaos around them. Wednesday’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes lingered. Fixed. Anchored.

The room roared, but Wednesday only saw her.

Wednesday let the silence stretch, the mic Bruno offered hanging limply at her side. The crowd shifted, expecting applause lines, maybe gratitude, maybe something resembling a normal human acknowledgment. Instead, they got Wednesday Addams.

She raised the mic at last, her voice as flat as the grave.

“Congratulations,” she began. “You’ve all chosen to spend your Friday night rotting your brains with alcohol, gyrating like startled livestock, and mistaking this for joy.”

A nervous laugh rippled through the room. Someone booed. Someone else clapped.

“Let me assure you,” she continued, unfazed, “it is not joy. It is a chemical delusion. A feeble distraction before you all wake up tomorrow with pounding headaches, questionable regrets, and the distinct realization that you remain as unremarkable as you were this morning.”

A few of the crowd laughed again, though half in disbelief.

“Alcohol, in fact, is an ineffective poison,” Wednesday said, pacing a step with deliberate calm. “If your goal is self-destruction—and judging by the state of this party, it is—you should aim for efficiency. Hemlock is far more elegant. Belladonna has historical gravitas. Even arsenic, if properly applied, carries a certain poetry.”

The crowd erupted—half horrified gasps, half cheers egged on by the idea that maybe this was performance art. Bruno’s grin froze halfway on his face.

Enid, from below, was biting her lip hard to keep from laughing.

“Instead,” Wednesday said, raising her gaze and letting her words slice clean through the noise, “you cling to cheap cocktails and shallow escapism, dancing as if it makes you immortal. It does not. You are still one heartbeat closer to the inevitable void. No amount of neon lights or lukewarm beer will change that.”

The silence after that was loud. The bass still thumped faintly in the background, but nobody moved. All eyes were on her.

Wednesday allowed herself the faintest smirk. “Enjoy your evening.”

And with that, she lowered the mic.

Her eyes, once again, found Enid.

Bruno slid back into frame with the grace of someone who had clearly survived enough awkward silences to make them part of his brand. He plucked the mic neatly from Wednesday’s hand, his grin plastered back into place.

“Now that’s a speech,” he said, voice booming over the crowd like a bad game show host. A nervous ripple of laughter followed, but Bruno steamrolled ahead before anyone could think too hard about arsenic cocktails.

He spread his arms wide. “But hey, what’s life without a little balance, right? Wednesday Addams gives you the doom, and I’ll give you the fun. Tonight—” he pointed toward the kegs stacked in the corner—“drinks are on me! Get wasted, get wild, get shit-faced! ”

The crowd erupted into cheers, as if their strings had just been yanked.

Bruno chuckled and leaned into the mic again, his tone dropping with just enough weight to remind everyone of what he was. “But fair warning,” he added, flashing the hint of a fang with his smile. “If your buddy starts howling at the moon or sprouting fur in places you don’t want to see? Get them the hell out of here. Werewolves don’t clean up after themselves when they’re in head.”

The laughter was less nervous this time, more raucous. A few of the jocks barked wolf calls. Someone howled back.

And in the middle of it all, Enid Sinclair tugged firmly at Wednesday’s sleeve, pulling her down from the stage like she was rescuing her from public execution.

“That was iconic,” Enid whispered fiercely once they were both back on solid ground, her eyes glittering like she was holding back an explosion of pride. “Like, half the room is traumatized, but the other half? Totally thinks you’re a legend. Do you even realize what you just did? You gave the first Addams TED Talk.”

Wednesday adjusted her sleeve back into place, expression unreadable. “You mean proving once again that humanity’s attempts at revelry are shallow and futile?”

Enid rolls her eyes. “Exactly what I said!”

– 

From across the room, Tyler clenched his jaw so tightly it looked like his teeth might crack. His grip on the cup of Bruno’s suspiciously fruity cocktail tightened until the flimsy plastic bent. He tipped the drink back like it was a shot of gasoline, but the sugary liquid only seemed to worsen his disgust.

Wednesday Addams, center stage in her funereal black, letting Sinclair tug her around like some lovesick debutante. And worse, the crowd loved it. He could hear the whispers, the giggles—like the whole school was in on the joke, and he was the punchline.

His body gave the smallest tremor, his muscles twitching in ways that were too close to a shift for comfort. For a second, his eyes flashed gold. A girl nearby glanced his way, frowning, and Tyler forced his gaze down, breathing hard. Not here. Not now. Not with all of them watching.

He slammed the half-empty cup onto a table, liquid sloshing out, and shoved his way toward the door. The air outside would be cooler. Cleaner. Less them.

Bruno’s gaze followed him until Tyler vanished past the threshold, the slam of the exit door muffled by the bass rattling through the walls. The werewolf’s chest rose and fell with a heavy sigh.

And yet, as his eyes drifted back toward the center of the room—where Enid Sinclair and Wednesday Addams were orbiting each other like gravity had bent in their favor—something primal clawed at his ribs.

Instinct told him it wasn’t real. Couldn’t be.

The way Wednesday’s hand lingered on Enid’s wrist, the way Enid glowed brighter just by proximity—it looked convincing, yes. But Bruno convinced himself there was a gap in it. A seam. A fault line waiting to crack.

“They’re bluffing,” he muttered under his breath, forcing his grin back into place as another classmate approached him for a drink. “They have to be.”

But as he poured the cup, his eyes flicked once more to Wednesday—who wasn’t even watching the crowd, wasn’t watching him, wasn’t watching the mess he’d tried to orchestrate.

Her gaze was locked on Enid. Unwavering. Unapologetic.

And that gnawed at him more than the alcohol burning his throat.

–

The night stretched on, loosening at the seams. The air grew thick, heavy with heat and bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder. Music throbbed harder, louder—someone had turned the bass up to the point where the floorboards seemed to breathe. Colored lights spun in seizure-inducing sweeps across sweaty, laughing faces.

Enid, flushed from alcohol and adrenaline, tugged herself free from Wednesday’s orbit for the first time all night.

“I’m just gonna… check on my pack. Don’t go brooding into a corner without me,” she said, wagging a playful finger in Wednesday’s face before dissolving into a giggle.

Wednesday raised an eyebrow but didn’t tether her back. “I make no promises.”

And just like that, Enid melted into the crowd. She found familiar faces—her packmates, a cluster of werewolves already three drinks too deep. They howled with laughter, howled for real at one point, and Enid—buzzed and warm—let herself join in. For a few minutes, it was easy to forget about eyes watching her, about Tyler’s storming exit, about Bruno’s sighs. She let herself just be… Enid.

Meanwhile, Wednesday positioned herself by the bar, arms crossed, the picture of black-lacquered detachment. A forgotten glass of soda water sat untouched beside her. She stood so still she almost looked like she’d been carved from the furniture itself, unbothered by the chaos swirling around her.

It didn’t take long for Bianca Barclay to appear.

Of course.

Like a shark scenting blood, she slid into place beside Wednesday with effortless poise, her cocktail glass glittering in the neon wash of light. She sipped slowly, eyes cutting sidelong toward the Addams girl with a smirk that looked more like a challenge.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” Bianca drawled, her tone sharp enough to slice. “Wednesday Addams. At a party. With actual teenagers. I thought this sort of thing was beneath you.”

Wednesday didn’t even blink. “It is. And yet, here I am. A masochistic experiment, if you will.”

Bianca tilted her head, amused. “So what changed? Sinclair guilt-trip you into showing up? Or did you wake up and decide that dancing badly in public was a character-building exercise?”

Wednesday’s lips curved the faintest fraction, a ghost of a smile that carried more menace than mirth. “I don’t need character-building. I am already a fully realized cautionary tale.”

Bianca snorted into her drink, nearly choking. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“I’ve been called worse. By people more interesting than you,” Wednesday replied flatly, finally turning her gaze to meet Bianca’s in that unblinking, soul-drilling way she had.

For a beat, Bianca said nothing—just stared, smirk faltering slightly under the weight of those bottomless black eyes. But then she straightened, shrugging off the moment like a jacket.

“You know,” she said, swirling her drink idly, “for someone who claims to despise parties, you seem awfully comfortable standing around like you own the place.”

Wednesday leaned one elbow against the bar, her posture casual but her words sharpened to a knife’s edge. “That’s because I do. If you think about it, most social gatherings are just carefully orchestrated power struggles. The weak strive to be noticed. The strong strive to be feared. By that metric, I am always at home.”

Bianca arched a brow, sipping again. “And which one are you tonight?”

Wednesday’s eyes flicked briefly toward the dance floor, where Enid was laughing, twirling under spinning lights with her pack. Then she turned back, deadpan.

“The one everyone will regret underestimating.”

Bianca tilted her glass toward Wednesday, her eyes narrowing with interest.
“Underestimating how?”

Wednesday’s gaze, cool and steady, drifted past Bianca’s shoulder.

On the dance floor, Enid was a whirl of blonde hair and neon lights, her laughter bubbling over as Bruno twirled her with drunken enthusiasm. They were sloppy—Enid stumbling in her heels, Bruno catching her arm with exaggerated gallantry—but the crowd ate it up, cheering, clapping along. Enid seemed utterly unaware of who she was dancing with, utterly oblivious to the way Bruno’s orbit tightened around her.

