Chapter Text
Wednesday plans everything.
It isn’t a quirk, and it isn’t admirable—at least not to her.
It’s survival. Her life is a collection of carefully reconstructed crime scenes, every possibility flagged, every outcome catalogued before it even has the chance to unfold. Other people stumble into their days like amateurs, tripping on their own shadows.
Wednesday doesn’t stumble. She dissects. Predictable. Obvious. Laid out.
Patterns are safer than surprises.
She would never admit she’s grown accustomed to it—this grim choreography, this calculated detachment. Admitting comfort implies need, and need implies weakness.
She calls it a pattern, not a wound. A structure, not a scar. The truth is far less poetic: the past carved her into what she is. The past convinced her that “love” is nothing but camouflage, a trick of the light. People wrap themselves in it to get close, and then, when your guard finally drops, they ruin you.
Why bother with the illusion? Why let them pretend? Far cleaner to skip the theatrics and let the disappointment be obvious, blunt, honest.
So she doesn’t let people in. Not really.
What she does allow is a parade of strangers in dark rooms, one-night stands that barely deserve to be remembered. A rotation of warm bodies and forgettable faces, each of them playing a part in her ongoing experiment: mock the concept of romance until it loses all shape. Reduce it to a transaction. No feelings involved, no tangled strings, no warmth. Just borrowed nights and emptied mornings.
And mornings—those are their own rituals. Sometimes she wakes and finds the other side of the bed cold and vacant, sheets disturbed like evidence of a break-in. That emptiness makes her oddly satisfied, as though she’d solved the case before it even began. Other times, she has to do the work herself. A cold “leave,” delivered without eye contact. And if the stranger dares to linger, if they dare a lazy stretch and a “good morning,” she feels her patience splinter into sharp, dangerous edges. Those ones are mentally filed into her blacklist—the sort of people she imagines pushing out of her life with the finality of a locked cell door.
She tells herself it’s easy.
No feelings.
No warmth.
Just strings being cut before they ever threatened to tie themselves around her throat.
And yet—on mornings like this one—she wonders if there’s a kind of intimacy in emptiness. The quiet hum of her apartment feels almost companionable.
Today, she wakes alone. Good. That’s how it’s supposed to be. That’s how it’s safe.
Her mornings begin the same way: the sharp bite of black coffee filling the air, bitter as medicine, dark enough to scrape the fatigue from her veins. It’s not about enjoyment. It’s about control. The caffeine is an ally, a restraint—something to keep her from indulging the intrusive fantasy of killing the first person foolish enough to strike up casual conversation with her before noon.
A shower follows, cold and exact, a cleansing ritual without indulgence. Her wardrobe is selected with precision: blacks, grays, dark lines that slice through the world’s noise. No softness. No color. No invitation.
By the time she locks her door behind her, her apartment looks the same as it always does: clean, dark, untouched. No signs of strangers. No evidence of disorder.
That’s how she likes it.
That’s how it’s supposed to stay.
And if, somewhere deep beneath the cold routine, there’s an ache—a question she refuses to name—it doesn’t matter. Wednesday Addams has made peace with the fact that she doesn’t get peace. Only order. Only precision. Only the kind of life that feels more like an autopsy than a heartbeat.
“Good morning.”
Too bright. Too loud. Too chipper.
Wednesday doesn’t need to look up. She knows exactly where that radiance comes from. Eugene—forever the embodiment of a sugar rush at the break of dawn. His optimism should be classified as a controlled substance.
She hated it, particularly in the morning, but Eugene was her friend. So he was permitted a pass. A begrudging one. And though she would never admit it—under any threat, including medieval torture—she is fond of him.
Barely.
“You left early. You went to one of Ajax’s party nights again?” Eugene asks, his voice full of curiosity as he fumbles with the stack of film reels, boxes, and lighting equipment they’ll need for the photoshoot.
Wednesday adjusts the angle of a lens with surgical precision before answering. “I don’t tolerate his delusion that noise masquerading as music somehow brings people joy.”
Eugene chuckles, used to her brand of disdain. “That’s called DJ-ing. And, uh… he said you were there last night.”
That earns him a glare. A proper one. The kind of look that makes him feel as if invisible hands are tightening around his throat, dragging him toward an early grave. He knows she wouldn’t kill him. Probably. But her stare has the persuasive weight of a shovel being raised.
“He said that to whom?” Her tone is ice, clipped and deliberate.
