Chapter Text
Tyler’s POV
When Principal Morticia Addams asks to see you before dawn, you don’t say no.
Even if you’re innocent, it still feels like a summons to confession.
The office smells of iron and roses. Moonlight filters through the tall windows, cutting across the black marble floor. Morticia stands at her desk, elegant as ever.
“Mr. Galpin,” she says to me. “Thank you for coming so early.”
Her tone is polite, but her eyes could dissect you. “I wasn’t sleeping anyway,” I mutter.
“I assumed not.” She gestures to a folder on the desk.
She opens it and shows me the photographs. They look grainy and color-drained. They’ve clearly been taken under moonlight.
The first image stops me cold: there are claw marks gouged deep into the bark of a tree. Five parallel scars, perfectly curved, the kind that don’t come from animals. Definitely the claw of a Hyde.
Morticia’s voice is quiet but certain. “We found these on the northern edge of the forest. Three sets, all within fifty yards of one another.”
I force myself to breathe. “You think… it’s a Hyde?”
Her eyes lift to me. “I think the universe enjoys repetition. Whether it is the same creature is what concerns me.”
“It isn’t me.” The words come out too quickly.
“I believe you,” she says, and somehow that’s worse. “But belief doesn’t erase evidence.”
I stare at the photos again. The grooves are too familia. Every one of them a reminder of the Hyde that still lives inside of me.
“You’ve been… well?” she asks, studying me.
“As well as someone can be while being a Hyde’’ I say, half a smile, half a shield.
Morticia doesn’t return it. “Good. Then you’ll understand why this must remain between us for now.”
My stomach sinks for a moment. I don’t want to keep secrets from Wednesday. Not after everything we’ve been through. “You don’t want me to tell Wednesday.”
“She’s been… unsettled,” Morticia says delicately. “Ever since that night. I suspect her composure is thinner than she admits.”
“She’s Wednesday Addams,” I say. “Her composure’s bulletproof.”
Morticia’s lips curve, but it isn’t a smile. “Even iron rusts, Mr. Galpin.”
The silence that follows feels too heavy for the room.
I look at the photographs again. I look at the depth of the grooves, the violence in them. The marks don’t just say monster. They say rage.
“Whoever did this,” I murmur, “they weren’t hunting. They were trying not to.”
Morticia tilts her head “Then let us hope,” she says, “that they still remember how.”
…
Tyler’s POV
Something wakes me in the middle of the night. At first, I think it’s the wind scraping against the window, or the echo of another nightmare clawing its way through my head.
But then I feel it. That pulse. Our pulse. It’s… wrong. It’s feels too fast and too heavy.
I sit up slowly, the room drenched in moonlight. My chest aches, a phantom pain that isn’t mine alone.
For a moment I think she’s dreaming, that it’s nothing. But then the air shifts. It’s cold.
Something’s changed. The tether between us hums like a live wire under my skin.
Beneath it, faint but undeniable, there’s a second sound. A whisper. A growl.
“Wednesday…” I breathe. Her name tastes strange in my mouth, like it doesn’t belong to the girl I know anymore.
I can’t see her, but I can feel her . She’s awake, somewhere across Nevermore, her heartbeat thrumming inside me like it’s trying to escape. It’s stronger than it should be.
For just a second, I swear I hear it. I swear I can hear her voice, distant but sharp, threading through my thoughts.
“Don’t come looking for me, Tyler.”
The sound makes my blood run cold. I stumble from the bed, clutching my chest as the shared rhythm stutters, syncing… and then splitting. Two heartbeats. One human. One not.
…
Tyler’s POV
8 months ago.
The morning light wakes me earlier. It’s pale and gold. It spills across my dorms ceiling. I can see it cutting through the dust. For once I wake up feeling relieved. There’s no echo of the Hyde taking over. No I just feel my heart beat evenly.
Nevermore always carries sounds with it. I hear birds, voices and the clattering plates in the dining hall. It's the kind of morning that shows that people move on fast.
I get out of bed and pull on a shirt, buttoning it wrong twice before I give up. I glance at myself at the mirror. I almost look like a student again, instead of someone carrying a family curse.
I make my way downstairs. The halls are filled with students chatting. When I arrive at the dining hall I see Enid already walking toward the buffet. Her sweater is an assault on my eyes. Ajax walks beside her. He waves his spoon.
For the first time in a while, no one looks at me like I might snap. It feels refreshing. Like a clean start I’ve been wanting forever.
Suddenly I see Wednesday walk inside the dining hall. She moves fast. She’s wearing her usual black and white uniform.
She walks toward me and sits down at the same table across from me.
“Morning,” I say, trying not to sound too relieved she’s here.