Wednesday’s eyes sharpened into knives. She didn’t respond to Bianca. Not yet.

Her mind was already busy with itself.

Wednesday Addams had always thought of alcohol as humanity’s most pitiful crutch—an elixir of false courage, temporary euphoria, and inevitable humiliation. A weakness bottled and sold for the masses who couldn’t face the void without a buffer. She had promised herself long ago that she would never indulge in such mediocrity.

And yet—

Her gaze stayed fixed on Enid. Enid, flushed and glowing, spinning clumsily beneath the strobe, her smile so wide it nearly split her face. Enid, who leaned too easily into the warmth of another’s hold, who was oblivious to the watchful shadow standing at the bar.

Why did the sight of her make Wednesday’s hand twitch? Why did it make her blood hum with an unfamiliar recklessness?

Why, for the first time, did she want to let go of her own ironclad rules—just to prove she could?

It was absurd. Illogical. Beneath her.

And yet—

Wednesday’s fingers flexed once before, without hesitation, she reached across and plucked the glass straight out of Bianca Barclay’s hand. Bianca blinked in open surprise, too stunned to snark.

Wednesday brought it to her lips, her face expressionless, her eyes still locked on Enid.

May her logical thinking be damned.

She drank.

Bianca’s brows shot up as if she had just witnessed the moon fall out of orbit. Her mouth even parted in surprise before reforming into a crooked smile that practically oozed mischief.

“Well, well, well,” she drawled, swirling the air where her glass used to be. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Addams.”

Wednesday lowered the glass from her lips with the same unflinching composure she reserved for dissecting a cadaver. “It appears neither did I.”

The drink was bitter, acrid, a poor substitute for arsenic or even half-spoiled milk. But it burned. It burned like a dare she had issued to herself and lost. Her expression betrayed nothing.

Bianca leaned one elbow on the bar, tilting her head with predatory amusement. “You really going to stand there and pretend you enjoyed it? Or is this just performance art—Wednesday Addams slumming it with the rest of us degenerates?”

Wednesday set the glass down on the bar with clinical precision. “Every experiment requires a variable. Tonight, I chose to test whether alcohol could provide clarity rather than cloud it. My preliminary results are… disappointing.”

Bianca chuckled, low and throaty, shaking her head. “God, you really don’t know how to relax, do you?”

“Relaxation is simply death in slow motion,” Wednesday replied flatly.

“Spoken like someone who’s never had to carry an entire social order on her back.” Bianca swiveled to face her fully, eyes flashing with the confidence of someone who knew her own power. “You think drinking’s pathetic? Sometimes it’s survival. Sometimes it’s strategy.”

Wednesday’s stare flicked from the abandoned rim of the glass back to Bianca, sharp as a scalpel. “I fail to see how willingly dulling your senses counts as a strategy.”

Bianca smirked. “That’s because you’ve never had people watching your every move, waiting for you to crack. When you control the way you let go, you own the room. Even your weakness becomes a weapon.”

Wednesday tilted her head ever so slightly, as though examining a peculiar insect. “So you mask manipulation as indulgence. How very… siren of you.”

The jab landed, but Bianca only smiled wider. “Takes one predator to recognize another.”

Bianca leaned closer, voice pitched low. “So tell me, what possessed the great Wednesday Addams to even show up here? This isn’t exactly your natural habitat. Unless brooding counts as a sport.”

Wednesday’s tone was bone-dry. “I find parties to be anthropological laboratories. A chance to observe humanity at its most unguarded. Alcohol reduces people to their truest selves. It’s… enlightening.”

Bianca arched a brow. “You mean pathetic.”

Wednesday’s lips curved—barely, but undeniably. “The two are often synonymous.”

Bianca laughed outright this time, a rich sound that drew a few glances their way. “Such outlandish choices.”

“And yet,” Wednesday said coolly, “here you are. Conversing with me.”

“Maybe I’m just curious how long it’ll take for you to admit you’re human like the rest of us.”

Wednesday’s eyes glittered darkly. “I’ll admit nothing of the sort. Humanity is a plague. I am merely… adjacent.”

Bianca gave her a long, assessing look. “You really mean that, don’t you? You’d rather be anything but human.”

“Correct,” Wednesday replied simply.

Bianca took back her glass, swirled the last drops at the bottom, then leaned in again with a smirk. “Then why does watching her”—she nodded toward Enid, still laughing in Bruno’s clumsy grip—“make you human as hell?”

The words landed like a blade between the ribs. Wednesday didn’t flinch, but the silence stretched taut.

Bianca smirked wider, satisfied. “Thought so.”

Wednesday’s shoulders went rigid, though her face remained marble-smooth. She refused to grant Bianca the satisfaction of a visible wound. Instead, she pivoted on her heel with soldierly precision and stalked back to the bar.

“Another,” she said flatly to the bartender—the poor underpaid soul Bruno had “rented” for the evening.

The man blinked. “Same thing?”

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed. “Something stronger. Preferably illegal.”

He paled. “Uh—”

“Surprise me,” she cut in, each syllable a death sentence.

Behind her, Bianca’s laugh carried like a ripple across still water. When Wednesday glanced back, Bianca was leaning comfortably against the bar, arms crossed, grin sharper than glass. Her expression said it all: I told you so.

The drink landed in front of Wednesday, amber and suspicious. She lifted it, stared at it like a mortal enemy, then swallowed the whole thing in a single, decisive motion. It scorched down her throat. For a fleeting moment, the burn felt like penance.

Her eyes—those unblinking stormclouds—slid back across the room. Enid. Still glowing like some gaudy neon sign in a sea of shadows. Still laughing. Still touching —because now Bruno’s thick arm was slung around her shoulders like he owned stock in her spine.

Wednesday’s jaw tightened. If looks could kill, Bruno would already be fertilizer. Enid would be free to frolic among the daisies, and Wednesday could finally stop pretending she wasn’t human enough to care.

Instead, she set her empty glass on the bar with enough force to make it clink. Then she turned, her posture snapping into that unnerving parade-ground strut—chin high, braid swinging like a pendulum—as she began stalking to the other side of the room.

Bianca, of course, noticed. Oh, she noticed.

“Well, look at that,” Bianca purred, falling into step a few feet behind her. “Wednesday Addams, storming across a party like a woman scorned. I think I just saw smoke rising off you.”

Wednesday didn’t look back. “Your commentary is unnecessary.”

“Necessary? No. Entertaining? Absolutely,” Bianca teased, her grin audible in her voice. She tilted her head, watching with delight. “Is this what a tantrum looks like in Addams-speak? A dramatic strut and a murder glare?”

Wednesday’s lips thinned, but her eyes never left Enid. The glow of her hair. The way Bruno leaned closer, whispering something that made her giggle. The sound traveled across the room and into Wednesday’s bones like nails down slate.

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides.

“Ohhh,” Bianca cooed, savoring it. “It is a tantrum. This is delicious.”

Wednesday finally stopped, spine ramrod straight, and spoke without turning around. “If you continue to antagonize me, Bianca, I’ll be forced to remind you that sirens are not immune to dismemberment.”

Bianca smirked. “Empty threats don’t suit you. Besides—” she slid up beside her, close enough to glance at her profile, “—I think we both know I’m not the one you’re planning to dismember tonight.”

Wednesday’s eyes flicked briefly—just briefly—toward her, sharp as knives. But Bianca had already won.

Wednesday cut Bianca’s smirk short by slicing forward through the crowd. Each step was measured, deliberate, the kind of stride generals used before commanding a firing squad.

She reached them—Enid’s glow now blinding up close, Bruno looming like a smug gargoyle with his arm snug around her shoulders.

Wednesday’s voice was steel when it came:
“Enid.”

The werewolf blinked up, eyes glazed slightly from the alcohol. “Wen–nes–dayyy! You came over! ” Her smile stretched wide, sloppy and radiant.

“Yes.” Wednesday’s gaze flicked briefly to Bruno, then returned to Enid. In one clean motion, she reached out, seized Enid’s hand, and pulled her close. Close enough that Enid nearly stumbled into her chest.

Enid’s cheeks flushed, giggles tumbling out of her mouth. “Ohhh, bossy tonight, huh?”

Bruno stiffened, his easy grin faltering. The rest of the pack—half drunk, half rowdy—looked on with interest, sensing blood in the water.

Wednesday, expression unchanging, addressed them with the same monotone she might use to greet mourners at a funeral. “You all seem remarkably entertained by trivialities. Alcohol dulls the senses. Am I to assume that’s your definition of a good time?”

The pack erupted in laughter and jeers, more at her tone than the words themselves.

Bruno’s smile returned, but it was tighter this time. He leaned closer, squaring up to Wednesday. “Careful, Raven. Around here, we prove ourselves by holding our drink. Not… glaring holes through people’s skulls.”

Wednesday’s glare shifted to him in full force. A dagger, precise. A scalpel, not a hammer.

“Oh?” she said evenly. “And here I thought posturing was your specialty.”