Eugene freezes, then clears his throat. “Just to me.” A pause. “And, uh… maybe to some of the crew.” He looks around as if the equipment cases could swallow him whole.
Wednesday exhales, the sound more like a warning than a sigh. “I was there for a brief moment,” she admits at last, stacking contact sheets with sharp, precise movements. “But I had no intention of staying.”
“Classic Wednesday,” Eugene mutters under his breath, moving to a safe distance as though retreat is the only guarantee of survival.
The comment slides past her like smoke. Not worth acknowledging.
The studio soon hums with work. Backdrops unfurl, lights warm to a glow, and the sterile silence gives way to muted chatter from assistants rushing about. Wednesday moves through the chaos like a surgeon in an operating room—methodical, ruthless, exact. She calls out adjustments in her signature monotone, directing the crew with an authority that doesn’t require volume.
“Raise the softbox by three inches. Any higher and I’ll be forced to gouge my eyes out at the shadow imbalance.”
“Do not wrinkle that backdrop. Gravity is cruel enough. Don’t encourage it.”
When the model finally arrives, she doesn’t smile or offer greeting. Instead, Wednesday circles like a crow assessing roadkill, fixing posture, adjusting angles, and dictating expression. Her words cut sharper than scissors, but there’s a rhythm to it, a discipline that makes the shoot move with unnatural efficiency.
Hours crawl into the afternoon. Lunch is skipped, of course—wasted time, wasted digestion. By the time the last shutter clicks, Wednesday’s energy hasn’t waned. She thrives in the severity of work, in the discipline of capturing a moment and trapping it on film.
The others, however, collapse into chairs, muttering about sore feet and heavy arms. Eugene slouches near a crate, sweat dampening his collar, but still manages to grin.
“Another successful shoot,” he declares.
Wednesday cleans a lens with her cloth, not looking up. “Success is relative. The bar was low.”
The door creaks open. Late.
Ajax slinks inside with all the grace of a guilty teenager sneaking home past curfew. His curls are slightly disheveled, his shirt wrinkled, and his eyes carry the unmistakable glaze of someone who made friends with the wrong bottle last night.
“You’re late,” Wednesday states flatly. No judgment, no raised volume—just fact. Somehow that makes him squirm more than yelling ever could.
“Yeah, I, uh…” Ajax scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “Got caught up at that thing last night. Party went a little… long.”
“Long is a euphemism for sloppy.” She caps her lens, eyes narrow. “And your presence now is redundant. The work is done.”
He winces. “Yeah, I figured. But hey—” his tone shifts, hopeful—“I came to invite you to something tonight. Not like last time. I promise it’s tolerable.”
Wednesday tilts her head, suspicion sharp. “Tolerable is an optimistic assessment, considering the source.”
“No, seriously.” Ajax lifts his hands in mock surrender. “It’s not some rager. It’s a close friend’s thing. Super chill. No strangers, no massive crowd. Just people you already know. No need to pack earplugs or plot a murder escape route.”
Eugene, wiping his glasses nearby, perks up. “Oh, that actually sounds—”
“Unbearable,” Wednesday cuts him off. Her voice is as smooth and sharp as glass. She turns back to her camera case, sliding film neatly into its place.
Ajax doesn’t give up. “Come on. It’ll be low-key. You can even bring that scowl you call a face. It’ll fit right in.”
For a second, she considers it. Not because she wants to go. Not because the word “party” has ever lured her. But because information is power, and gatherings—no matter how small—are breeding grounds for secrets.
Her silence stretches long enough that Eugene throws Ajax a sympathetic look.
Finally, she speaks. “If this ‘gathering’ resembles even a fraction of your usual events, I will consider dismantling your stereo system with a hammer. While it’s still plugged in.”
Ajax swallows, then grins anyway. He takes that as the closest thing to a yes he’ll ever get.
Night always seemed to arrive too quickly, but for Wednesday it wasn’t a matter of time. It was irritation, disguised as an excuse. Irritation that she was here at all, standing at the threshold of Ajax’s idea of a “tolerable” party.
She had agreed—reluctantly, under protest, with the usual threats of dismemberment if he lied. And yet here she was, already rehearsing in her mind how this would end.
The plan was simple. She’d walk in, scan the room, absorb enough details to ensure she had the upper hand, and then leave. Quick. Controlled. Efficient.
Or, if alcohol managed to dull the sharpness of her thoughts, she might allow herself one slip—a temporary companion to fill the hours, someone forgettable enough to vanish by morning.
But above all, her intent was clear. No strings. No warmth. No lasting impression.
