Nevermore, My Broken Heart

Chapter 11: Woe in Bloom

Enid emerged from sleep gradually, consciousness returning in waves of warmth and contentment that felt almost unfamiliar after the past week's emotional turmoil. The morning light filtered through their spider-web window, casting familiar patterns across walls that suddenly felt transformed by everything that had changed between them.

The soft clicking of typewriter keys drew her attention to Wednesday's desk, where her roommate sat with her perfect posture, already showered and dressed in her usual dark attire. Her braids fell precisely over her shoulders as she worked, and Thing perched nearby, occasionally shifting position to observe both the typing and Enid's awakening.

She asked me to be her date.

The memory hit Enid with a rush of giddy euphoria that made her want to squeal into her rainbow pillows.

Wednesday Addams wants to take me to the gala. As her actual, real, romantic date.

"Good morning," she said softly, not wanting to startle Wednesday from whatever she was working on.

Wednesday's fingers paused on the keys. "You slept through your alarm. It's been chiming for approximately seventeen minutes."

Enid glanced at her bedside clock, realizing she'd been so deeply asleep that the gentle melody hadn't penetrated her consciousness at all. "Sorry, I guess I was really out. I can't remember the last time I slept that well."

"Understandable. Your stress levels have decreased considerably since two days ago."

The observation made Enid's cheeks warm as she processed the implication. "Wednesday, I'm really sorry about making you sleep in my bed again. I know you value your space, and I don't want you to feel like—"

"Don't." Wednesday turned in her chair to face Enid directly, her dark eyes carrying that familiar intensity. "Your sleep patterns improve significantly with my presence."

Thing drummed against the desk in what sounded like amused agreement.

Heat flooded Enid's face as Wednesday's statement registered fully. "You've been tracking my sleep patterns?"

"It can be difficult not to," Wednesday replied, though something in her tone suggested the monitoring had been more deliberate than she was admitting. "You experience fewer nightmares, reduced restlessness, and more consistent sleep cycles when I remain nearby."

The admission sent butterflies spiraling through Enid's stomach. Even Wednesday's characteristically clinical way of expressing care felt impossibly romantic when directed at her with such serious attention.

"So you don't mind?" she asked hopefully.

Wednesday's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "I mind many things. This is not among them."

Enid's smile threatened to split her face in half as pure joy bubbled up from her chest. Tonight, everyone at Nevermore would see them together—not as reluctant roommates or unexpected friends, but as something deeper, more intentional. The thought made her practically glow with happiness.

Stretching languorously, she slid from beneath her colorful bedding, bare feet finding the cool floor as she padded toward her dresser. The familiar routine of selecting clothes felt different now—weighted with anticipation for an evening that would redefine everything between them.

"Final orchestra rehearsal this morning?" she asked, pulling open drawers to locate her dance practice uniform.

"Ten o'clock," Wednesday confirmed, her fingers resuming their steady rhythm across the typewriter keys. "Professor Capri scheduled extended rehearsal time to address the more complex passages."

Enid retrieved her practice clothes—a soft pink sweater with a scooped neckline that allowed freedom of movement, matching skirt that would flow properly during lifts, and her well-worn dance shoes. The familiar weight of the garments in her hands sparked nervous energy about her own final rehearsal.

"Are you nervous?" she asked, then immediately caught herself. "Sorry, stupid question. You don't really do nervous."

Wednesday's typing paused. "I experience... anticipatory thoughts regarding potential performance issues."

The careful phrasing made Enid's heart skip. That was as close to admitting vulnerability as Wednesday ever came, especially about something involving public display. "That's basically nervous, just with more syllables."

"I prefer my terminology."

Enid grinned as she turned and changed into her dance clothes, the thin pink sweater settling comfortably against her skin. "Well, for what it's worth, I think you're going to be absolutely incredible tonight. Your cello playing gives me actual chills every time I hear it."

"Playing in private and performing while being scrutinized by hundreds of people are vastly different experiences." Wednesday replied, though something in her tone suggested the reassurance mattered.