The crowd went “Oooooh.” Enid, still swaying, blinked between them, clearly too tipsy to understand the silent war being declared on her behalf.

Bruno’s jaw ticked. “How about this then? You and me. A few rounds. Unless—” he grinned, wolfish, “—the Raven’s scared she can’t keep up.”

The pack whooped in approval, stomping and hollering. Enid gasped. “Wait—what? A drinking game?”

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed, her voice low, cutting: “I don’t participate in childish displays.”

Her brain backed her up with every rational argument: mob-fueled spectacles were beneath her. Alcohol was a poison that dulled the mind, not sharpened it. And above all, bending to peer pressure was a disease for the weak-willed—a sickness she’d prided herself on never contracting. She wasn’t here to please a crowd, and certainly not to bow before Bruno’s theatrics.

But then—Enid’s voice.

“Wednesday! Come on, it’ll be funnnn!”

The lilt of it, bouncing with that maddening enthusiasm, cracked something in her resolve. Wednesday did not compromise. She did not yield. And yet—Enid’s eyes were so bright, so eager, so alive with expectation that refusing suddenly felt less like strength and more like self-sabotage.

Wednesday didn’t flinch. Her pride wouldn’t allow retreat. “Name your poison.”

Bruno leaned back, theatrically cracking his knuckles. “Alright then, Raven. Three games. Win or lose, you drink.”

– 

The three drinking games Bruno proposes (classic party traps):

1. Flip Cup – Two teams compete. Each person drinks from a plastic cup, sets it on the edge of the table, and must flip it upside down using only one finger flick. Fast, chaotic, and punishing if you fall behind.
   
   
2. Never Have I Ever – A circle game. Someone says “Never have I ever…” followed by something they’ve never done. Anyone who has done it must drink. Dangerous for Wednesday, because it forces vulnerability—or silence.
   
   
3. Kings (Ring of Fire) – A card-based drinking game. Each card has a rule (e.g., “Two is You,” “Four is Floor,” “King is pour into the center cup”). It’s unpredictable, long, and brutal for anyone trying to stay sober.

–

The pack hollered in unison as if Bruno had just announced a blood sport rather than a drinking game. Cans clattered, red solo cups appeared from nowhere, and the bar cleared a space like the room itself understood that a storm was about to happen.

“Flip Cup!” one of the wolves barked, slamming his fist against the counter like a drum. The chant spread quickly — Flip! Cup! Flip! Cup! — and the room swelled with the kind of animal anticipation that turned sweat into adrenaline.

Wednesday, expression carved from stone, didn’t flinch. She merely inclined her head, her braids unmoving, her eyes fixed on Bruno like he was already beneath her boots.

Bruno grinned, teeth sharp and glinting beneath the dim lights. His jealousy had simmered into performance now; he wanted to beat her, humiliate her, reclaim whatever dignity he thought Enid’s closeness had stolen.

The pack rushed to set the table: long, scratched wood, lined with a row of plastic cups filled halfway with Bruno’s infamous cocktail. It smelled faintly like battery acid and orange peels. Enid leaned on the bar behind them, cheeks flushed from drinking, her grin lopsided.

Bruno planted himself at one end of the table. Wednesday strode to the opposite side with her deliberate, unhurried gait, as though walking toward the gallows — though anyone watching closely might notice the faint tightening of her jaw.

The rules were shouted out by a wolf who had clearly taken this role too seriously: “You drink your cup, slam it down, flip it until it lands face-down. Only then does the next player on your team go. First side to finish all cups wins.”

Of course, this wasn’t teams. It was Bruno versus Wednesday. Which made the rules redundant, but the pack didn’t care — they were too busy baying like spectators at a Roman coliseum.

“Ladies first,” Bruno said mockingly, lifting his cup. His eyes flicked toward Enid, who was swaying happily, still chatting with Bianca, oblivious to the weight in the air. “Or is that too chivalrous for Nevermore’s resident ghoul?”

“I don’t believe in chivalry,” Wednesday replied flatly. She reached for the cup, sniffed it once, and grimaced faintly. “Or mercy.”

The pack erupted in whoops.

Enid clapped once, too loud, too earnest. “Go, Wens!” she called, her words slightly slurred. She was clearly underestimating just how volcanic the air between Bruno and Wednesday had become.

Bruno raised his cup in mock toast. “To proving a point.”

Wednesday didn’t bother with a toast. She simply lifted the cup, raised an eyebrow, and downed the contents in one sharp, unforgiving tilt.

The pack gasped.

Bruno smirked and followed, drinking his own with exaggerated swagger. He slammed it down dramatically, flexing his hand, already reaching to flip the cup. His first attempt — clumsy, too much force. The cup spun, wobbled, and clattered sideways.

Laughter exploded from the wolves.

“Smooth start, alpha,” Bianca muttered, biting her lip to hide her grin.

Wednesday, calm as still water, placed her cup on the edge of the table with surgical precision. One finger flicked. The cup rotated once, then landed cleanly, flat on its mouth.

The crowd roared.

Bruno’s ears twitched. He reset his cup, jaw tight, tried again. The cup flipped, bounced — landed sideways once more. The jeers grew louder.

Wednesday’s voice cut through the noise, dry as desert bone. “How humiliating. Even the inanimate resists your control.”

Bruno’s nostrils flared. He reset, tried again — this time, the cup landed face-down. The pack erupted with howls of support, as though he’d just scored in a championship game.

Wednesday, already on her second drink, tipped the contents back without blinking. She slammed it down, flipped — perfect again. Two for two.

Bianca’s laughter carried across the table. “You’re getting schooled by a girl who thinks fun is playing cello at funerals. Do better, Bruno.”

Enid giggled beside her, leaning into Bianca for balance. “She’s so good, isn’t she? My Wens is, like, crazy good at… at anything. Even flipping stupid cups.”

The words landed like firecrackers in Wednesday’s chest. Her lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, before she drowned the sensation with another gulp of liquid poison.

Bruno slammed his second cup down, sweat beading at his temple. His flip succeeded — barely — the cup wobbling before teetering into place. He lifted his eyes, meeting Wednesday’s.

“You think you’re better than everyone,” he said under his breath, voice low enough to cut through the chanting.

“I don’t think,” Wednesday replied, deadpan, “I know.” She flipped her third cup. Perfect again.

The pack screamed, pounding fists against tables, their howls shaking the walls. Someone started chanting Wednesday’s name — “Wen-sday! Wen-sday!” — and it caught like wildfire.

Bruno’s smirk faltered. His hand trembled just enough to spill liquid over his knuckles as he downed his third. His flip? Botched again. The cup slid right off the table and clattered to the floor.

The wolves laughed so hard one fell backward into a chair. Bianca practically doubled over. “This is priceless,” she wheezed.

Enid, meanwhile, clapped wildly, oblivious to Bruno’s humiliation. Her eyes were locked on Wednesday, starry with admiration. “That’s my girl!” she shouted. “Destroy him!”

Wednesday’s throat tightened. Not from the alcohol — though it burned worse each time — but from the way Enid said my girl like it was the simplest truth in the world.

She reached for her fourth cup.

And that’s where the tension peaked: Bruno, red-faced, drenched in jealousy and cheap liquor, glaring across the table at Wednesday, who looked utterly unshaken. One wrong move and the room might have seen claws and fangs.

But instead, the pack screamed louder, demanding the round continue.

The last cup finally landed bottom-down on the sticky wood with a hollow thunk.

A roar of cheers went up around the room.

Not for Bruno.

For her.

Wednesday Addams — tiny, black-clad, and looking like she’d rather be anywhere else — had dismantled the pack’s overconfident alpha in a drinking game he himself had demanded.

Bruno stared at his own stubborn cup that still wobbled rim-side up, his palm pressed against the table as though sheer force of will might flip it over. His jaw worked, clenched tight, and a muscle in his cheek jumped. He’d never admit it, but he was tipsier than he wanted the world to see.

“Unbelievable,” Bianca drawled from her corner, arms folded, nails catching in the dim lights like tiny claws. “Beaten at flip cup by the school’s resident funeral dirge.”

A ripple of laughter darted across the pack, half-snickers, half-hushed awe.

Enid, bouncing where she sat half-sprawled on a bench, nearly toppled into Yoko, who had materialized with a fresh drink. “That was insane! Did you see her wrist flick? It was like, pew-pew precision! I didn’t even know she could drink like that. Well, I guess she can’t… I mean she didn’t drink-drink , she just—”

“Enid.” Wednesday’s voice cracked across her name like a whip, soft but dangerous.

That was enough to shut the werewolf up — almost. She was too buzzed to stay quiet, though, so she leaned toward Yoko and whispered (at full volume), “She’s hot when she’s competitive.”

Wednesday heard. Wednesday always heard.

She didn’t look at her though. Her eyes, obsidian and sharp, stayed pinned to Bruno, who straightened from the table, dusted off his palms as though he’d been digging a grave, and forced a smirk.

“Fine,” he said, too loud. “One game. Beginner’s luck.”

“Luck,” Wednesday corrected, her voice dry as ash, “is the refuge of the incompetent.”

