Nevermore, My Broken Heart

Chapter 1: The Woe of Letting Go

The scream tore from Enid's throat before her mind could process what she was seeing. Wednesday lay broken on the rain-slicked pavement below, a dark splash against concrete that shouldn't be there, couldn't be there.

Without permission, her legs carried her forward, feet slapping through puddles that hadn't existed moments before. The downpour came sudden and violent, as if the sky itself had witnessed Tyler's act and responded with fury. Deputies scattered like startled birds, their uniforms already darkening with rain, but Enid saw none of them. Only Wednesday.

"Wednesday!" Her voice broke on the name. She crashed to her knees beside the still form, water immediately soaking through her pants. This close, the damage was devastating—glass fragments caught in dark hair like terrible diamonds, crimson mixing with rainwater to paint abstract horrors across pale skin. "No, no, no—Wednesday, wake up!"

Hovering hands betrayed her fear to touch, fear not to. Rain hammered down, turning the blood pink where it pooled. Enid finally grabbed Wednesday's shoulders, shaking with increasing desperation. Wednesday's head rolled loose, boneless in a way that made her stomach lurch.

Thing appeared from nowhere, fingers dancing a frantic pattern she couldn't follow through the curtain of rain and tears. He kept signing the same thing over and over, movements sharp with panic.

"Miss—" Sheriff Santiago materialized at her side, voice cutting through the storm. "I need you to move back."

"She's not waking up!" Enid's enhanced hearing strained for any sign of life beneath the rain's assault. Nothing. Just water hitting stone, radios crackling, her own ragged breathing. "Why isn't she—"

Santiago's hands found Enid's shoulders, firm but not cruel. "The ambulance is coming. You have to let them—"

"No!" Enid jerked away, pressing closer to Wednesday. The downpour plastered her hair to her face, half-blinding her, but she couldn't leave. Wouldn't. "Wednesday, please. You can't die! You can't…"

Red lights suddenly painted everything in alternating flashes—ambulance tires shrieking against wet asphalt. Santiago pulled harder this time, and Enid found herself being dragged backward despite her werewolf strength. Maybe she wasn't fighting as hard as she could. Maybe part of her knew.

Two paramedics descended like angels, their movements cutting through chaos. One stabilized Wednesday's neck while the other searched for a pulse. The silence stretched infinite, rain drumming against everything, until—

"No pulse. Starting compressions."

The words hollowed Enid out. Her knees hit pavement again, Santiago's grip the only anchor keeping her from collapse. The paramedic's hands stacked over Wednesday's chest, beginning the terrible rhythm.

One, two, three...

Each compression made Wednesday's body jump slightly. Wrong, all wrong. Wednesday moved like poetry, like calculated violence, not this mechanical jerking. Water poured down the paramedic's face as he worked, counting under his breath.

Fifteen, sixteen...

With unusual gentleness, Thing crawled up Enid's soaked jacket, tucking himself against her ribs. She felt him shaking—or maybe that was her. Everything blurred together in the storm.

Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.

The second paramedic tilted Wednesday's head back, sealed her mouth over Wednesday's, and breathed life that wouldn't stay. They switched positions without words, the dance of emergency medicine continuing its desperate beat.

"How long?" one shouted over the storm.

"Unknown. Could be five minutes, could be ten."

Too long. The words went unspoken but hung between them like a death sentence. Santiago was asking questions—about Tyler, about being inside, about what happened—but the words meant nothing. Enid heard herself responding somehow, automatic and hollow, while her world narrowed to the rise and fall of Wednesday's chest under someone else's hands.

She's not breathing.

The thought circled like a predator. Enid had watched her typing on that ancient typewriter until 2 AM, the rhythmic clacking eventually lulling her to sleep. Wednesday had been alive, gloriously and irritatingly alive, and now—

Tears mingled with raindrops on Enid's face, indistinguishable from each other. The medical team worked in grim silence, their urgency speaking volumes. An oxygen mask materialized. Medical terminology floated past like foreign language. But Enid understood the quick glances they exchanged, the slight shake of a head.

Please, she begged anything listening. The universe. Goody Addams. Whatever darkness Wednesday believed in. Don't take her. Not like this.

A roar split the night—deep, wet, utterly inhuman. It rolled across the hospital grounds like thunder's evil twin. Deputies reached for weapons. Santiago's hand found her holster, body shifting to shield civilians from the treeline where shadow separated from shadow.

The Hyde. Tyler. Free and hunting and too close.

But Enid's wolf stayed silent. Her every instinct should be screaming danger, demanding transformation, preparing for battle. Instead, there was only hollow stillness. Because what was the point of claws and fangs when—

Thirty more compressions. Another rescue breath. The paramedics hadn't given up, even as Tyler's howl echoed off wet stone. They worked through the storm, through the threat, through the growing crowd of first responders.