Just another night, ending exactly how she preferred it: alone.
Inside, the atmosphere was subdued—by Ajax’s standards, anyway. The living room was dim, lamps casting a soft amber glow over the furniture. A few bodies occupied couches and chairs, clustered in small, quiet groups. The bass of some muted playlist rumbled low but not suffocating.
“See?” Ajax appeared almost immediately, grinning as if he had just won an argument. “Told you. No chaos. Just a few people hanging out. Harmless.”
Wednesday’s gaze swept the room, clinical and deliberate. She recognized most of the faces—colleagues from the studio, mutual acquaintances she tolerated out of necessity. A few she couldn’t place, which suggested plus-ones Ajax had conveniently forgotten to mention. Or worse: strangers.
Her eyes narrowed. “Your definition of harmless remains questionable.”
Ajax raised his hands. “They’re friends of friends. That’s all.”
She didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, she turned toward the bar setup in the corner—a cluttered counter with bottles of cheap liquor, mixers, and plastic cups. She poured herself something strong enough to erase the memory of attending, then retreated to the edge of the room. A dark corner where no one would bother her.
And, as expected, no one did. The hours stretched, the conversations around her dull and predictable. The alcohol warmed her veins just enough to soften the sharp edges of her thoughts. Still, she remained separate, an observer perched at the margins.
When Ajax decided to “turn the heat up,” the music spiked louder, thumping with an obnoxious beat that made her skin crawl. That was her cue. She slipped away, glass abandoned, weaving past the crowd until she found a narrow staircase that led upward.
The rooftop—though in reality more of a cramped balcony—offered immediate relief. The night air was cool against her face, quiet settling like a shroud. She reached for a cigarette, lighting it with steady fingers. Smoke curled into the dark, a pale distraction.
Except—she wasn’t alone.
Leaning against the railing, silhouetted by the faint city glow, was a blonde girl. Hair curled, smile faint but easy, the kind of presence that belonged to someone who knew how to take up space without trying.
Wednesday froze, momentarily caught off guard. She didn’t know her. Not from the studio. Not from Ajax’s usual circle. A stranger, then—one who had successfully slipped past her catalog of familiar faces.
The girl turned, surprise flickering in her expression before it melted into something softer.
“Oh. Sorry,” she said, voice light, unbothered. “Didn’t think anyone else would escape up here.”
Wednesday studied her in silence, eyes narrowing. Unknown variables irritated her. And this girl—this Enid Sinclair, as she would later learn—was about to become one.
The balcony smelled of smoke and cheap liquor, but at least it wasn’t full of Ajax’s “tolerable” friends. Wednesday leaned against the railing, cigarette between her fingers, deliberately ignoring the blonde who had already claimed the other corner.
They didn’t speak. Not at first.
But Wednesday could feel it—the weight of eyes on her. Glances stolen, withdrawn, then sent back again, like the girl was building the courage to say something but never quite managing it.
“You’re staring,” Wednesday said at last, blowing a slow stream of smoke into the night without looking her way.
The blonde laughed, caught but not embarrassed. “Sorry. I’m awkward with first meetings.”
Wednesday catalogued the sound—bright, soft, grating. Too open. Too comfortable—
No, not comfortable. Irritating.
“I’m Enid, by the way. Friend of Yoko.” She said it like a fact, like Wednesday should immediately know what that meant.
Wednesday turned her head just slightly, eyes narrowing. “I know Yoko.”
Enid tilted her head. “Then you know me, sort of.”
“I would have remembered,” Wednesday replied flatly.
That earned another laugh, this one lighter, almost teasing.
Wednesday shifted her cigarette between her fingers. “Why are you here, then, instead of with your friend?” The words were cold, precise, carrying the unspoken subtext: leave, return to your circle, stop intruding on mine.
But Enid missed the code entirely.
“Too loud,” she said simply. “And someone tried to get a little too close. So I needed an escape route.”
Wednesday gave no response beyond another drag. She smoked down to the filter, irritated to find her pack empty when she reached for it again.
Enid noticed. Without hesitation, she slid her own box from her bag and held it out. “Need one?”
Wednesday hesitated. Accepting anything from strangers was reckless. But craving won. She plucked one from the pack, muttering, “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Enid leaned back against the railing, lighting her own. “So. You don’t really like parties, huh?”
“I dislike most things,” Wednesday corrected.
“Good to know.” Enid grinned, taking a drag. “And yet—you’re here.”
“Observation,” Wednesday said. “Nothing more.”