"Wednesday." Enid paused in pulling on her dance socks, meeting her roommate's gaze directly. "You're going to be amazing. Not just technically perfect—which you always are—but genuinely moving. I've seen how you play when you think no one's listening, and it's breathtaking."

The compliment hung between them as Wednesday's expression shifted almost undetectably, revealing a flicker of something that might have been gratitude before her usual composure reasserted itself.

"Your own rehearsal presents certain challenges," Wednesday observed, clearly deflecting from her own vulnerability. "Dancing in formation leaves little room for error."

Enid groaned as she laced her dance shoes, nervous energy suddenly spiking. "Don't remind me. We've been practicing for weeks, but there's this one sequence where I have to trust my partner completely during a complicated lift, and I keep worrying I'm going to mess up the timing."

"Your coordination has always been exceptional."

The certainty in the statement sent warmth spreading through Enid's chest. "Thanks, but this is different. It's not just about me—if I'm off by even a second, it throws off the entire formation."

"Then don't be off."

Enid laughed despite her nerves. "Oh wow, why didn't I think of that? Just be perfect. Revolutionary advice."

Thing drummed what sounded suspiciously like amusement against the desk.

"I simply meant that your track record suggests competence in high-pressure situations," Wednesday clarified, though her mouth curved into something that almost resembled a smile.

Standing to smooth her pink top, Enid felt the weight of their upcoming separation settling over her. "We won't see each other again until tonight, will we? Your rehearsal runs until this afternoon, and mine goes straight through until we have to start getting ready."

"Correct. Our schedules limit any additional interaction before the gala."

The formal phrasing couldn't quite mask what sounded like disappointment, making Enid's stomach flutter with the recognition that Wednesday would miss her company as much as she'd miss Wednesday's.

"Then I guess the next time we see each other, you'll be all dressed up and looking absolutely fabulous," Enid said, then caught Wednesday's slight eye roll. "Don't even try to deflect that compliment. You're going to look stunning tonight, and I'm going to have to remind myself not to stare at you from across the stage."

"Staring at me instead of focusing on your choreography seems counterproductive."

"Worth the risk," Enid replied, grinning at the way Wednesday's cheeks tinged the faintest shade of pink.

She practically bounced toward Wednesday's desk, unable to contain the effervescent energy that had been building all morning. The reality of their upcoming date kept hitting her in waves of disbelief and joy that made her feel like she might actually float off the ground.

"Okay, I really should get going," she said, coming to a stop beside Wednesday's chair. Her hands fluttered at her sides, nervous energy seeking an outlet as she looked down at her roommate's perfectly composed profile.

Wednesday glanced up from her typewriter, dark eyes meeting Enid's with that familiar intensity that never failed to make her stomach flip. "Your rehearsal begins in twenty minutes."

"I know, I just..." Enid trailed off, suddenly aware of how close she was standing, how natural it would be to lean down and kiss Wednesday goodbye. The impulse hit her so strongly that she actually swayed forward slightly before catching herself.

We're taking things slow. "No pressure. No expectations."

Wednesday's own words from the morning before echoed in her mind, tempering the overwhelming urge to follow her affectionate instincts. She wanted to throw her arms around Wednesday, to kiss her properly, to express the happiness bubbling up inside her chest—but she also wanted to honor the careful approach they'd agreed upon.

Instead, Enid reached down and gently took Wednesday's pale hand in both of hers, squeezing softly. "I'll see you tonight. Break a leg at rehearsal—not literally, obviously, because that would be terrible timing."

Wednesday's fingers tightened briefly around hers, the small gesture carrying more weight than any dramatic declaration. "Try not to fall off the stage."

The deliberate attempt at humor made Enid smile, "I'll try not to," she replied, reluctantly releasing Wednesday's hand and stepping back toward the door.

Thing lifted himself into what was unmistakably a thumbs-up gesture, his enthusiasm so obvious that Enid had to suppress a giggle.

"Thanks, Thing. Wish me luck!"