Come back, Enid pleaded silently, rain turning the world into watercolor nightmares. Whatever you're seeing, wherever you are, come back. I can't do this without you.

The life-saving rhythm kept time in a world that had stopped making sense the moment Wednesday fell from that window. The moment Tyler had—

In the distance, another bestial cry, farther now but still too close. The rain fell harder, as if trying to wash away what couldn't be undone.

The waiting room fluorescent lights hummed with a pitch that made Enid's teeth ache. Or maybe that was just everything aching. Slumped in a plastic chair designed by someone who'd never had to wait for news that could shatter a world, she clutched a styrofoam cup of coffee that had gone from scalding to lukewarm without ever touching her lips.

"What's your name?"

Sheriff Santiago's voice came from somewhere to her left. Professional. Patient. Like she had all night to repeat the same questions.

"Enid Sinclair." The words felt automatic, someone else speaking with her mouth.

"How do you know Wednesday Addams?"

She's my best friend. My roommate. The person who makes me brave. The girl who changed everything.

"We're roommates. At Nevermore."

"What were you doing at Willow Hill?"

The coffee cup trembled slightly. Enid stared into its dark surface, seeing Wednesday strapped to that stretcher instead. The way the paramedics had moved, their faces set in expressions that said too much.

"Following Wednesday."

"What was Ms. Addams doing at Willow Hill?"

Trying to solve murders. Being brilliant and reckless and absolutely infuriating.

"I don't know."

It wasn't entirely a lie. Enid didn't know the specifics, the intricate web of clues Wednesday had been following. Because Wednesday hadn't told her. Had barely looked at her these past few days, too caught up in whatever mystery had its hooks in her this time.

Santiago kept talking, but the words dissolved into background static. All Enid could see was that moment—Wednesday being lifted onto the stretcher, paramedics calling out medical terminology that all meant the same thing: critical. The ambulance doors closing. Red lights painting the rain.

Thing had signaled frantically against her shoulder then, and she'd understood without translation: We go. Now.

Sheriff Santiago had driven them, which was... kind. Strange to think of kindness in the middle of tragedy, but there it was. The sheriff's hands steady on the wheel while Enid shook apart in the passenger seat, Thing curled in her lap like he was trying to hold her together through proximity alone.

Upon entering the hospital, Thing had launched himself from her arms, scuttling across the polished floor with single-minded purpose. Finding Wednesday's room. Staying close. Doing what Enid couldn't.

And that's when the realization hit—Agnes was gone.

The invisible girl who'd started all this, who'd orchestrated that awful game in the tower, who'd been right there when Tyler—

She should be furious. She would be furious. Later. When there was room for anything besides this terrible anxiety. When she could feel something other than the memory of Wednesday's body, limp and wrong in the rain. Right now, anger was a luxury she couldn't afford. It would mean believing Wednesday would survive long enough for Enid to yell at everyone who'd failed her.

Tyler, for obvious reasons. Agnes, for her games and her stalking and her selfish need for Wednesday's attention that had led her to that window. And Wednesday—God, Wednesday—for thinking she was invincible. For chasing death like it wouldn't chase back.

The last few days replayed on endless loop. Wednesday pulling away, building walls with every unanswered question, every investigation Enid wasn't invited to join. Choosing Agnes's invisible schemes over their late-night talks. Agnes and Wednesday bent over maps and clues while Enid sat at another table, Bruno trying to distract her from the ache of being unneeded—unwanted.

That fight in the quad burned fresh in her memory. She'd finally said it, the thing that had been eating at her for days.

"Seems you prefer hanging out with that pint-sized psycho, Agnes, more than me."

Wednesday's response had been so perfectly Wednesday—deflecting, turning it back on her. "Seems like you're a little preoccupied."

"You can't blame this on Bruno and the pack."

But hadn't Wednesday been right? Enid had been preoccupied. With Bruno, yes, but more with the desperate need to matter to someone who seemed determined to need no one.

"Didn't you say you wanted your fun and freedom?"

The words had stung because they were true. She had said that. Had meant it, even. Until she'd realized that freedom from Wednesday felt like missing a limb.

Then that crow had attacked, wings and talons and chaos, cutting their argument short. Leaving everything unresolved, festering like an untreated wound.

Earlier tonight—God, was it really the same night?—she'd finally asked the question that had been choking her.

"Do you even want to be my friend anymore?"

"That has never been in question."

The memory of that admission, pulled from Wednesday like a confession under torture, made something twist in Enid's chest. Wednesday had said it with such certainty, like it was obvious, like Enid was foolish for doubting. As if Wednesday hadn't been acting like Enid was furniture for the past week.