The pack oooh’d like middle schoolers watching someone get roasted in the cafeteria.

Bianca nearly choked on her drink, wheezing. “God, Bruno. She’s gonna bury you alive in front of your own friends. And I mean that literally.”

Bruno scowled, but his pride wouldn’t let him stop. He slapped the table again, rattling half-empty cups. “Next round. A real test. No more flipping plastic. Never Have I Ever. Everyone plays.”

Enid perked up instantly, clapping like a hyper puppy. “Ooooh I love this game! It’s so fun, and also humiliating, but mostly fun—”

Yoko cut her off with a lazy smirk. “That’s because you’ve got no shame, wolf-girl.”

“I—hey!” Enid protested, but she was already giggling, happy to be included.

Bianca leaned back, eyes glittering, and tipped her drink toward Wednesday. “This is going to be so good. The Addams girl in a game that’s basically social humiliation roulette? I’m counting the corpses already.”

Wednesday said nothing. She didn’t need to say anything. She simply arched one brow, slid onto the bench with surgical precision, and accepted another drink from the bartender. Her fingers curled around the glass like she was considering crushing it just to avoid using it for its intended purpose.

Bruno, already swaying slightly, planted himself at the head of the circle. “Rules are simple. Someone says, ‘Never have I ever,’ followed by something they haven’t done. If you have done it, you drink. Easy. We’ll go clockwise.”

The pack shuffled into place — Yoko sliding in cool and detached, Enid practically vibrating with excitement, Bianca lounging with sharp interest, and Wednesday lowering herself into her seat like she was sitting down to preside over a trial.

Bruno grinned, lifting his glass. “I’ll start. Never have I ever…” His eyes swept the group before landing, with deliberate weight, on Wednesday. “—never have I ever lost control in front of people who mattered.”

There was a pause. Tension. The kind that slithered across the table and coiled itself around each throat, waiting to see who would twitch first.

Enid bit her lip. Wednesday caught the nervous flicker of her canines against the soft skin, the way her hand trembled just slightly before hovering over the glass. She knew that hesitation—Enid was thinking too much, second-guessing herself, but she was honest enough to follow through. And so, reluctantly, she lifted her glass and sipped. The movement was small, sheepish, but it carried a kind of bravery that made the pack roar louder.

Yoko, by contrast, didn’t bother with hesitation. She clinked her glass lazily against Enid’s, her lips pulling into a sly smirk before she swallowed. Wednesday could almost hear the unspoken commentary—Yoko was shameless about her indulgences, always had been. Control wasn’t her aim, fun was. And to her, losing control was just another kind of sport.

Bruno, of course, drank from his. No hesitation, no shame. He wanted to show them that he owned his vices. To him, losing control wasn’t a failure. It was a performance, one he could twist into dominance.

And then all eyes turned to Wednesday.

Her glass remained untouched.

She felt the collective weight of expectation press against her like a noose. To the pack, this was supposed to be the thrilling moment—the Raven herself finally brought low, forced into a confession of imperfection. She let them wait. She wanted them to squirm.

Finally, her voice cut the silence, slow and deliberate, each syllable precise:

“Control,” she said, “is not a luxury. It is oxygen. Those who live without it suffocate.”

The words landed like the edge of a scalpel, sharp and cold. It wasn’t just a refusal to drink—it was a scalpel to Bruno’s throat. A dismissal of his premise entirely, as though he’d never even understood what the question truly meant.

From her vantage, Wednesday saw the flicker in his eyes—he’d expected resistance, yes, but not this kind of surgical strike. He wanted her rattled. Instead, she had turned the blade back on him, reminding everyone that weakness wasn’t in restraint, but in surrender.

The room buzzed in response, some with awkward laughter, others with appreciative whoops. But through it all, she kept her glass steady, unyielding. In her chest, her heart beat slow and deliberate, calm as still water. This wasn’t just a game to her—it was dissection. And Bruno had just volunteered as the corpse.

The pack murmured, shifting. Bianca barked out a laugh. “You are relentless. God, this is better than television.”

Enid, trying to smooth it over, chirped too brightly, “Okay, okay! My turn. Never have I ever—uhhh—kissed somebody in a photo booth!”

She giggled, cheeks flushing.

Bianca sipped immediately. So did Yoko, with an unapologetic shrug. Bruno hesitated, then grinned and drank.

Wednesday.

Her eyes flicked to Enid. Cool. Direct.

She lifted her glass. Took a slow, deliberate sip.

Enid blinked. Her jaw dropped. “Wha—you—wait—WHAT?!”

The circle erupted, howling with laughter, Bianca nearly doubled over, Bruno barking a laugh that sounded more bitter than amused.

Wednesday set her glass down like a gavel. “Necessity,” she said, eyes boring into Enid’s. “It was a matter of survival.”

Enid shook her head so hard her blonde curls bounced everywhere. “Nope! Nope, no way. That does not count as necessity. That was—you—you’re such a liar!”

Bianca snorted. “Enid, she’s actually out-drinking and out-bantering your entire species right now. Keep up.”

Enid buried her face in her hands, half-mortified, half-thrilled. “Oh my god. This game is evil.”

Wednesday’s lips curved — barely — the ghost of a smirk, but it was there.

And Bruno saw it.

Saw the way Enid’s blush had deepened, saw the subtle spark of possession behind Wednesday’s otherwise merciless calm. His hand clenched tight around his drink.

This wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

–

The pack howled when Bruno leaned forward with a grin so smug it should’ve been illegal, his voice cutting over the chatter like a blade.

“Alright, new round,” he slurred, waving his plastic cup as if he were delivering sacred scripture. “Since some of you are clearly lying through your teeth—” his eyes lingered on Wednesday, venom sharpened into something personal, before sliding toward Enid with a smirk that was far too wolfish, “—let’s add a little spice. If you don’t drink when you’re supposed to, and everyone knows you should’ve, then you don’t just pass. You get dared.”

The room cracked open with chaos. Wolves thumped the table hard enough to rattle the sticky cups; a chorus of whoops and snarls rose in delight. Someone howled loud enough to shake the glass panes. Bianca’s smirk widened as though she’d been waiting her whole evening for this implosion, the exact kind of cruelty she could savor without lifting a finger. Yoko pushed her sunglasses higher up the bridge of her nose, chin tilting like she was settling in for blood sport. Even Ajax, nervous to his bones, couldn’t help but laugh nervously at the prospect.

Wednesday’s lips thinned. Childish. Wasteful. It wasn’t strategy—it was a circus. She didn’t play games to reveal weakness; she played them to watch others collapse beneath their own. But Bruno wasn’t after dominance through intellect—he was circling Enid like a vulture scenting fresh carrion. His smirk was bait, his gaze a dare.

And that, Wednesday decided, was something she couldn’t ignore.

The next minutes rattled on like the ticking of some cruel metronome. Every round heavier, every declaration louder, more brazen. The dares grew sharper, the pack greedier, laughter catching in the air like sparks ready to set kindling ablaze. And beneath it all, the tension coiled tighter, threads winding themselves around Wednesday’s spine.

The game was no longer entertainment.
It was escalation.

And Bruno, drunk on his own bravado, thought he could win it.

–

Round One – Bianca’s Trap

“Never have I ever… cheated on a test,” Bianca said, her voice dripping with amusement as she locked eyes with Wednesday.

A dozen cups tilted back in guilty solidarity. Enid sipped with a sheepish laugh. Wednesday, of course, didn’t.

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Bianca said, a sharp little edge of admiration and mockery mingling. “You’d probably bribe the teacher with a vial of poison first.”

Wednesday’s reply was a simple, “Correct.”

Laughter rippled, but Bruno was already loading the chamber for his next round.

–

Round Two – Bruno’s Prodding

“Never have I ever… wanted someone I shouldn’t.”

That one landed heavy.

The words seemed to thicken the air, coating every inhale with something sour, sticky, undeniable. Yoko raised a brow and drank without shame, her lips curling like she was daring anyone to challenge her. A few of the pack laughed and sipped casually, the sound too quick, too rehearsed. Bianca’s smirk curved into something sharper as she lifted her cup and drank, eyes flicking toward Wednesday like she was watching for cracks in marble.

Enid froze. Her hand hovered over her cup, fingers trembling, lips parting—but no sound came. Panic flickered behind her eyes, small and quick like the flutter of a trapped bird. She didn’t move.

And Wednesday—Wednesday did not drink. Her face was a glacier, eyes like polished obsidian knives. But she was aware. Every heartbeat Enid hesitated was a beat too long. Every flicker of indecision read like Morse code to Wednesday’s hyper-attuned focus.

Bruno leaned forward, voice oily, taunting. “Hesitation looks like guilt, Sinclair.”

Enid’s cheeks burned hot enough to be felt from across the circle. “I’m not drinking because—it’s dumb. The question’s dumb.”

The pack howled. Wolves jeered, drunk voices gleeful in their cruelty, their chant swelling as if conjured from the floorboards themselves: “Dare! Dare! Dare!”

Bruno spread his hands, mock-innocent, but his smirk gleamed vicious. “Rules are rules. You lie, you pay. Sinclair, spin the bottle.”