As she headed for the door, Enid caught a glimpse of Wednesday's reflection in their mirror—brow slightly furrowed, head tilted in that way that meant she was processing something unexpected. The expression made Enid's heart squeeze with affection for this brilliant, complicated girl who was still learning how to navigate emotions neither of them fully understood.

The Nevermore dance studio thrummed with nervous energy as Enid pushed through the double doors, her pink practice outfit a cheerful beacon among the sea of black leotards and warm-up gear scattered throughout the mirrored space. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air like tiny performers preparing for their own show.

"Enid!" Yoko's voice carried across the room as she finished stretching at the barre, her dark hair pulled into a sleek bun that emphasized her sharp cheekbones. "Finally! I was starting to think you'd chickened out on us."

"Never," Enid replied, setting her water bottle near the sound system where upbeat warm-up music played softly. "Just had some important roommate business to handle this morning."

Several of her troupe members clustered near the mirrors, their chatter filling the space with excitement about the evening's performance. She recognized the familiar pre-show energy—equal parts anticipation and nerves that always preceded major events.

"Did you see the program?" Katy bounced over, her enthusiasm infectious as she waved a printed schedule. "We're performing right after the orchestra. Everyone's going to be watching us."

"No pressure at all," Divina added dryly from where she was adjusting her leg warmers, though her smile betrayed her own excitement.

A wave of nervous excitement washed over Enid—not just from performance nerves, but from the knowledge that Wednesday would be in that audience, watching her dance. The thought sent warmth spiraling through her chest even as it amplified her desire to execute every movement perfectly.

"Speaking of pressure," Yoko said, glancing toward the studio entrance, "where's Madison? She's usually here fifteen minutes early, barking orders at everyone."

The observation sent a ripple of concern through the group. Madison had been their dance captain since the beginning of the semester, known for her punctuality, skill, and slightly intimidating leadership style that somehow managed to bring out everyone's best performance.

"Maybe she's just running late," Katy suggested hopefully.

The studio doors opened then, but instead of Madison's usual confident stride, Mr. Fitts entered alone, his expression carrying the kind of neutrality that teachers wore when delivering difficult news. His graying hair was perfectly styled as always, but something in his posture suggested the afternoon's rehearsal wouldn't proceed as planned.

"Good afternoon, everyone," he called, his voice carrying across the space as conversations gradually died. "Please gather in the center. We need to discuss tonight's performance."

Joining the semicircle forming around their instructor, Enid noted how everyone's energy shifted from excitement to apprehension in the span of seconds. In her experience, emergency meetings never brought good news.

"Madison called this morning," Mr. Fitts began without preamble. "She sustained a significant ankle injury during her morning run—a sprain severe enough to require medical attention and, unfortunately, complete rest for the next several days."

Shocked murmurs rippled through the group as the implications settled. Katy's hand flew to her mouth, while Divina's face immediately shifted into problem-solving mode.

"Is she okay?" Yoko asked, genuine concern threading through her voice.

"She'll make a full recovery with proper rest," Mr. Fitts assured them. "However, this creates an immediate challenge for tonight's performance. We need a new captain."

Enid's stomach dropped even as something inside her chest began to flutter with dangerous hope. Dance captain had been one of her goals since the semester began—leading the troupe, being responsible for formations and timing, representing their group during the most important performance of the year.

"The role requires someone with technical proficiency, leadership capability, and intimate knowledge of our choreography," Mr. Fitts continued, his gaze moving across the assembled dancers. "After consideration, I believe our best option is to ask Enid to step up as captain for tonight's performance."

Every head turned toward her, faces showing mixtures of support, relief, and barely contained anxiety about the last-minute change.

"Enid's absolutely our best choice," Divina said immediately. "She knows every formation, every transition."

"And she's got the best partner work of all of us," Katy added, her earlier shock replaced by determined optimism. "If anyone can pull this together on short notice, it's her."

Yoko nodded firmly. "Madison always said you were ready to captain. Guess we're finding out tonight."

The support from her friends made Enid's throat tighten with gratitude, but it couldn't quiet the terror building in her chest. Becoming captain meant being responsible for every dancer, every formation, every moment of their performance. It meant being front and center when the entire school watched, when Wednesday watched, when everything had to be perfect.