The pathetic truth was that Wednesday's approval had become necessary to her breathing. Not something she'd sought initially—Wednesday had been the weird roommate she'd tried to befriend out of determined optimism more than genuine interest. But somewhere between the Hyde attacks and the hug that Wednesday pretended not to need, between the investigations and the long nights, Enid had gotten addicted to mattering to someone who she knew was incapable of reciprocating the feeling.

For days now, that significance had been slipping away. Wednesday choosing anyone, anything, over their friendship. Until tonight, when Wednesday had admitted—

The hospital doors burst open.

Morticia Addams entered like a force of nature, all sharp edges and barely contained storm. Gomez flanked her, one hand at her elbow in a gesture that was both supportive and restraining. Pugsley followed, looking younger than his fourteen years, eyes wide with the kind of fear that came from seeing your family's foundations crack. And behind them all, Hester Frump, Wednesday's grandmother, moving with the measured pace of someone who refused to let crisis rush her.

"My daughter," Morticia said, and it wasn't a question. "Wednesday. Where is she?"

Santiago stood, professional composure sliding back into place. "Mrs. Addams. We're still waiting to hear from the doctors about her condition."

"Waiting." Morticia's voice could have frozen flame.

"Cara mia." Gomez's hand tightened on her elbow, grounding her. His eyes swept the room with steady assessment—exits, threats, allies—before landing on Enid. Something in his expression fractured. "Miss Sinclair."

Before Enid could respond, movement in her peripheral vision—Bruno rushing through the entrance, his clothes dark with rain. His eyes found her immediately, crossing the room in long strides.

"Enid, God, are you—are you okay?"

The question broke something in her chest. She wasn't okay. Wouldn't be okay until—

Bruno's arms came around her, solid and warm and present. Folding into him for just a moment, Enid let the coffee cup finally slip from nerveless fingers to splash across institutional tile. His hand remained steady on her back as he absorbed her shaking.

"She fell," Enid whispered into his shoulder. "Tyler threw her and she just—she fell so far."

His arms tightened. Over his shoulder, the Addams family clustered around Santiago. Pugsley looking lost. Gomez holding Morticia like she might shatter or explode, impossible to tell which. Hester observing everything with those sharp eyes that missed nothing.

But Morticia wasn't looking at the sheriff. Her dark eyes had found Enid across the room, sharp as obsidian blades. There was something in that stare—not quite accusation, but knowledge. Recognition.

You were there. You saw. You know.

And beneath that, unspoken but clear: Why didn't you stop this?

Or maybe that was just Enid's own guilt reflected back. Because she had been there. Had watched Wednesday disappearing into herself these past days, chasing shadows and secrets. Had seen her choose danger over safety, mysteries over friendship, Agnes's invisible schemes over Enid's very visible concern.

Enid had known something was wrong. The black tears that Wednesday tried to hide. The way her hands trembled when she thought no one was looking. The obsessive way she'd pursued this case, like death had a deadline.

That look from Morticia held weight, promises of conversations to come. Later. If Wednesday was—

She couldn't bear to finish the thought.

The corridors of Willow Hill stretched before Wednesday like arteries in some vast, diseased organ. Smoke curled through the air, thick and acrid, though she couldn't taste it. The walls bent at impossible angles, passages splitting and rejoining in ways that violated every law of architecture. She moved through them anyway, her footsteps echoing wrong—too loud, then too soft, then not at all.

"Uncle Fester?" Her voice came out steady despite the wrongness pressing against her from all sides. No answer. The smoke swallowed her words before they could travel.

"Thing?" She tried again, scanning the warped hallways for any sign of movement. Nothing. Just the endless spiral of corridors folding in on themselves, doors that opened onto walls, stairs that descended upward.

She should have noticed the impossibility of it. Should have recognized the dream logic twisting reality into nightmarish geometry. But her mind accepted it all with the peculiar blindness of the unconscious, focused only on finding—

The hallway dissolved.

One step around a corner and suddenly she stood in the graveyard from her vision. The transition felt both jarring and inevitable, the way dreams shifted without explanation or apology. Crows perched everywhere—on headstones worn smooth by time, on bare branches that clawed at the gray sky, on the iron fence that bordered this place of the dead. Hundreds of black eyes watched her, unblinking.

The silence here was different. Not empty but waiting.

Wednesday moved between the graves, her black dress catching on reaching thorns she hadn't noticed before. The crows tracked her progress, heads tilting in unison like a single organism with countless eyes. Their wings rustled—a sound like whispered warnings she couldn't quite parse.

She emerged into a clearing and her breath caught.

Enid.