The room tilted into silence for just a heartbeat, pulled into the gravity of that bottle waiting on the sticky floor like an executioner’s blade. Enid’s fingers shook as she reached for it—drunk enough that her grip fumbled, sober enough to know exactly what this meant.

“Spin it,” Bruno urged, eyes sharp with hunger.

She spun. The bottle clattered, whirled, wobbling across spilled beer and scratched floorboards, every head craning to follow its uneven spin. It slowed, staggered, teetered—

—and stopped.

Wednesday Addams.

The room erupted. Wolves howled. Hands slapped tables. Someone screamed “Kiss! Kiss!” like they were calling down bloodsport.

Enid’s face went crimson, her heart hammering so loudly she swore it could be heard over the chaos. Wednesday’s expression didn’t change—her face a perfect mask. Except her eyes. Unblinking, locked on Enid’s. Something darker, heavier, alive, flickered there—sparking behind the curtain of her stoicism.

Bruno barked a laugh that barely disguised the acid beneath. “Well, rules are rules.”

Wednesday didn’t move at first. She let the moment drag, stretched taut like a noose. The crowd’s noise swelled, greedy for spectacle, and she remained still—an immovable shadow. Then, with deliberate slowness, she rose.

The screech of her chair against the floor was sharp as a blade dragged on stone. She stepped forward, every movement controlled, as if she were stalking prey. The music blurred into background hum. The air shifted thick and hot, the room leaning inward as though caught in orbit around her.

And Enid—poor, flushed, trembling Enid—waited. Wide-eyed, frozen, caught in the snare of every gaze and chant and the pounding of her own pulse in her ears.

Wednesday stopped in front of her. The crowd’s chant was one word now, singular, feral: Kiss, kiss, kiss.

And then Wednesday leaned forward.

Not rushed. Not hesitant. Deliberate.

Her lips pressed against Enid’s.

The crowd detonated, wolves howling, cups crashing, feet stomping so hard the floor seemed to rattle with approval. But for Enid, the world collapsed into just one point of contact.

It wasn’t neat. Alcohol buzzed in both their veins, turning precision into mess. Enid’s lips were too soft, too warm, trembling against Wednesday’s steady, cool mouth. The kiss was sloppy, desperate—not from lack of control but from too much of it, from something raw breaking through. Enid almost melted into it, her whole body tingling, her head swimming. She thought she might actually explode.

For Wednesday, it was… disorienting. There was heat blooming in her chest, foreign and unwelcome, spilling outward like wildfire licking bone. Her body betrayed her—fingers twitching as though they wanted to reach, to hold, to anchor. The taste of cheap beer and something distinctly Enid clung to her lips, confusing, intoxicating.

Unacceptable, Wednesday thought. And yet, she didn’t pull away.

Enid, meanwhile, couldn’t think at all. Her mind was screaming—it’s happening, it’s real, it’s Wednesday—but her body was a livewire, so overwhelmed she could only clutch her cup tighter, terrified her shaking hands would give her away.

The kiss lasted seconds, but each one stretched until time itself seemed drunk.

When Wednesday finally drew back, it was with her usual composure—face blank, gaze sharp, lips pressed into neutrality. Only the faintest burn of heat lingered across her pale skin, betraying her to no one but herself.

Enid blinked up at her, dazed, lips parted, chest heaving like she’d run a marathon without moving an inch.

Wednesday had this look in her eyes.

Cold, collected. Like she was dismissing an experiment before it got messy. Her eyes, dark and unflinching, lingered on Enid a second longer than necessary—enough to scorch, not enough to admit.

Enid blinked, breath stuttering, the flush on her cheeks spreading all the way down her neck. Her voice squeaked when she tried to laugh it off, too high, too nervous. “Well. That’s… uh—yeah. That happened.”

The pack roared harder at her embarrassment. One wolf actually slapped the table so hard a cup toppled and rolled. Someone else shouted, “She’s blushing! Look at her, she’s gone pinker than her hair!”

Enid groaned, covering her face with both hands, which of course only made them laugh louder.

Bianca, from her throne-like perch on the arm of a couch, arched one perfect brow and let out a slow, satisfied hum. She looked at Wednesday like she’d just uncovered another layer to the enigma, her lips curving into a knowing smirk. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Addams.”

Wednesday’s gaze cut to her, flat as a blade. “I don’t. It was a dare. Nothing more.”

“Mm,” Bianca replied, swirling her drink. “And here I thought you're not a people-pleaser."

The wolves howled again, fueling the fire. Enid’s ears went scarlet.

But across the table, Bruno’s smile had cracked. His jaw tightened, his knuckles white on his plastic cup. He’d expected a disaster. He’d expected Wednesday to make it awkward, to humiliate Enid, to break her apart under that emotionless stare. Instead, the room had ignited, and worse—it wasn’t him who had sparked it.

He leaned back in his chair, forcing a laugh too sharp, too loud. “Cute,” he said, though his eyes burned holes into Wednesday. “Real cute. Sinclair finally gets her fairy-tale moment.”

The pack laughed, but it had a nervous edge now. They weren’t laughing with Bruno anymore—they were laughing at the spectacle, at Enid’s flustered stammering, at the way Wednesday hadn’t broken for a second.

Wednesday sat back down, folding her hands neatly in her lap, as though she hadn’t just detonated the room with a single calculated act.

Enid was still pink, trying and failing to stop her fidgeting. She knocked back her drink in one gulp just to do something with her hands.

The energy lingered—crackling, restless. Bianca’s smirk deepened. Bruno’s temper frayed. And Enid… couldn’t stop glancing at Wednesday out of the corner of her eye, half mortified, half breathless.

Bruno slammed his cup back onto the table a little harder than necessary. The liquid inside sloshed, a few drops spilling onto his knuckles. He didn’t even bother wiping them off. His grin—too wide, too jagged—was the kind of grin people wore when they’d already decided they wouldn’t lose, no matter the cost.

“Alright,” he said, voice just a notch louder than the din, cutting through the wolf-pack’s laughter like a dull knife through sinew. “Game’s not over. Not even close. We’re still playing.”

A ripple went through the group. The wolves shifted in their seats, some snickering, some leaning forward, hungry for the tension. Enid lowered her cup with shaky fingers, still flushed from the kiss, her eyes darting nervously between Wednesday and Bruno like she was waiting for the blast radius of a bomb.

Wednesday didn’t move. She sat back, posture perfect, fingers laced neatly in her lap. If anything, the faint flush in her cheeks from the alcohol only made her stillness more unnerving—like the calm eye of a storm that hadn’t passed, only bided its time.

Bianca, sipping slowly from her glass, let out a soft, almost indulgent laugh. “He’s seething,” she drawled under her breath, just loud enough for those near her to hear. “This should be entertaining.”

Bruno leaned forward now, elbows on the table, eyes locked on Wednesday with the intensity of a predator who’d just spotted prey. “Never have I ever…” He let the words hang, savoring the anticipation, watching as Wednesday’s black eyes didn’t even flicker. “…been too afraid to admit what I feel.”

The room erupted in noise.

Some wolves jeered. Some whistled. Some downright howled. The words didn’t fall like a casual party dare; they slammed down like a challenge, and every single one of them knew it.

Enid froze, her cup halfway to her lips, her expression caught somewhere between terror and embarrassment. Yoko, who had slinked in earlier and was now comfortably perched beside a packmate, muttered, “Well, damn,” before sipping slowly, sharp eyes never leaving the trio at the center.

Wednesday tilted her head, the faintest motion, like she was dissecting his choice of words under a microscope. And then—calmly, deliberately—she reached for her cup.

The wolves roared.

Enid’s eyes widened. “W-Wednesday—”

But Wednesday tipped the cup back and drank. Not a gulp, not a desperate swallow—one smooth, unbroken motion. When she set the cup down again, her expression hadn’t changed.

Bruno’s grin sharpened. “That’s one.”

“Predictable,” Wednesday murmured, her voice flat, unimpressed. “You think you’re clever, but you’re only transparent.”

That only made the wolves laugh harder, fanning the tension higher.

“Next round!” Bruno barked, already lifting his cup. His eyes gleamed with tipsy determination. “Never have I ever… kissed someone and pretended it didn’t mean anything.”

Enid’s breath caught audibly.

Bianca actually choked on her drink, coughing before laughing with genuine delight. “Oh, he’s going for the throat now. Bold, drunk, and reckless—my favorite combination.”

Enid fumbled with her cup, face burning, her whole body vibrating with the don’t look at me, don’t look at me panic of someone suddenly shoved into a spotlight. But it was Wednesday who moved first.

She lifted her cup.

Another drink.

The wolves screamed like a stadium crowd.

Bruno slammed his palm flat on the table, drunk satisfaction spilling out of him. “That’s two! Two strikes, Addams. Careful—” His voice dipped, low and smug. “You’re gonna lose to me.”

Wednesday wiped the corner of her mouth with a napkin, pristine as ever, though her pupils were dilated, her tipsiness just beginning to fray the edges of her control. Her voice, though, came out smooth, cutting. “I only lose when I allow it.”