"I..." she began, then stopped as her voice cracked slightly. "Mr. Fitts, I've only run through the captain's part a few times. What if I mess up the formations? What if I throw off the timing for everyone else?"

"What if you're absolutely incredible?" Yoko countered before their instructor could respond. "Enid, you've been dancing since you could walk. You know this choreography better than any of us."

"But the lifts," she continued, her hands twisting together as anxiety threatened to overwhelm her excitement. "The center stage solo during the second movement—I've watched Madison do it, but I've never actually performed it myself."

Mr. Fitts stepped closer, his expression kind but firm. "I wouldn't ask if I didn't believe you were capable. Yes, it's last-minute. Yes, it's challenging. But you have the skill and the artistic instinct to make this work."

Around the circle, her fellow dancers nodded agreement, their faces showing faith that Enid wished she felt in herself. This was everything she'd wanted—the chance to lead, to be the focal point of their most important performance. But wanting something and being ready for it were entirely different things.

"Everyone's going to be watching," she whispered, more to herself than to the group.

"Everyone's going to be amazed," Katy said firmly. "Come on, Enid. When have you ever backed down from a challenge?"

The question hung in the air as she wrestled with competing impulses. Terror at the responsibility, excitement at the opportunity, and underneath it all, the knowledge that Wednesday would be in that audience, would see her either triumph or fail spectacularly on the most important night of the semester.

If my powers are really gone, I need to focus on what I can still do.

Looking around at the faces of her fellow dancers—people who believed in her, who were counting on her, who needed someone to step up when everything felt uncertain—Enid made her decision.

"I'll do it. I'll captain tonight's performance."

"Excellent," their instructor replied, visible relief washing over his features. "I knew you'd rise to the occasion."

Taking a deep breath, she centered herself as she processed the magnitude of what she'd just committed to.

Wednesday's going to see me lead this group. She's going to see me at my best.

The realization sent a thrill through her chest. After days of feeling powerless, of questioning her worth without supernatural abilities, here was concrete proof that she possessed skills completely independent of her werewolf nature.

"Alright, everyone," she called, her voice carrying new authority that surprised even her. "Let's run this from the top. Full formation, full energy. We're going to show everyone exactly what Nevermore's dance troupe can do."

As her fellow dancers moved to their opening positions, she felt something settle into place—not just her role as captain, but her understanding of her own capabilities. She'd spent so much time defining herself by what she'd lost that she'd nearly forgotten everything she still had.

With determined steps, she strode to the front of the formation, her pink practice outfit bright against the mirrored walls as she took her position at center stage. Behind her, she could hear the shuffle of feet finding their marks, the whispered encouragements between partners, the collective intake of breath that preceded performance.

"Ready?"

"Ready, Captain," came the chorus of responses, the title sending a flutter of pride through her chest.

This was her moment. Her chance to prove that Enid Sinclair was worth watching, worth believing in, worth taking as a date to the most important social event of the semester. She might not have her wolf anymore, but she had this—her skill, her passion, her ability to lead others toward something beautiful.

Tonight, Wednesday would see exactly who she was beneath all the supernatural complications. Tonight, she'd show the entire academy that some kinds of power had nothing to do with claws or enhanced senses and everything to do with the courage to step forward when others needed you most.

Enid lifted her chin, claimed her space at the front of the formation, and prepared to lead.

Wednesday's fingers found the strings with their usual finesse, but her bow wavered fractionally on the downbeat of measure thirty-seven. The error lasted barely half a second—imperceptible to most ears—yet it earned her a sharp glance from Professor Capri, whose baton continued its relentless arc through the complex passage.

The rehearsal hall's acoustics amplified every imperfection, carrying the collective sound of twenty instruments toward the vaulted ceiling where shadows gathered like judgment. Around her, violins soared through their melodic lines while brass sections punctuated the harmony with dramatic flourishes. She should have been absorbed in the technical demands of her part, analyzing shifting patterns and bow dynamics with the focus that had earned her first chair.