The werewolf lay crumpled before a headstone, her body twisted at an angle that made Wednesday's chest constrict. Blood. So much blood. It had soaked through the bright colors Enid always wore, turning pink to rust, blue to black. The fabric hung in tatters, revealing deep gashes where claws had torn through cloth and flesh alike. Bite marks punctured her shoulder, her arm, her side—the signature of something that had taken its time.

Wednesday's knees hit the ground hard enough to bruise. She didn't feel it.

"Enid." The name came out wrong, fractured by something Wednesday refused to name. Her hands reached for the body, fingers trembling as they found Enid's shoulder. Still warm. Still—

She shook her, desperate in a way that would have horrified her waking self. "Enid, get up. This isn't—you can't—"

Enid's head lolled toward her with the limp motion of the dead.

Her eyes were open. Vacant. Staring at nothing with an absence that hit Wednesday harder than she ever thought possible. Three parallel claw marks ran from temple to jaw, blood dried to rusty streaks across skin that had lost all its warmth, all its light. The cheerful girl who'd forced color into Wednesday's monochrome world reduced to—

Wednesday fell backward, her body moving without conscious thought, scrambling away from the truth of those lifeless eyes. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm she'd never permitted it before. Behind her, a growl rumbled through the air like thunder given voice.

She turned.

The Hyde filled her vision—seven feet of wrong angles and impossible anatomy. Tyler's transformed face twisted into something between human and monster, neither and both. His claws, still wet with—

He lunged.

Wednesday's eyes snapped open with a gasp that tore from her throat like shrapnel. She was sitting upright before consciousness fully returned, her body reacting to threats that weren't there. The hospital bed creaked under her sudden movement. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, too bright after the graveyard's perpetual dusk.

"Enid!" The name ripped from Wednesday's throat before rational thought could intervene. Whipping her head toward the door, she expected to find blood-soaked fabric and vacant eyes. Instead, she found her mother rising from a chair beside the bed, moving with that fluid grace that never faltered, not even in crisis.

"She's safe." Morticia's voice carried the weight of certainty as she approached, hands smooth and steady as they found Wednesday's shoulders. "Enid is here. In the waiting room."

The relief should have been immediate, complete. Instead, it warred with the images still scorched into Wednesday's retinas—those parallel claw marks, that terrible stillness. Breathing remained shallow, controlled only through her sheer force of will.

Memory crashed back in fragments. The maintenance code unlocking Willow Hill's basement. LOIS—the Long-term Outcast Integration Study—revealed in all its horror. Captive outcasts in cells, their abilities harvested like organs from the living. Judi Spannegel dropping her mask of harmless assistant to become something with wings and murder in her eyes.

And Tyler. Tyler free of chains, free of masters, free to—

"Did he escape?" The question came out sharper than intended. "Tyler. The Hyde."

Morticia's pause lasted only a heartbeat, but Wednesday caught it. Her mother's hands tightened almost imperceptibly on her shoulders.

"Yes."

Her pulse quickened despite every technique she'd learned to maintain control. The monitor beside her bed betrayed her with its accelerating beeps, a mechanical confession of weakness she couldn't suppress.

Tyler's words echoed in her memory with perfect, venomous clarity: "Say hi to Enid for me. Tell her I'm gonna kill her the next time I see her. Make her pay for sticking her snout in my business. I want her screams to haunt you for the rest of your life."

She moved to swing her legs over the edge of the bed, ignoring the sharp protest from her ribs and the IV line tugging at her arm. "I need to—"

"You need to stay exactly where you are." Morticia's hand found her shoulder again, firm without being harsh. "You have three cracked ribs, a mild concussion, and enough glass fragments in your back that the doctors spent three hours extracting them."

"Enid is in danger," she stated firmly, though chaos churned within her chest. "Tyler made a promise. He intends to—"

"Wednesday." Morticia settled onto the edge of the bed, her presence both anchor and cage. "I understand what drives you. The vision."

Her gaze darted to her mother's face, searching for the trap hidden in that knowing tone.

"Your Aunt Ophelia had her first terrible vision during our sophomore year at Nevermore." Morticia's fingers found Wednesday's hand, cool and steady. "A friend of mine, dying violently. Ophelia became... obsessed with preventing it."

A sudden dryness seized her throat. "Did it come true?"

"In a way." Morticia's expression grew distant, touched by old grief. "My friend died in an unrelated accident while away from school. A simple car accident. Nothing like what Ophelia had seen."

The implications settled like lead in her stomach. "But Aunt Ophelia—"

"Couldn't accept that she had 'failed.' From that moment, she used her powers obsessively, chasing every vision, determined to stop fate itself." Morticia's voice carried the weight of witnessed tragedy. "Each vision drove her deeper into madness until one day, her mind simply... broke."