The pack howled louder. Enid fidgeted, her cup trembling in her hand. She hadn’t drunk—but the weight of what Bruno had said, and the fact that Wednesday had, pressed on her like an avalanche.

Bruno leaned back, smugness radiating off him as he prepared for another round.

The room was a storm.

Bruno sat back in his chair like a self-crowned king, fingers drumming against the table in rhythm with the pack’s jeers and howls. The smell of spilt beer clung to the air. His grin was a crooked, taunting thing—goading, daring. Across from him, Wednesday sat straight-backed, the picture of composure, but her pale knuckles curled tighter around her cup each round. A faint flush rode high on her cheeks.

She was tipsy. Not sloppy, not swaying—but just enough for the glassy brightness in her eyes to betray the alcohol bleeding into her veins.

And Enid couldn’t look away.

She was nervous—god, so nervous—yet a secret thrill fluttered inside her chest like wings trapped in a cage. She had never seen Wednesday like this. Not in class, not with Bianca’s challenges, not with her endless morbid projects. This wasn’t Wednesday sparring out of habit or indifference. This was Wednesday fighting, sharp and relentless, because someone had dared to touch something close to her.

Her.

It was terrifying. And it was exhilarating.

–

Bruno leaned forward, tapping his cup against the table three times. “Round three,” he announced, his voice riding on the drunken cheers around him. His eyes never left Wednesday. “Never have I ever… thought about someone so much they got stuck in my head.”

The noise that followed was immediate—whistles, groans, a drawn-out “oooooooh” from Ajax somewhere in the back, his voice slurred like he’d swallowed a horn.

Enid’s face lit scarlet. Her heart went haywire, thumping against her ribs like it wanted to escape, like it could betray her at any second. She glanced desperately at Wednesday—please don’t, please don’t—

And Wednesday—damn her steady hand—lifted her cup.

Slow. Precise. A sip that landed like a hammer on Enid’s chest.

The pack lost it.

“YES!” one of the wolves bellowed.
“She drank, she actually drank!”
“Addams is down bad —”

It was all sound and teeth and fists slamming into the table, the air boiling with drunken delight. The room was a pressure chamber. And Wednesday was at the center of it.

She lowered her cup without flinching, but her pulse stuttered once—only once—in her throat. Against her will. She hated that.

Bruno’s smirk spread wide, almost feral. “That’s three,” he said. “You’re slipping, Addams. Didn’t think you could.”

Wednesday’s eyes were cold and unwavering, but her voice was a fraction slower than before, the alcohol tugging at the edges. “I don’t slip. I sharpen.”

But she could feel it, the way the drink was settling under her skin, loosening bolts she’d spent a lifetime screwing in tight. She hated this game. She hated the rules, the performative revelry, the sticky floor beneath her boots, the chant-hungry wolves. She especially hated that she was dancing to Bruno’s tune.

And yet—

Her gaze cut, unbidden, to Enid.

Sinclair was a mess of nerves. Palms digging into her knees like she might scratch herself raw just to stay in the room, lips parted like she was one breath away from bolting. Wednesday noted the claws, unsheathed just enough to dent her own skin. The wolf was shaking under all that golden hair, and no one saw it but her.

And maybe that was the problem.

Her thoughts tangled like a snare: this wasn’t strategy, this wasn’t control, this wasn’t her. She wasn’t supposed to drink to reveal anything, wasn’t supposed to indulge weakness. Yet here she was, with the taste of alcohol sour on her tongue, admitting to a room full of animals that someone—someone—was lodged in her head like a thorn.

She told herself it was tactical. That indulging the spectacle diffused suspicion, redirected Bruno’s aim. But her lips burned with the echo of that kiss, sloppy and muddled from minutes ago, and Enid Sinclair’s wide, vulnerable eyes made the lie tremble.

Enid pressed her palms harder into her knees, torn between wanting to disappear and wanting to scream at the room to shut up. Her claws pricked her skin, a poor anchor for the way her pulse raced.

Wednesday’s grip on her cup tightened, the plastic warping slightly under her fingers. She wanted to set it down with finality, to cut the scene short, but that would be too much like running. She did not run. She endured.

But when Enid’s gaze flicked up—just once, quick, terrified, hopeful—Wednesday felt the smallest fissure crack through her carefully cultivated stillness.

This was idiotic. This was unbearable. This was—

Her lips curled inward against the faintest ghost of a thought she refused to name.

Love? 

She shakes her head in disagreement with herself.

--

Bruno pounced again. “Never have I ever… kissed someone I shouldn’t have.”

The crowd howled like wolves at blood. The kiss—already burned into the air like a brand—was still raw, still thrumming through Enid’s body. She swore she could still feel it, taste it, hear the phantom crackle of silence that had followed like the universe itself was stunned into quiet.

Wednesday’s cup lifted.

The motion was mechanical, deliberate, every finger curling with the precision of a guillotine rope. She should not. Every nerve screamed don’t. She had survived interrogation rooms colder than this, stared down headmasters and police captains alike without flinching. But this—this juvenile spectacle—was eating at her edges.

Another sip.

The liquid was bitter, useless. She despised its burn.

“FOUR!” someone shouted.
“She’s toast, she’s gonna crash!”
“No way she walks after this—”

The table erupted with fists slamming, bodies leaning, drunken hysteria cresting higher and higher. The wolves smelled a story, the kind they’d howl about for weeks.

Enid’s breath hitched. She wanted to stop it, to make it end before Bruno could twist the knife deeper, but at the same time her chest ached with something wild, something sweet. Wednesday was drinking—for her. For them. It was insane, and it was reckless, and it was not so Wednesday but its— real.

--

Bruno leaned on the table, closer now, riding the wave of the crowd’s chaos. His grin was sharp, but his words slurred faintly. “Never have I ever… wanted someone I wasn’t supposed to want.”

It was a kill shot.

The air shifted—sharp, electric, like the crack before thunder. The pack shrieked. They slammed their hands on the table, egging, chanting, their voices rising in a drunk chorus that pressed in from all sides. Even Yoko arched a brow, intrigued despite herself, her fangs catching the glow of the firelight.

Wednesday’s spine stiffened. This was not a game; it had never been a game. She loathed games that required her to bare herself for the amusement of jackals. She had told herself she could endure it, that this ritual of cups and false confessions was beneath her, and therefore harmless. But now Bruno had dug too close to marrow.

Her pulse betrayed her. One beat too loud, too heavy, rattling in her throat. She hated it. She hated him. She hated the way Enid’s breath was catching like she’d been flayed open.

And still—still—Wednesday lifted her cup.

The motion was slower this time, reluctant, her hand less steady than before. For the first time, the liquid shimmered against the rim as though it might spill. She despised the slip. Her body was a traitor; her will was not.

A sip. Small. Measured. The taste of surrender masked as steel.

Bruno’s laugh cracked rough. “That’s five, Addams. You’re drowning.”

But when Wednesday set her cup down, her eyes glittered like obsidian. Her voice, low and deliberate, carried even through the din. “I don’t drown. I drag others with me.”

The pack screamed even louder, caught between frenzy and awe. The sound rattled the rafters, shook the glasses, spilled the beer.

–

Enid gripped the edge of her chair, dizzy with too many emotions at once. She should be terrified for Wednesday—tipsy, vulnerable, under attack. That was the logical reaction. But the fire in her, the way she stood unyielding under Bruno’s blows, made something in Enid swell with impossible, heady pride.

It was new. It was dangerous. And it was good.

Except—no. No, this wasn’t good. Bruno wasn’t just throwing random questions. Enid knew. She knew. Every single one had been about her. About them. And Wednesday—Wednesday was just drinking to all of it. Like it wasn’t a trap. Like she didn’t even care what it looked like.

Enid’s stomach twisted. Wednesday didn’t do this. She didn’t play along, didn’t admit anything, didn’t crack. And yet—here she was, sip after sip, practically announcing out loud what Enid was still too scared to name.

And maybe that was the worst part. Because it wasn’t denial, it wasn’t silence—Wednesday was just… telling the truth. By accident. Without realizing it.

Enid’s thoughts spiraled:

She doesn’t know what she’s doing. Or maybe she does. No, she can’t. If she knew, she’d never—except she’s not stopping, is she? She’s not stopping.

Her chest ached. It was too much. The rush of pride, the pinch of fear, the tiny, giddy voice inside her that wanted to scream she’s doing this for me.

Wednesday Addams, queen of ice, queen of no feelings ever, was unraveling in front of everyone—and Enid was the reason.

And Enid couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t breathe around it. Couldn’t decide if she wanted to run or just throw herself into it completely.

–

The table was trembling with noise. Beer sloshed, claws clicked against wood, laughter cracked like fire through the rafters. But Bruno sat back, finally leaning away from the wreckage he’d been hammering at Wednesday with, and something in his expression shifted.

Not defeat. Not quite victory either.

It was satisfaction—the wolfish kind, like a predator content with the hunt but not the kill.