Instead, her mind drifted to warm hands reaching toward her that morning, to the strange hesitation in Enid's movements, to the way her roommate had swayed forward before catching herself with visible effort.

The memory disrupted her concentration precisely as the orchestra reached the transition into the second movement. Her bow caught the string at the wrong angle, producing a harsh scrape that cut through the delicate pianissimo like a blade through silk. Several cellists turned toward her, eyebrows raised in surprise at the uncharacteristic lapse.

Professor Capri's baton froze mid-gesture as the ensemble faltered around Wednesday's mistake. "From measure forty-two," the professor announced. "Cellists, remember that the pianissimo requires complete bow control, not merely reduced volume."

Wednesday straightened in her chair, jaw tightening as she repositioned her instrument. Such elementary errors belonged to first-year students, not to someone who had been playing since childhood. Yet as the orchestra resumed, she found herself replaying that moment by her desk—Enid's bright energy suddenly shifting to something uncertain, the way she'd reached out before pulling back, the careful formality of their goodbye despite the intimacy they'd acknowledged the night before.

Enid had wanted something more.

The realization struck her as she should have entered with a solo passage, causing her to miss the cue entirely. Professor Capri's baton continued its arc, but her eyes fixed on Wednesday with the sharp attention of someone identifying the source of persistent disruption.

When the movement concluded, the professor lowered her baton and fixed Wednesday with a look that suggested professional disappointment. "Miss Addams, perhaps you could join us mentally as well as physically for the remainder of rehearsal?"

Heat crept up Wednesday's neck—not from embarrassment at the public correction, but from frustration at her own inability to maintain focus on technical demands that should have been automatic. Around her, fellow musicians shuffled their sheet music with the collective awareness that their principal cellist was operating below her usual standards.

"Of course, Professor," she replied, her voice carrying its characteristic flatness despite the internal chaos threatening her composure.

As the orchestra prepared for their final run-through, she found herself replaying the morning's departure yet again. Enid's approach to her desk, radiating that particular energy that made the air seem to shimmer. The way she'd stopped beside Wednesday's chair, hands fluttering at her sides as if seeking an outlet for nervous excitement.

She had swayed forward.

The memory surfaced—Enid leaning closer before catching herself with visible effort. The way her roommate had settled for taking Wednesday's hand, squeezing gently as if it were a consolation prize rather than her first choice.

She wanted to kiss me goodbye.

The obviousness of it was almost insulting to her intelligence, rendered blindingly clear only in retrospect. Enid's hesitation hadn't been uncertainty about their relationship—it had been desire held in check by consideration for the boundaries Wednesday had established.

Professor Capri raised her baton, but Wednesday remained frozen in recognition of what she'd failed to understand. Enid had wanted to kiss her and had stopped herself out of respect for Wednesday's stated preference for taking things slowly.

The knowledge should have been gratifying. Instead, it left her with an unfamiliar ache of missed opportunity, of connection deferred by her own emotional inadequacy rather than genuine reluctance.

As the opening notes of the symphony filled the rehearsal hall, she forced herself to focus on technical skill while her mind processed the morning's events through this new lens. Tonight, she decided as her fingers found their proper position on the strings, there would be no such misunderstanding.

When the final notes of the symphony faded into the rehearsal hall's acoustics, Professor Capri lowered her baton once more. Around Wednesday, the other students began packing their instruments.

"Miss Addams," Capri called as the general exodus began. "A moment, please."

She secured her cello in its case, noting the way her fellow musicians avoided eye contact as they departed. Her earlier mistakes had been observed and catalogued, creating the particular discomfort that accompanied public failure from someone expected to maintain higher standards.

"Your performance today was... uncharacteristic," Capri observed once they were alone, her voice carrying professional concern rather than reproach. "Technical lapses from someone of your caliber typically indicate external pressures affecting concentration."

"I'm adequately prepared for tonight's performance," Wednesday replied, though her tone carried defensive undertones that contradicted the assertion.

Capri moved to the piano, her copper hair catching the rehearsal hall's overhead lighting as she arranged her own sheet music. "I want to express my appreciation for your commitment to our agreement. Most students would have found creative excuses to avoid such prominent public display."