“Morning is a social construct,” she replies, slicing her toast into perfect squares. “But I appreciate the attempt.”
Enid drops by, bright as the sun and twice as loud. “Tyler! You survived another night of brooding. So proud of you.”
She turns to Wednesday. “And you didn’t hex him yet. Personal growth!”
Wednesday blinks once. “Restraint is a skill. One I practice sparingly.”
Ajax nearly chokes on his orange juice. Enid grins and scampers off to join him, leaving behind the faint scent of glitter and chaos.
I pick at my coffee. “You’re in a good mood,” I say.
“I am not,” she answers flatly, but her mouth twitches. That’s as close to smiling as Wednesday Addams gets.
For a little while, it almost feels normal. We talk about multiple things. She talks about Poe’s fixation on premature burial and how it’s statistically more common than people think. I tease her about quoting murderers like they’re philosophers. She counters by diagnosing me with “terminal optimism.” It’s familiar, comfortable in a way that shouldn’t be.
Outside, Nevermore is thawing from winter. The courtyard gleams with dew. Students rush to class, the air filled with chatter and wingbeats from the gargoyles overhead. The world feels almost alive again.
After breakfast, we walk the long way to Potions. Wednesday refuses to take the main hall. She feels it’s too crowded and too loud. So we cut through the greenhouse path. The air smells of wet earth. She’s talking about venom glands when she stops mid-sentence.
I can see her eyes narrow. Her fingers twitch.
“Hey, you okay?” I ask.
She blinks “Fine. It’s just a headache. Nothing fatal.”
I don’t believe her, but I don’t press. The sun cuts through the glass roof, glinting in her hair. For half a second. She’s moving again, already ten steps ahead, and the moment’s gone.
We spend the day pretending things are fine. She destroys everyone in fencing practice; I manage not to set anything on fire in Potions.
Between classes, she sketches something in her notebook. The lines look too much like veins, or roots, or cracks in the world.
When I ask what it is, she says, “A study in symmetry,” and closes the book before I can see.
By the time evening settles, the sky is bleeding pink over the towers. Wednesday tells me she’s going to write. I tell her I’ll see her tomorrow. Neither of us says goodnight.
…
Wednesday’s POV
I still dislike mornings. It feels like an unwelcome guest. The morning light seeps through the curtains. It feels intrusive.
Unfortunately I don’t have any time to wake up properly. Enid’s alarm sings from the other side of the room, some saccharine tune about sunshine and success. I consider homicide before I’m fully awake.
I look up to see Enid spinning in front of her mirror, radiating optimism. “Big day, Weds! Potions quiz, fencing finals, and coffee with your boy.”
I sit up, staring at her, without saying a word. After a minute or so I get out of bed.
…
I button my collar. “You say that as if any of those things inspire joy.”
“Joy’s good for you,” she says, stretching.
“So is arsenic, in the right dose.”
She sighs, used to me by now. “Try to smile today.”
“I’ll try not to,” I assure her, and step into the hallway.
…
The dining hall is chaos wrapped in enthusiasm. There’s laughter, clattering cutlery and the stench of adolescence. I take my seat at the far corner, the table mercifully untouched by sunlight.
I join Tyler. His hair is still damp from the shower. His smile is softer than it should be for someone with his history.
“Morning,” he says.
“An unfortunate recurrence,” I reply.
He sets down a cup of coffee in front of me. “Extra bitter. Thought of you.”
A flicker of amusement tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Flattery before breakfast. You’re learning.”
Enid waves from across the room, blinding in pink. Ajax waves a fork in solidarity. It’s revolting. Tyler watches them, something like tenderness crossing his face.
“They seem happy,” he says.
“Most diseases have incubation periods,” I answer. He laughs quietly. I smile back at him.
…
Classes pass in their usual parade of mediocrity.
In Botany, Professor Paxler encourages us to “nurture our specimens with love.” I offer mine a single drop of blood. It blooms immediately. Proof that affection is overrated.
In Literature, we discuss Poe’s The Premature Burial. My classmates call it a fear of death; I call it an admiration of stillness. They stare while I take notes.
All day, I feel il. I can feel the faint vibration beneath my ribs. A reminder that I’m tethered to someone else’s heartbeat. It used to feel like security. Now it hums like a fuse waiting to burn out.
…
Fencing is a welcome reprieve. Bianca challenges me again, for reasons I can only attribute to ego or stupidity. Ten minutes later, her sword clatters to the floor and her pride bleeds beside it.
When I remove my mask, the room wavers. The edges of the world tremble, as though I’ve blinked into another dimension. I can see a flash of pain in Tyler’s face. His name echoes in my skull. I steady my breathing. The tremor fades. Control reasserts itself. It always does.