Wednesday’s cup was nearly drained, her pallor unchanging but her movements just a shade slower than when the night began. Her spine remained straight, chin lifted, but her eyes glimmered with alcohol. If Bruno had expected her to crumble, she hadn’t. If he’d expected her to bend, she refused.

And that—that refusal—was enough to earn his grudging respect, even if it burned him.

He slapped the table with his palm, cutting through the cheers. “Alright, alright!” he barked, grinning too wide. “Never Have I Ever’s done. You’re all amateurs anyway.” He leaned back, his gaze fixed squarely on Wednesday. “But if we’re gonna see who really breaks first, we up the stakes.”

A ripple of interest spread through the pack.

Enid tensed. “Uh—what do you mean ‘up’?”

Bianca smirked knowingly, swirling her drink. “He means Kings.”

“Ring of Fire,” Ajax added with a hiccup, already reaching for the deck someone had conveniently tossed onto the table.

The wolves howled their approval. Cups and bottles rattled into a circle on the wood, the sloppy remains of beer forming a makeshift “King’s cup” in the center. The cards fanned out around it in an uneven ring, their edges curling with moisture.

Wednesday’s eyes flicked to the setup. No emotion. No visible reaction. Just that arctic composure, frayed faintly by drink. “Explain.”

Bruno’s grin was slow, taunting. “Simple. Pull a card, follow the rule. Screw it up, you drink.” He pointed to the king’s cup in the middle, frothing with random pours. “Draw a king? You add to the cauldron. Last one to draw a king drinks it. All of it.”

The pack jeered, a chorus of “oooohs” and “good luck with that, Addams.”

Enid’s stomach dropped. She’d seen Ring of Fire before. It wasn’t just about drinking—it was about chaos, rules stacking, dares compounding, until someone buckled. And Bruno had only one target tonight.

Wednesday.

Bianca hid a laugh behind her hand, already watching like this was theater crafted solely for her amusement. “This,” she murmured, “is going to be delicious.”

Bruno clapped his hands, pulling the first card with a flourish. A five. “Five’s for guys,” he declared, tossing his head back to drink as the boys roared.

The game was on.

And Enid—Enid couldn’t tell if she was about to watch Wednesday Addams win again, or finally be dragged under.

The circle tightened. The cards glistened under the yellow kitchen light, edges spotted with condensation. Bottles clinked together in the center, a swampy “King’s Cup” growing more poisonous with each careless pour.

Bruno’s grin stretched ear to ear. “Ladies first.”

He pushed the deck toward Wednesday. The pack whooped, stomping their feet.

Wednesday didn’t flinch. She reached out, her hand steady, the black varnish of her nails catching the light. She pulled a card with surgical precision and flipped it to the table.

“Two.”

Bianca leaned over, smirking. “Two is for you.”

Wednesday turned her head just slightly. Bruno tilted his chin at her, smug. “Guess who you’re pointing to, princesa.”

The pack laughed, egging it on. But Wednesday’s expression never shifted. She extended her finger—unwavering, merciless—straight at Bruno.

The laughter doubled. Bruno’s smile faltered for the first time. He lifted his beer and drank, his throat straining as he swallowed.

Enid bit her lip, heart hammering. That was Wednesday’s first move: silent, ruthless, clean.

–

Bruno took his own card next, slapping it on the table with flair.

“Seven.”

Ajax let out a hoot. “Seven’s for heaven!” He shot both arms skyward, already laughing as half the table scrambled to copy him.

Bianca raised her hand languidly, nails gleaming, rolling her eyes like she was above it all. Yoko stretched a pale arm up without even looking, cool as ever.

Wednesday was slower. Just half a second. She raised her hand, elegant but late.

The wolves howled: “DRINK!”

Bruno smirked, tipping his bottle toward her. “Bottoms up, Addams.”

Her expression remained neutral, but her knuckles whitened around the glass as she took her sip. Enid’s eyes stayed fixed on her profile, searching for cracks, for any betrayal of weakness. None came.

But she’d drunk. And that was one point for Bruno.

–

Divina went next, pulling a card.

“Four.”

“Four is for whores,” Bianca deadpanned, tossing her hair. “Drink, Divina.”

Divina rolled her eyes but sipped, grinning. The pack snickered.

Yoko’s turn. Her hand hovered over the deck, deliberate, then drew.

“King.”

The whole circle shrieked.

“Pour it in!” Ajax chanted, shoving the King’s Cup closer.

Yoko arched a brow and tipped the end of her blood-red cocktail into the foaming brew. The swirl was unholy: beer, soda, tequila, and now a sharp bite of crimson.

Bruno chuckled low, eyes never leaving Wednesday. “Hope you like surprises, querida. That’s waiting for you.”

Wednesday blinked once. No words.

Enid’s stomach twisted.

–

Bianca took the next card.

“Eight.”

“Eight is mate,” Bianca declared sweetly—and then, like a dagger, pointed directly at Wednesday.

“Oh, come on!” Ajax cried, laughing.

Bianca sipped her drink with a victorious smirk. “Guess you’re stuck with me now, Addams. Every time I drink, you drink.”

Wednesday’s lips tightened. She raised her glass and mirrored Bianca in a flawless, joyless toast.

Enid wanted to scream. Bianca was doing this on purpose—stacking the game against Wednesday, just to see if she’d slip.

–

The game rolled forward, each card dragging Wednesday deeper. A nine (“Bust a rhyme”) left Bruno and Wednesday locked in a duel of icy, cutting couplets until Ajax broke down laughing. A six (“Six is chicks”) forced all the girls—including Wednesday—into another swallow.

And then—

Bruno flipped his next card with a flourish.

“Ten.”

The pack erupted. “TEN IS CATEGORIES!”

Bruno leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, eyes boring into Wednesday. “Alright. Let’s make it fun. Category is… poisons.”

Gasps. Snickers. Of course he’d pick that.

Without missing a beat, Wednesday replied: “Cyanide.”

“Belladonna,” Bruno fired back.

“Arsenic.”

“Nightshade.”

The pack oohed, following the back-and-forth like a tennis match.

“Mercury.”

“Ricin.”

Enid’s heart climbed into her throat. Bruno was smirking, confident, leaning harder into his chair with every response. Wednesday stayed upright, her expression untouched, her voice cold and crisp as ice.

Finally, Bruno faltered. His mouth opened, closed. Nothing came.

The table exploded with laughter.

“Drink, Bruno!” Bianca crowed.

Bruno’s grin stiffened, his jaw tightening as he gulped his beer. His eyes cut to Wednesday over the rim, simmering. She hadn’t even blinked.

Enid pressed her hands together under the table, trying not to beam. She’d never seen anyone take Bruno’s ego and slice it so effortlessly.

And yet—Wednesday was drinking, too. Every mate rule, every six, every slow accumulation of the game’s cruelty was stacking up.

Her hands were steady. Her face was carved from stone.

But her eyes…

Enid saw it. Just a little too glassy.

–

The circle leaned in tighter, louder, hotter. Bruno and Wednesday orbiting each other, each card another strike in a war that wasn’t about drinking anymore.

It was about who cracked first.

And Enid—breathless, nerves shot, a mess of pride and fear tangled up inside her—couldn’t look away.

The circle smelled like sweat and beer and citrus peel. Someone had knocked over a bottle cap, and it clicked back and forth on the floor with every vibration of the table. The King’s Cup sat in the center like a growing tumor—dark, fizzing, pulsing with each new contribution.

Wednesday hadn’t looked away from Bruno in what felt like hours. Not even when Ajax had leaned too far and nearly toppled onto Bianca’s lap. Not even when Yoko rolled her eyes so hard Enid swore she’d get stuck mid-spin.

And Bruno…he was rattled. His shoulders were still broad, his grin still wide, but that last stumble—failing to name a poison in Wednesday’s chosen kingdom—had cracked his armor. Enid saw it in the way he drummed his fingers too fast against his beer bottle, in the way he chewed his bottom lip before catching himself.

The cards waited.

Bianca flicked the deck toward Wednesday like she was passing a knife across a table.

Wednesday drew.

“Five.”

A groan rippled around the circle.

“Five is guys!” Ajax shouted, raising his bottle. “Drink up, my dudes!”

Every boy in the circle tipped their drinks back—including Bruno, who lifted his can with theatrical flair.

Wednesday sat untouched.

Bianca’s grin widened. “Guess you’re safe for once.”

Safe. The word soured in Enid’s mouth. Because Wednesday never looked safe . Even now, glass in hand, posture rigid, she looked like she was in the middle of a duel at dawn—sword against throat.

Bruno caught her eye over the lip of his can. He drank longer than he had to, throat bobbing, like he wanted her to see .

Enid’s hands twisted in her lap. Her claws itched against her palms.

–

Divina leaned over, shuffled dramatically, and pulled the next card.

“Three.”

“Three is me,” she sighed. “Guess that’s me again.” She tipped her cup with a shrug.

The moment passed without weight. But the circle tightened all the same, the tension snapping back like elastic.

–

Kent went next, fingers sticky with condensation.

“Jack.”

The table howled.

“Oooh, JACK is never have I ever,” Ajax declared.

Enid’s stomach dropped. Oh no. Oh no no no.