Wednesday remained silent, uncertain where this assessment was leading.

"However," Capri continued, turning to face Wednesday directly, "circumstances have evolved in a way that provides you with options I didn't anticipate."

Something in the professor's tone suggested approaching complexity. Wednesday remained motionless beside her cello case, attention focused on nuances that might indicate the direction of this conversation.

"I received a call this morning from an acquainted professional cellist whose previous obligations prevented her participation. She's managed to adjust her schedule and could take your position in tonight's orchestra."

The words hung in the air as she processed their implications. An escape route had materialized—unexpected, complete, and apparently without consequence to their original agreement.

"She possesses significant experience with public performance," Capri explained. "And I've no doubt that she would ensure the orchestra maintains its required standard for the gala."

Wednesday felt something shift in her chest as the possibility of avoiding tonight's ordeal became real rather than theoretical. No spotlight. No scrutiny from hundreds of assembled observers. No vulnerability displayed before an audience that included everyone she'd spent months carefully keeping at emotional distance.

"What of our agreement regarding Enid's situation?"

"I wouldn't hold you to terms that circumstances have rendered unnecessary," Capri replied, her expression carrying genuine concern for Wednesday's comfort. "The blood moon ritual failed, but my offer to continue working with Enid remains open regardless of your performance obligations."

The professor settled into a chair near the piano. "I know you dislike being the center of attention, Wednesday. This represents an opportunity to avoid that entirely while maintaining all benefits of our original negotiation."

She believes I would prefer the escape.

The recognition carried its own sting. Capri's assumption wasn't inaccurate—Wednesday had built her reputation on avoiding precisely the kind of public exposure tonight's performance would require. Yet something about the offered alternative felt wrong in ways she couldn't immediately articulate.

"I need time to consider."

"Of course. My acquaintance would need approximately thirty minutes to review the music and integrate with our ensemble, so you have until..." Capri glanced at her watch. "Four o'clock to decide."

Twenty minutes. With a nod, Wednesday gathered her cello case and departed the rehearsal hall with measured steps that disguised the chaos developing in her mind.

The corridor outside carried afternoon sunlight through tall windows, casting geometric patterns across stone floors that had witnessed centuries of student anxiety. Finding herself in an alcove near the music wing's entrance, she settled onto a stone bench worn smooth by generations of nervous performers.

No spotlight. No vulnerability. No risk.

The advantages of accepting Capri's offer arranged themselves in order. Avoiding public display would eliminate the scrutiny she'd dreaded, the possibility of technical failure before an audience that included everyone she'd carefully maintained distance from throughout her academic career.

Yet as she contemplated this escape, Enid's voice from their morning conversation surfaced with uncomfortable clarity:

"You're going to be amazing. I've seen how you play when you think no one's listening, and it's breathtaking."

The memory carried its own weight that disrupted her analytical mind. Enid had spoken with certainty about Wednesday's artistic abilities, had expressed genuine excitement about witnessing her performance. More significantly, she'd referenced playing "when you think no one's listening"—the private moments when Wednesday allowed her music to carry actual emotion rather than mere technical execution.

She wants to see me perform.

The realization shifted her perspective. Enid's enthusiasm hadn't been polite encouragement about enduring necessary obligations. It had been genuine excitement about watching someone she cared about share their talent with an audience.

Wednesday had never performed for someone specific before. Her musical training had focused on technical excellence, on meeting standards and surpassing expectations set by instructors and examinations. The idea of playing for Enid—of wanting Enid to see her art and be moved by it—represented territory she'd never explored.

The alcove's shadows deepened as afternoon light shifted through the windows. Around her, the familiar sounds of Nevermore continued—distant conversations, footsteps on stone, the perpetual whisper of wind through ancient architecture. Yet everything felt different as she processed this fundamental change in her motivations.

She returned to the rehearsal hall precisely at four o'clock, her decision finalized through twenty minutes of unprecedented introspection. Capri looked up from the piano where she'd been making notations, eyebrows raised in polite inquiry.