The monitor's beeping had found a steadier rhythm, but Wednesday felt anything but calm. "You're suggesting I caused—"

"I'm warning you." Morticia's dark eyes held hers with unwavering intensity. "The more you read into visions, the more you try to stop what may be inevitable, the more likely you become to cause the very thing you're trying to prevent."

The words hung between them like a curse. The implications settled in her mind as she analytically mapped the terrible logic. Every action taken to prevent Enid's death could be the catalyst that ensured it. Every protective measure might become the trap. Every—

The door opened with a soft whoosh of hinges.

"Querida!" Gomez's voice boomed across the room as he swept inside, followed by Pugsley and Grandmama Frump. Relief radiated from his every gesture as he approached the bed. "My little storm crow, awake at last."

Pugsley hung back slightly, his face a mixture of worry and awe. "You fell really far," he said with the blunt honesty of youth. "Uncle Fester said you went through a window like in the movies."

"Windows are notoriously dramatic," Grandmama observed, moving with measured steps to the foot of the bed. Her sharp eyes assessed Wednesday with clinical precision. "Though I must say, this particular performance lacked your usual flair for timing."

They spoke of gratitude, of relief, of the miracle of her survival. Their voices washed over Wednesday like distant thunder, meaningful but somehow separate from the storm in her own mind. All she could see was Enid's face from the vision—empty eyes, torn flesh, the absolute stillness of death.

And Tyler, somewhere in the darkness beyond these walls, free to make good on his promise.

Morticia's warning echoed beneath every word of concern, every expression of love from her family. The more you try to stop fate, the more likely you become to cause it.

But how could she not try? How could she sit in this sterile room, surrounded by safety and certainty, while Enid remained in Tyler's crosshairs? The vision had shown her the stakes. Whether it was prophecy or warning or trap, she couldn't simply ignore it.

Even if trying to save Enid might be exactly what kills her.

The hospital waiting room had taken on the hollow quality of places where time moved differently. Enid stared at the institutional clock on the wall—11:07 PM—its second hand ticking with mechanical indifference to the chaos of the night. Nearly an hour had passed since the Addams family had disappeared into Wednesday's room, leaving her stranded in the plastic chairs that seemed designed to amplify anxiety.

Bruno slouched in the seat beside her, finally succumbed to exhaustion. His head had tilted back against the wall, mouth slightly open, breathing steady. She was grateful he'd come. Grateful he'd dropped everything the moment she'd called, voice breaking as she'd tried to explain what had happened. But sitting here now, watching him sleep while her thoughts spiraled, she felt the familiar ache of being misunderstood.

He didn't get it. How could he? The way her entire world had shifted the moment she'd seen Wednesday plummet to the ground. The way her heart had stopped beating until she'd heard the paramedics confirm a pulse. Bruno understood pack loyalty, understood protecting the people you cared about. But this was something else entirely—this desperate, consuming need to know that Wednesday was okay, was whole, was still Wednesday.

Maybe she didn't get it either. When had her weird, morbid roommate become the axis around which everything else revolved?

Movement in her peripheral vision caught her attention. Thing rounded the corner with purpose, his usual confident scuttle somehow more urgent. When he spotted her, he tapped once against the floor—a greeting—then gestured toward the hallway.

A smile tugged at the corner of Enid's mouth despite everything. "You always know what I need, don't you?"

Muscles stiff from hours of tension protested as she rose carefully from her chair. Bruno didn't stir. Better to let him sleep—whatever waited down that hallway felt like something she needed to face alone.

Thing led her through a maze of corridors that all looked identical under fluorescent lighting. Her heart rate picked up with each step, anticipation and dread warring in her chest. Wednesday was awake. That was good. That was everything. But the way Morticia had looked at her earlier, those dark eyes holding knowledge and something that might have been blame—

The door Thing stopped at looked exactly like every other door they'd passed. Room 314. No nameplate, nothing to distinguish it as the place where Wednesday lay recovering. Enid reached for the handle, then froze as voices filtered through the thin walls.

The door swung open.

The Addams family emerged like shadows given form. Pugsley appeared first, his young face still creased with worry despite obvious relief. When he saw her, his expression brightened.

"Enid! She's awake. She's okay. Well, not okay okay, but you know, Wednesday okay."

Gomez followed, his usual theatrical energy subdued but present. "Miss Sinclair. Our eternal gratitude for accompanying our daughter here."

Hester Frump appeared next, offering a slight nod that somehow conveyed both acknowledgment and dismissal. And finally, Morticia.

Their eyes met across the threshold, and Enid felt that same weight from before—judgment, assessment, something sharper than maternal concern. Morticia's gaze lingered for a moment that stretched like hours, dark and unreadable as winter midnight.

"Mrs. Addams," Enid started, needing to say something, anything, to break that terrible silence. "I—"

But Morticia had already turned, gliding down the hall with her family in her wake, leaving Enid standing alone at the door.