Kent grinned wickedly, clearly smelling blood in the water. “Never have I ever…” He drew it out, eyes darting between Bianca and Ajax, then down the line to Wednesday. His grin sharpened. “…kissed a werewolf.”

The table exploded.

Ajax nearly choked on his beer. “DUDE!”

Bianca laughed so loud it echoed off the cabinets. “You’re foul.”

But Kent was watching Wednesday. Everyone was watching Wednesday.

Enid’s entire body burned.

Wednesday, perfectly composed, raised her drink. She sipped. Just one clean swallow.

The circle shrieked.

Enid thought her brain would combust. She wanted to throw herself across the table, cover Wednesday’s glass with her hands, yell don’t give them that.

Instead she sat, heart tearing a hole through her ribs, while Bruno’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

But he didn’t gloat. He just leaned back, lips twitching—not in triumph, but in revelation.

–

Bianca’s card next.

“Queen.”

“Oh, thank god,” she purred. “Question master.”

Groans all around.

“Every time someone answers my question instead of dodging, they drink,” she explained, leaning back in her chair like a queen on her throne. “Starting now.”

Her eyes swept the circle like a predator. They landed, inevitably, on Wednesday.

“So, Addams,” Bianca drawled, tilting her head, “is there anyone in this room you’d actually trust with your life?”

Enid stopped breathing.

Wednesday blinked once. And then, in that terrifying, deliberate way of hers, she tipped her glass and drank.

The wolves lost it. Bianca’s laugh was sharp enough to cut.

But Enid’s chest swelled. Because Wednesday hadn’t said a thing. And Wednesday never wasted gestures. The drink was a shield. A refusal. A secret folded tight against her ribs.

Bruno’s smile returned, faint but knowing. He looked between Wednesday and Enid, and for the first time his smirk softened.

–

The deck wound back toward Bruno. He drew, slow as a guillotine.

“King.”

The table roared.

“Pour it in!” Ajax shouted, gleeful.

Bruno lifted his beer and tipped it into the swollen chalice. Foam hissed. The stench wafted sharp and bitter.

The King’s Cup was nearly full now, sloshing, toxic. Waiting.

And Enid’s pulse told her the inevitable: it would come down to him and Wednesday.

–

The game dragged on, each card ratcheting tighter. A two put Bruno in Wednesday’s crosshairs again. An eight dragged her into Bianca’s shadow sip for sip. A ten forced another round of categories—this time, weapons—and Bruno barely kept up, sweat visible on his brow as Wednesday rattled off obscure torture devices like she was reciting lullabies.

The chaos blurred at the edges. Laughter roared. Cups clinked. The circle leaned in, heat and humidity closing like a noose.

Until—

The deck dwindled. The pile thinned. And then Ajax pulled it.

The last King.

The room exploded .

The King’s Cup was shoved forward, frothing, a nightmare brew of every drink poured that night. It reeked of sugar and alcohol and something bitter underneath.

And by rule—the one who drew the final King chose.

Ajax’s eyes went wide, bouncing between Bruno and Wednesday. He cackled. “Ohhh nooo. Nope. I’m not choosing. No way.”

The circle chanted. “Pick! Pick! Pick!”

Ajax’s gaze landed on Wednesday. Then on Bruno. His curls shook as he laughed himself sick.

“Fine. Screw it. Showdown.” He shoved the cup dead-center between them. “You two. One on one. First one to crack loses.”

The circle screamed approval.

–

The air throbbed. The cup sat like an executioner’s blade.

Wednesday and Bruno stared at each other, mirror-flat.

Enid thought her chest might collapse.

Bruno finally smirked. “Ladies first.” He slid the cup an inch toward her.

Wednesday didn’t blink. She lifted it. Took a long, slow swallow. Her throat moved once, twice. She set it back down, her face untouched.

The circle howled.

Bruno lifted it next. He drank. A wince flickered, barely, before he smothered it with a grin.

Back to Wednesday. Another swallow. Her eyes gleamed darker now, glassy under the overhead light.

Back to Bruno. He tipped it, longer this time, but when he set it down his jaw was tight.

The rhythm built—swallow, pass, swallow, pass. The table chanting. The wolves drumming their hands. The cup draining, poison inch by inch.

Until Bruno faltered. Just once. His swallow turned into a cough, a sputter. Foam sprayed against his grin.

The circle erupted .

“HE CRACKED!” Bianca screamed, pointing.

Bruno slammed the cup down, laughing hoarsely, wiping his mouth. He leaned back, hands raised in defeat. “Alright, alright. You got me, Addams.”

The circle went feral, applause and shrieks bouncing off every surface.

Enid thought her heart would rip out of her chest.

Because Wednesday didn’t smile. She didn’t gloat. She just sat there, shoulders square, glassy-eyed but unbroken.

And Bruno—Bruno was still laughing. But when he looked at Wednesday, his grin softened. His voice dropped, just for her.

“You fight like someone with something to lose,” he said. Then, quieter still, his gaze sliding toward Enid: “Or someone you’d rather not.”

Enid froze.

Wednesday’s gaze cut to Bruno like a blade. Then, deliberately, to Enid.

And for once…she didn’t look away.

Bruno leaned back, chuckling low, rubbing his jaw. His ego was bruised, yes. But his laughter wasn’t hollow. He lifted his bottle in a half-toast. “Fair game, Addams. Fair game.”

The room then erupted in a drunken chorus, a tidal wave of hollers and applause crashing against the walls of Bruno’s rented den. Someone banged a fist on the table so hard the red plastic cups rattled like nervous teeth. Another howled her approval into the ceiling fan spinning lazily above.

Wednesday, however, simply sat there.

Her lips twitched. The corners threatened betrayal. For a second—less than a second—her expression softened, a flicker of smug amusement dancing across the marble mask she called a face. Her lips curled upward. It was new. Alien. Dangerous. She couldn’t tell if it came from victory or from the obnoxiously warm buzz blooming in her veins like a slow-burning poison.

Everything around her blurred into chaos.

The pack was vibrating like a hive of drunken bees, limbs and voices colliding without rhythm. Cups overturned, laughter slurred into snorts, the music blasted too loudly from the corner speakers but was nearly drowned out by the sheer volume of adolescent chaos. Ajax’s serpentine hair wobbled as he leaned half-asleep against Yoko’s shoulder, both of them laughing too hard at nothing in particular. Bianca, of course, sipped her drink like royalty on a throne of rubble, smirking with the cool, satisfied air of someone who had known how this night would end all along.

Wednesday was still. Unmoving. Until—

The weight of everything slammed her all at once.

Her eyelids grew heavy. Her stomach churned—not unpleasantly, but insistently, like the ocean pulling her under. The fire that had sustained her through every cup, every dare, every stare-down with Bruno guttered out suddenly. Too noisy. The buzzing wasn’t just the crowd anymore—it was inside her head, gnawing, pulling, demanding surrender.

Her throat tightened. She swayed.

Enid’s voice pierced through the storm.
“Wednesday? Are you—are you okay?”

Her bright, worried tone carried a different kind of urgency than the pack’s careless laughter. Enid’s hand hovered dangerously close to her shoulder, trembling, almost touching but not quite. Wednesday’s blurred gaze found her—golden hair, wide blue eyes sparkling even under the dim party lights, her lips parted in worry.

The last thing she should have wanted.

The last thing she wanted.

And yet.

Bianca’s drawl sliced in lazily from the side, her words slurred but her smirk intact. “She’s fine, Sinclair. Trust me. She just got drunk. For the first time.” A short, amused laugh slipped from her throat. “History in the making.”

Yoko cackled beside her, teeth gleaming in the dark. “She lasted longer than half of you losers. Respect.”

Ajax lifted his head, groggy but grinning. “Legendary. The Addams falls, finally!” His laugh cracked into a hiccup, his snakes wobbling as if drunk themselves.

Wednesday’s head dipped forward, her pulse pounding in her ears. She fought to keep upright, dignity battling gravity in the cruelest of wars.

Her lips parted. Her voice, low and husky with exhaustion, cracked the silence nearest her.

“You look…” A pause. Her eyes dragged slowly, stubbornly, toward Enid. “…pretty.”

Not a whisper. Not a confession. Just a statement, carved in the Addams way—delivered flat, like an observation of fact, yet heavier than anything she had endured tonight.

The words hung there, trembling in the space between them, before the world finally claimed her.

Darkness surged forward.

And Wednesday Addams—stoic, defiant, unshakable—slumped against the weight of her first defeat by alcohol.

Enid gasped softly, catching her before she could tumble sideways, cradling her like she was made of glass. Her face flushed scarlet, wide-eyed and breathless. Around them, the pack kept laughing, cheering, shouting, oblivious to the way the world had just shifted by a fraction.

Bianca smirked into her glass. Bruno, bruised ego and all, stared hard but said nothing, recognizing the silent truth for what it was. Ajax remained high, not caring anymore of the situation unfolding in front of him. It’s not his business anymore.

And Enid, heart hammering in her chest, looked down at the girl in her arms—the most infuriating, stubborn, impossible person she had ever known—who had just told her she was pretty before passing out cold.