"I've reached my decision," Wednesday said, her voice firm. "I'll maintain my position in tonight's orchestra."

Capri's expression shifted to something approaching curiosity. "You're certain? The offer remains available if you prefer—"

"I'm certain."

The professor studied her for a long moment, as if searching for signs of reluctant obligation or social pressure. Whatever she found seemed to satisfy her, because she nodded and reached for her phone.

"Very well. I'll inform her that her services won't be required."

As Capri made the necessary calls, Wednesday found herself oddly settled by her choice. The decision hadn't emerged from duty or previous commitment, but from the simple recognition that she wanted Enid to see her perform—wanted to share something meaningful rather than merely endure something necessary.

Tonight, she would be vulnerable in front of hundreds of people. But she would be performing for an audience of one.

The dance troupe's preparation room hummed with the particular energy that preceded performances—hairspray mixing with perfume, excited chatter bouncing off mirrors, the rustle of fabric as costumes received final adjustments. Before one of the large mirrors stood Enid, carefully applying the finishing touches to her eye makeup with hands that trembled only slightly, not from performance nerves but from something altogether more personal.

"Katy, can you zip me?" called one of the younger dancers, spinning in place as her dress caught the light.

"Coming!" Katy navigated through the controlled chaos, her own hair already pinned into an elaborate updo that sparkled with tiny crystals.

Glancing at her reflection as she set down her makeup brush, Enid took in how the midnight blue gown transformed her usual bright aesthetic into something more sophisticated, the scattered crystals reflecting light like miniature constellations. Her hair fell in soft waves around her face, the pink and blue streaks woven through in a way that felt like her signature rather than rebellion.

In two hours, I'll be walking into that ballroom as Wednesday's date.

The thought sent a flutter of anticipation through her. She'd performed dozens of times, led warm-ups, even substituted as captain during practices. But knowing Wednesday would be watching—not just as her roommate but as her date—made everything feel simultaneously more important and more terrifying.

"Okay, but seriously," Yoko said, appearing at Enid's shoulder with her own makeup half-finished. "You've been glowing all afternoon. Like, literally radiating happiness. And don't think we haven't noticed you checking the time every five minutes."

"I haven't been looking at it that much," Enid protested, though her eyes immediately flicked to the wall clock behind Yoko's reflection.

"She totally has," Divina called from across the room where she was helping another dancer with a stubborn zipper. "It's adorable."

Heat crept up Enid's neck as several heads turned her direction with renewed interest. The pre-performance excitement that had occupied everyone's attention suddenly refocused with the intensity of bloodhounds catching a particularly interesting scent.

"So," Katy drawled, settling onto the counter beside Enid. "Are you finally going to tell us who you're bringing tonight? Because that smile is definitely not about the performance."

"Though you are going to absolutely kill it as captain," another dancer added loyally.

With intense focus on arranging her makeup brushes, she bought time while her mind raced. "What makes you think I'm bringing anyone?"

The question earned her several incredulous looks.

"Please," Yoko said. "You've been practically floating since lunch. Plus, you keep touching your hair in that way people do when they're thinking about how someone special is going to see them."

"I do not!"

"You literally just did it."

Catching herself mid-gesture with her hand near her carefully styled waves, she dropped her arm with a defeated sigh. "Okay, fine. Yes, I have a date."

The admission triggered an explosion of excited squeals that made her simultaneously want to laugh and hide. This was exactly why she'd been trying to keep it quiet—not because she wasn't thrilled about Wednesday asking her, but because the reality of it still felt too precious to expose to group analysis.

"Is it Bruno?" Katy asked with confidence. "You two have been spending tons of time together, and he's absolutely smitten with you."

"Actually—" Enid began, but Yoko cut her off.

"Oh my god, it's totally Bruno! That's why you've been so secretive. You didn't want to make a big deal about making it official."

"We're not—"

"He's going to look so good in formal wear," another dancer sighed dreamily. "Those shoulders in a tux? Lucky you."