Thing tapped against her ankle, drawing her attention back to the moment. He gestured emphatically toward the room, his meaning clear: Go. Now.

Enid's hand trembled as she reached for the handle again. Behind this door lay answers she both desperately needed and deeply feared. If Wednesday was awake, alert, then she could finally breathe again. But she could also ask questions Enid wasn't sure she was ready to answer. About Agnes, about the investigation, about why Enid hadn't been there when it mattered most.

Her emotions felt volatile, barely contained. Relief and fury and heartbreak all churning together until she couldn't tell which would win when she finally saw Wednesday's face.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the door.

The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of medical equipment and the pale wash of light from the hallway. To her right, propped up in the hospital bed, Wednesday sat absolutely still. Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders instead of braided, making her look younger and somehow more fragile. Bandages wrapped her torso, visible beneath the hospital gown. Her left arm was connected to an IV line.

But her eyes—those impossible, unreadable eyes—were open and focused directly on Enid.

Neither of them spoke. The silence stretched between them, heavy with everything that had led to this moment. Enid's heart hammered against her ribs as she fought to keep her emotions in check. She wanted to run to the bed, wanted to cry, wanted to shake Wednesday for being so reckless, wanted to never let her out of sight again.

"Are you okay?" The words came out as barely more than a squeak.

"I've been better." Wednesday's voice held its usual deadpan quality, but there was something underneath—exhaustion, maybe, or pain she was trying to hide. "Though I must admit, the fall was quite exhilarating."

Enid felt something between a laugh and a sob catch in her throat. "Only you would find almost dying exhilarating."

"The alternative would have been disappointing."

Typical Wednesday. Making jokes about her own mortality while hooked up to machines that had probably saved her life. Enid took a step closer to the bed, her eyes cataloguing damage. Bruises bloomed across Wednesday's pale skin in shades of purple and black. A cut on her temple had been closed with butterfly bandages.

"I saw you fall," Enid whispered, the words pulled from her like a confession. "When Tyler threw you through that window, I thought—I thought you were dead."

Something flickered across Wednesday's expression, too quick to interpret. "Where is Agnes?"

The question hit Enid like a slap. After everything that had happened, after watching Wednesday plummet from that window, the first thing she wanted to know about was Agnes? Not how Enid was doing, not what had happened afterward, but Agnes.

"She disappeared." Enid tried to keep the irritation out of her voice. "Right after the police arrived. Poof. Gone."

"Predictable."

Approaching the bed, Enid finally saw the full extent of Wednesday's injuries. The bandages around her ribs suggested serious damage. Her face was pale even by Wednesday standards, dark circles under her eyes making them appear sunken.

"Have you seen Tyler?" Wednesday asked.

"No." The word came out harder than Enid intended. "But if I ever see him again, I'm going to tear him limb from limb for hurting you."

For just a moment, something shifted in Wednesday's expression. An emotion Enid couldn't name—fear? Concern? It was gone so quickly she might have imagined it.

"You won't." Wednesday's voice carried absolute certainty. "You'll stay away from Tyler. You'll stay away from this entire investigation. You're a liability."

Enid actually stepped back, as if Wednesday had struck her. "You don't mean that."

"I do." Wednesday's eyes were cold now, distant in a way that made Enid's chest tighten. "You should return to Nevermore. Resume your normal life. Let me handle this alone."

"Wednesday—" Enid could feel her carefully maintained control beginning to crack. Anger and hurt and confusion crashed together inside her, threatening to spill over. "Friends don't abandon each other. We're supposed to—"

"We're not friends."

The words dropped into the space between them like stones into still water, creating ripples that seemed to distort everything. Enid's world tilted sideways.

"We're roommates," Wednesday continued, her voice clinical and precise. "Nothing more. You would do well to remember that."

Their eyes locked across the small distance separating them. Enid searched Wednesday's face for any hint that this was another one of her deflections, another wall thrown up to keep the world at bay. But there was nothing. Just that familiar, impenetrable mask.

Pain lanced through Enid's chest, a physical ache as though something vital had been severed. All those late-night conversations, all the moments of connection, all the times Wednesday had let her guard down just enough to let Enid in—had it all been in her imagination?

Wednesday broke eye contact first, turning her head to stare out the window into the darkness beyond. Her jaw clenched once, the only sign that this conversation was affecting her at all.

"Go," Wednesday said without looking back.

Enid stood there for a moment longer, trembling with the effort of holding herself together. She watched Wednesday's profile, desperate for any crack in that perfect composure. But Wednesday might as well have been carved from marble.

She turned and fled.