…
After class, the greenhouse corridor glows with fractured light. Dust hangs in the air. Tyler walks beside me, feigning interest in my lecture on the toxicity of foxglove. His attention flickers to me.
Halfway through a sentence, my pulse misfires. A jolt ripples through me. It’s hot and overwhelming. The world sharpens to glass edges.
Tyler says my name. I hear it from far away, muffled, underwater. For an instant, I see him reflected in every pane of glass. His mouth moving, his expression fractured. The reflections don’t match the original.
Then the world exhales, and it’s gone.
“Headache,” I say, tone flat. “Nothing fatal.”
He hesitates, then nods. His concern is infuriating. I walk ahead before he can offer comfort; it’s the one language I refuse to learn.
…
By evening, Nevermore grows quiet. Shadows lengthen like spilled ink across the stone. Enid has gone out, leaving the dorm to its preferred state of silence. I sit at my desk, typewriter poised, the paper a perfect, mocking white.
Words refuse to come. My fingers hover over the keys, still trembling faintly. The hum beneath my ribs returns, louder now. It feels like two heartbeats overlapping.
“Enough,” I whisper. “You don’t belong here.”
…
The typewriter sits before me. The page remains empty, though my mind is not. Thoughts crowd like ghosts, clamoring for form, for words, for release.
Outside, wind scrapes across the windowpanes. The hum beneath my ribs hasn’t stopped; if anything, it’s louder now. It’s an echo of something buried clawing to the surface.
I should write. I always write. Dissection through language has been my preferred form of survival. But tonight, the words feel… dangerous.
The doorknob rattles and Enid bursts in, a technicolor hurricane in boots and glitter. “You will not believe the night I’ve had!” she declares, already mid-monologue before she’s even crossed the threshold.
I don’t look up. “You say that every night.”
She ignores me, as usual. “Bianca’s organizing some ridiculous midnight mixer in the quad. There were glowsticks. I might be permanently blinded.”
“Tragic,” I murmur. “Do they not teach you people the art of suffering in silence?”
Enid plops down on her bed, grinning. “Suffering’s your art, Weds. Mine’s living.”
Her cheer grates against the stillness I’ve built. Every sound feels amplified. The creak of the mattress, the faint click of her bracelets. Even her heartbeat seems too loud.
I try to focus on the blank page. The rhythm of the keys should be comforting. But my fingers hover uselessly. The hum under my skin twists tighter.
“Did you at least talk to Tyler today?” Enid asks suddenly.
My jaw tightens. “We conversed, yes.”
She sits up straighter. “You two have been weird lately. And by weird, I mean extra weird. He looks at you like you’re the last line in a love poem, and you look at him like you’re deciding where to bury the body.”
“I’m multitasking,” I reply.
She laughs. Her laugh is bright and careless. It shouldn’t bother me, but something inside flinches. The sound is too alive, too warm.
She goes on, oblivious. “I’m just saying, you can trust him, you know? He’s not the enemy anymore.”
The words hit harder than they should. Something in me snaps. The lamp flickers again. The air drops ten degrees. I don’t remember standing, but I’m suddenly on my feet. My pulse is a drumbeat in my skull.
Enid blinks. “Weds?”
“Trust,” I say quietly, the word tasting like blood. “You use it so easily. As if it’s a thing that can’t be shattered.”
“Okay,” she says carefully, hands raised. “What’s going on?”
I can feel it. The pull beneath my skin. I feel something move between my ribs. My vision edges with silver. The shadows in the corners shift, stretching toward her.
“I said I’m fine,” I manage, though my voice sounds wrong. It’s too low and too calm.
Enid doesn’t move. Her scent is a mixture sugar and citrus. It cuts through the cold. “You’re not fine. You’re shaking.”
I look down. She’s right. My hands are trembling. My reflection in the window shivers too, but not in sync. There’s a second silhouette in the glass. It’s taller, darker and smiling when I’m not.
“Weds…” Enid whispers. “You’re scaring me.”
Good, a part of me thinks. She should be scared. The thought isn’t mine.
I close my eyes, forcing the air back into my lungs. The hum fades. The frost retreats from the window.
When I open them again, Enid’s still watching me. Her eyes are wide and cautious.
“I’m sorry,” I say finally. The words are foreign, heavy. “It’s… late. You should sleep.”
She hesitates. “Only if you promise to do the same.”
“I promise nothing,” I answer.
She sighs but doesn’t argue. Within minutes, she’s under her blanket.
I return to my desk. The page is still blank. But in the reflection of the typewriter’s keys, I can see it the faint glint of claws just beneath my skin.