“Observation of what?”
“The foolishness of others.”
Enid giggled, shaking her head. “You’re intense, huh?”
“I prefer accurate.”
Enid studied her, exhaling smoke toward the stars. “You’re different.”
“I’m the only person here who isn’t intoxicated with mediocrity. That qualifies as different, yes.”
For some reason, that only made Enid smile wider. She chattered on—about how Yoko had begged her to come, how Ajax’s playlists always escalated into unbearable noise, how she’d almost stayed home instead. Wednesday listened in silence, answering with the occasional clipped word, every reply designed to cut the conversation short.
But Enid didn’t stop. And the longer she talked, the longer Wednesday realized she wasn’t like the usual strangers she dismissed. There was something else here. Something unpredictable.
So, mid-sentence, Wednesday cut her off.
“Do you want to get away from this place?”
Enid blinked. “Wait—like… right now?”
“Yes.”
Enid stared, cigarette forgotten between her fingers. “You don’t waste time, do you?”
“Time is wasted enough,” Wednesday said, her expression unreadable.
The night clung to Wednesday’s skin like smoke. She didn’t want to be here, not in this balcony, not in Ajax’s domain of noise and sweat and meaningless laughter. This was never her scene—though to be fair, she didn’t have a scene.
Enid kept talking, her words soft but persistent, like rain tapping against glass. Wednesday wasn’t listening so much as cataloging. Filing away tone, inflection, habit. The girl was too bright, too… alive. She radiated warmth in a place where Wednesday had worked hard to smother her own.
And that made her dangerous.
So when Enid agreed, without hesitation, to leave the party with her, Wednesday immediately erased the notion that she might be different.
Of course she said yes. They all said yes. People always craved what they didn’t understand, attracted by sharp edges that would cut them if they stayed too long. They confused it for intimacy. But it wasn’t. It was survival for Wednesday. Quick. Disposable. Forgettable.
And Enid would be no exception.
They descended the stairs in silence. Wednesday didn’t bother to say goodbye to anyone—why would she? The less tethered she was to this circle of mediocrity, the better. But when they reached the first floor, Enid slowed, tugging lightly at Wednesday’s sleeve.
“Hang on—I just need to tell Yoko something.”
Wednesday stopped, staring at the exit door like it was a finish line. “Go. I’ll wait outside.”
Her voice was flat, her eyes already turned away. She had no interest in overhearing goodbyes or reassurances. But her gaze, traitorous as ever, drifted back once she stepped a few feet ahead.
From the corner of her eye, she caught it: Enid leaning close to Yoko, smiling apologetically, her hands moving in small gestures. Yoko shook her head and waved her off, clearly unbothered, but Enid still looked… guilty.
Weird, Wednesday thought. Most people left their friends without so much as a glance. Why did she need to apologize? Why did she look like she owed someone something?
Wednesday erased the thought as quickly as it came. It didn’t matter.
By the time Enid jogged after her, breathless, Wednesday had already decided to leave first.
“Sorry,” Enid said, catching up, her tone rushed, sincere. “I’m Yoko’s ride. I just… wanted to make sure she was okay before I ditched.”
Wednesday’s brow arched, her steps unfaltering. “I don’t require excuses.”
“I know.” Enid smiled awkwardly, brushing hair behind her ear. “I just… didn’t want you to think I was ditching you.”
Wednesday said nothing. The implication didn’t matter, because this would end the way it always did: nothing lasting, nothing worth remembering.
Outside, the night air was cooler. Enid gave a small wave toward the street. “Wait here. I’ll get my car.”
Wednesday remained on the curb, arms folded, the shadows wrapping her like armor. She didn’t respond, didn’t nod, didn’t care if Enid even returned. She would walk home if she had to. She always had her escape plans.
But a few minutes later, headlights swept across the pavement, and Enid pulled up in a car that made Wednesday’s lips thin in distaste. A glossy, overpriced model—the kind she’d seen parked outside loft apartments of strangers whose names she’d forgotten.
Typical.
She’d seen this before. The car of someone trying too hard. The car of someone who wanted to be looked at. Confirmation, once again, that Enid was no different from the others.
Still, when the door swung open, Enid leaned across the seat, offering with an earnest smile, “Here—let me. You comfortable?”
Wednesday paused, hand resting against the frame, her dark eyes narrowing. Nobody had ever asked her that before. Nobody had ever opened the door like she was more than another body filling a passenger seat.
It was nothing. Just another quirk. Just another disguise. Wednesday told herself that as she slipped inside.