The hallway passed in a blur of fluorescent lights and sterile walls. She made it back to the waiting room on autopilot, her body moving while her mind reeled. Bruno was still asleep in his chair, looking peaceful and unaware of how thoroughly her world had just imploded.

"Bruno." Enid shook his shoulder, not trusting her voice to be steady. "Bruno, wake up."

His eyes opened immediately, alert in the way that came from pack instincts. "Enid? What happened? How is she?"

"Can you drive me back to Nevermore? Please?"

Something in her voice must have warned him not to ask questions. Bruno stood without hesitation, gathering his jacket. "Of course. Let's go."

The walk to his car felt endless. Each step carried her further from Wednesday, further from answers, further from the person she thought she'd become. The night air was cold against her flushed cheeks, but she barely felt it.

Bruno's car smelled like pine air freshener and the faint musk that clung to all werewolves. As they pulled out of the hospital parking lot, he remained silent, giving her the space she needed.

The tears came as soon as they were on the road.

They started as a burning in her eyes, then spilled over to track hot paths down her cheeks. Turning toward the window, Enid pressed her forehead against the cool glass as the lights of Jericho blurred past. The reflection staring back at her looked shattered—pink hair limp, makeup smudged, eyes red and swollen.

"Enid," Bruno said softly. "What happened in there?"

She wanted to answer. Wanted to pour out everything—the fight, the cruel dismissal, the way Wednesday had looked at her like she was nothing. But the words stuck in her throat, too painful to voice.

Instead, Enid watched the darkness roll past outside the window and tried to understand how everything had gone so wrong. This morning, she'd been worried about her best friend pulling away. Tonight, that best friend had told her they'd never been friends at all.

We're roommates. Nothing more.

The words echoed in her mind, each repetition driving the knife deeper. The worst part wasn't that Wednesday had said it. The worst part was how easily she'd said it. How natural it had sounded. Like it was simply a fact she was tired of having to explain.

Perhaps it was. Perhaps Enid had been living in a fantasy of her own creation, reading meaning into moments that had meant nothing to Wednesday. The girl who'd hugged her after defeating the Hyde, who'd listened to her ramble about werewolf politics, who'd let Enid paint her nails black that one memorable evening—maybe that girl had never existed at all.

The tears kept falling as Nevermore's towers appeared in the distance, dark silhouettes against the star-scattered sky. Home. Except it didn't feel like home anymore. It felt like the place where she'd have to learn how to be Enid Sinclair without Wednesday Addams.

The girl who'd thought she'd found her person.

The girl who'd been wrong.

The hospital room settled into a silence that felt heavier than stone. Wednesday stared at the spot where Enid had stood moments before, her devastated expression now burned into Wednesday's mind alongside the nightmare and vision that had started all of this. Overhead, fluorescent lights hummed their institutional song, a steady drone that did nothing to fill the void Enid's departure had left behind.

As a distraction, she attempted to catalog her physical injuries. Three cracked ribs protested with each breath. The concussion occasionally blurred the edges of her vision. According to the surgeon's report, twenty-seven glass fragments had been extracted from her back. Each wound was mapped and documented, quantifiable pain with clear causes and predictable healing trajectories.

But the other pain—the one that had nothing to do with Tyler's violence—refused such clinical analysis.

A rhythmic tapping drew her attention to the end table beside her bed. Thing perched there with the clear posture of someone who'd been waiting, his fingers drumming a pattern against the laminate surface that somehow managed to convey both patience and judgment.

"How long have you been there?" Wednesday asked, though she suspected she already knew the answer.

The whole time, came Thing's immediate and unambiguous response.

Of course. He'd witnessed every word, every calculated barb she'd inflicted on Enid. This knowledge settled in her chest like a weight she couldn't shift.

Was that really necessary? Thing's fingers moved methodically.

"Yes." The word came out sharper than she'd intended, betraying nothing of the uncertainty taking root beneath her sternum. "Tyler made his intentions clear. Enid is safer at Nevermore while I handle this alone."

Tyler will kill you if you find him.

"I'm aware of that possibility." Her voice remained steady despite the truth of it. Having tasted freedom and embraced his nature without a master's control, Tyler would be more dangerous now than ever before. "But he'll have to kill me to get to Enid."

Becoming more animated, Thing's usual eloquence translated into rapid gestures. Why not tell her the truth? About the vision? She can handle it.

The suggestion hit closer to the mark than Wednesday cared to admit. Enid had proven herself capable of facing impossible odds—wolfing out to save Wednesday's life, standing against the Hyde when it mattered most. But that was exactly the problem.

"Because if Enid knew the truth, she'd insist on involving herself further. She'd put herself directly in harm's way to protect me." Her fingers found the edge of her hospital blanket, gripping the fabric with unconscious tension. "The vision showed her death, Thing. I won't be responsible for making it reality."