She adjusted her coat, sat stiff-backed, and looked out the window.
No different, she reminded herself.
No different at all.
And yet—her fingers twitched, betraying the thought she refused to name.
The ride was not what she expected. Not at all.
Wednesday had imagined something different—something familiar in its discomfort, predictable in its chaos. But Enid was unlike any of the strangers she’d ever met. Among all those blurred faces and fleeting names, this one somehow stood apart, quietly, stubbornly, by valuing something so rare in Wednesday’s world—consent.
Enid asked before doing anything. Even though she was the one behind the wheel, even though it was her car, she still made sure Wednesday was comfortable. It was absurdly considerate. Disarming, even.
And so, despite the haze of alcohol softening the edges of her usual sharp composure, Wednesday felt…peaceful. Not that she’d ever admit it if anyone asked. She’d rather swallow glass.
“Do you want me to play some music?”
The question came gently, cutting through the hum of the road.
Wednesday turned to her, brow arched. She wondered if this was part of some act—some attempt at politeness that would eventually peel away. So she answered coldly, “No.”
To her surprise, Enid didn’t argue. She didn’t pout, didn’t laugh it off or insist. She just nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips like rejection meant nothing to her.
How irritating.
Minutes passed. The silence pressed heavier than the air between them. Then, with an exhale she didn’t realize she released, Wednesday muttered, “You can play some background noise. Just make sure it’s not loud.”
Enid’s head turned slightly, the streetlights catching in her hair as she smiled—bright but not blinding—and mouthed, “Yes, ma’am.”
She followed instructions perfectly. The music came low and distant, soft enough to fill the void of not speaking without demanding to be heard.
The questions didn’t stop there.
“Do you want me to lower the air conditioning?”
“No.”
“Are you comfortable with your seat?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to stop for food or snacks?”
“Maybe.”
And then, the last one—
“Do you want me to talk?”
That made Wednesday glance over. Enid looked…happy. Not mocking, not trying to impress, just genuinely content to be there, offering her the choice. She kept her eyes on the road, steady hands on the wheel, but every question seemed to orbit around Wednesday’s comfort, as if her boundaries were a map Enid refused to trespass.
For someone who talked endlessly earlier in the night, Enid now seemed to have mastered silence.
And Wednesday—reluctantly, confusingly—appreciated that. No one had ever read her this well. Or respected the quiet so completely.
Every one-night stand she’d had blurred together into the same impatient pattern: the same touch without asking, the same empty lust wrapped in clumsy confidence.
But Enid? Enid hadn’t even tried to touch her.
Not that Wednesday wanted it. She hated being touched. But it unsettled her, how this scene—this familiar script—was being rewritten in real time.
Too respectful.
Too kind.
Too… much.
Finally, she spoke, her voice sharp enough to slice through the atmosphere.
“What exactly do you think we’re about to do?”
She threw the question like a weapon, waiting for Enid to flinch. To expose herself. Maybe, if she broke the façade now, Wednesday could breathe again.
But Enid didn’t flinch.
“Umm… taking a breather?” she said, uncertain but honest, her voice small but clear. “You looked like you wanted to get out of that place. It was kind of loud.”
Her hand moved as she talked, gesturing unconsciously. Wednesday noticed that—too much. She noticed everything about her, even the way her fingers danced midair like punctuation marks. And she hated that she noticed.
“And what exactly does ‘taking a breather’ mean to you?”Her irritation slipped through now, laced with something unspoken—fear, maybe, or confusion.
“Escaping,” Enid replied simply, smiling faintly as the stoplight painted her face red. “I can take you somewhere you’ll feel comfortable. Maybe erase that irritation you’ve been wearing since you walked into Ajax’s party.”
The light turned green, and they moved forward—fast.
But Wednesday’s heart moved faster.
How could she see through all that coldness? How could she say things that hit so precisely, as if she’d been reading Wednesday’s mind? Enid had dismantled her control in the span of a few heartbeats, undone all the walls she had so carefully arranged.
How dare she make Wednesday feel nauseous—not from disgust, but from the unfamiliar flutter that followed. How dare she make this night feel unpredictable.
Wednesday had wanted Enid to be like everyone else, so she could forget her just as easily. But now she knew—she couldn’t. No matter how much she’d try to drown it in sleep or deny it in daylight, she’d remember.
And she would hate that she remembered.
Because the truth—one she’d rather die than confess—was that this wasn’t a nightmare at all.
It was something much worse.
It was real.