Did you really need to be that hard on her?

This question found the exact spot where guilt had taken root. In those final moments, confusion had shifted to hurt on Enid's face, then to something deeper: betrayal. As if Wednesday had reached into her chest and torn out her heart itself.

"It was the only way to ensure she understood." Wednesday forced her voice to remain clinical, detached. "Enid will forgive me when this is over."

Thing's skepticism weighed heavily in his response: And if she doesn't?

The possibility hung between them like a blade. Wednesday had considered it, of course—had run the statistical probabilities of permanent damage to their relationship. The numbers weren't encouraging.

"I was never meant to make friends anyway." The words tasted like ash in her mouth. "Relationships and all the emotions that accompany them are weaknesses. Vulnerabilities that can be exploited."

Do you really want to lose her over this?

Her throat constricted slightly, a physiological response she immediately attempted to suppress. Such a question demanded honesty she wasn't prepared to give, acknowledgment of truths that felt too dangerous to voice.

"I'd rather Enid be alive than my friend."

This declaration emerged with more conviction than she felt. The terrible truth was that the thought of Enid's absence—real, permanent absence—created a hollow sensation in her chest.

Thing continued: There are other options besides pushing her away completely.

"Statistically speaking, everyone close to me gets hurt." Evidence accumulated in the weight of her voice. "Eugene nearly died because of his association with me. You were stabbed. Tyler is targeting Enid specifically because he recognizes her importance to me. It's better for everyone to maintain distance."

It isn't about logic.

"Of course it's about logic." Turning to face Thing fully, her dark eyes sharpened with challenge. "What else would it be about?"

Thing's response came deliberately. He began signing individual, exaggerated letters: L. Then O. His fingers moved to form a V—

"You're being absurd." She cut him off before he could complete the word, though her pulse had quickened slightly. "I'm willing to admit that Enid is my friend. But that's precisely why—"

You don't look at anyone else the way you look at her.

For a moment, Wednesday found herself without response, her analytical mind struggling to formulate a rebuttal that didn't feel like a lie.

"I notice details," she said finally. "It's what I do. Observation is—"

A skeptical tap against the table from Thing interrupted her explanation.

In the small room, this sound carried more weight than such a simple gesture should. Because Thing was right, and they both knew it. The way she catalogued Enid's expressions, her attunement to subtle shifts in Enid's voice, how her attention gravitated toward her roommate even in crowded rooms—none of it was mere observation.

"Fine." This admission felt like pulling teeth—a sensation she'd normally enjoy. "I care about Enid more than what's rational. More than what's safe. Which is exactly why she needs to stay away from me."

Her voice hardened, grew more brittle. "Tyler will use her to hurt me. Judi Spannegel would do the same if given the opportunity. Every enemy I make, every investigation I pursue, every mystery drawing me in—Enid becomes a target simply by association."

As Thing began to gesture again, a sharp movement of Wednesday's hand cut him off.

"This conversation is over."

For a moment, Thing remained motionless, his usual expressive energy suddenly still. Then, with movements somehow conveying disappointment, he patted once against the table and scuttled away. His exit felt like a judgment, leaving Wednesday alone with thoughts that refused to be catalogued or controlled.

Turning back toward the window, she faced darkness pressing against the glass like a living thing. Parking lot lights created pools of amber illumination that only emphasized the vast spaces of shadow between them. Somewhere out there, Tyler roamed free. Planning. Hunting.

And somewhere else, Enid was driving back to Nevermore with tears on her face and Wednesday's cruel words echoing in her mind.

We're roommates. Nothing more.

These words replayed in her thoughts. She could hear herself saying them, could see the exact moment they'd hit their target. How Enid's expression had cracked, like ice breaking under pressure. How her whole body had seemed to fold inward.

Wednesday pressed her fingertips to her temples, where a headache was building. She'd wanted to hurt Enid—needed to, to create the distance that would keep her safe. But witnessing the devastation on her roommate's face had felt like swallowing broken glass.

In the nightmare, Enid had been still. Empty. Beyond pain or feeling or the capacity for hurt. In reality, she'd been so utterly alive in her anguish that Wednesday could barely stand to witness it.

She wasn't sure which sight was worse.

A wetness touched her cheek—warm, salt-tinged, entirely unwelcome. Before conscious thought could intervene, her hand moved to wipe away this evidence of weakness with sharp anger.

Wednesday Addams did not cry. Tears solved nothing. Changed nothing. Tyler remained at large. The vision still loomed like a specter of inevitable loss. And Enid—

Enid was safer now. Hurt, yes. Angry, certainly. But alive and away from the violence that seemed to follow Wednesday like a shadow. That had to be enough.

It had to be.

Even if the cost felt like a wound that no amount of logic could heal.