The assumptions tumbled over each other as the group collectively decided they'd figured out Enid's mystery date. Part of her wanted to let them believe it—it would be easier than explaining the truth, easier than trying to articulate something she barely understood herself.

"It's not Bruno," she said quietly, but her voice got lost in the ongoing chatter about what a cute couple they made.

"Seriously, Enid, he's such a catch," Katy continued. "Sweet, protective, totally devoted to you—"

"It's not Bruno!" The words came out louder than intended, cutting through the noise and drawing every eye in the room.

The sudden silence felt deafening. Her cheeks flushed as curiosity replaced assumption on her friends' faces.

"Wait, really?" Yoko's eyebrows climbed toward her hairline. "Then who—"

"Someone else," Enid said firmly, turning back to the mirror. "Someone I'm not ready to talk about yet."

"Oh, come on!" Katy bounced slightly with barely contained interest. "You can't just drop that bomb and not give us details. Is it someone from Nevermore? Do we know him?"

"Is it that new transfer student from the Scales?" another dancer suggested. "The one with the really pretty eyes?"

"Is he taller than you? What color are his eyes? How long have you been seeing him?" The questions came rapid-fire, each girl adding their own inquiry to the mix until Enid felt overwhelmed by their well-meaning enthusiasm.

"I—it's new," she managed, her voice climbing slightly as she searched for an escape that wouldn't require outright lies. "Really new, and I'm not ready to talk about it yet."

"Alright, that's enough." Divina's voice cut through the speculation. Moving through the group, she positioned herself between Enid and the increasingly persistent questioners. "Leave her alone about it. You'll all find out soon enough when she walks in with them."

"But—" Katy started.

"No buts." Divina's tone remained friendly but firm. "Some things are private until people are ready to share them. Besides, we have a performance to focus on, remember? Captain's orders should be about formations, not dating gossip."

The gentle reminder of priorities worked. The other dancers gradually dispersed back to their own preparations, though Enid caught several curious glances in the mirrors as they continued getting ready.

"Thanks," she murmured as Divina settled beside her, close enough for private conversation.

"Anytime." Divina's reflection smiled knowingly. "Though I have to admit, you really are glowing. I don't think I've ever seen you this happy."

Looking up at her friend's eyes in the mirror, she found nothing but warmth and genuine pleasure for her happiness. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to someone who knows you." Divina reached over to adjust a strand of Enid's hair that had shifted out of place. "You look absolutely gorgeous, by the way. Wednesday's going to forget how to form complete sentences when she sees you."

The casual use of Wednesday's name made Enid's breath catch. "How did you—"

"Please. I've been watching you pine for months." Divina's expression softened with affection. "I'm really happy for you, Enid. Both of you, actually. It's about time you figured it out."

Tears pricked at Enid's eyes, threatening her carefully applied makeup. "Divina—"

"Don't you dare cry and ruin that gorgeous eye shadow," her friend warned with mock severity. "Save the happy tears for later. Right now, you need to finish getting ready to absolutely dazzle your very lucky date."

A watery laugh escaped her. "I'm nervous. What if I trip during the performance? What if she realizes I'm not as put-together as she thought? What if—"

"What if you're perfect exactly as you are?" Divina squeezed her shoulder gently. "Enid, after everything that's happened, after seeing you at your lowest and highest points, she chose you. Trust that."

Taking a deep breath, she studied her reflection one final time. The girl looking back at her wasn't just dressed for a performance—she was dressed for the beginning of something wonderful. The nervousness remained, excitement dancing persistent rhythms in her stomach, but underneath lay a foundation of happiness that made everything else manageable.

"Ready, Captain?" Divina asked, recognizing the shift in Enid's posture.

"Ready," Enid confirmed, feeling the truth of it settle into her bones.

Ready to lead her troupe, ready to be seen by the entire academy, and most importantly, ready to step into whatever came next with Wednesday by her side.

Wednesday stood before the antique mirror in her mother's bedroom. The gown draped across her frame in elegant lines of midnight fabric, transforming her usual severity into something more refined but no less dark. Behind her, Morticia circled with the grace of a sculptor examining her work, fingers adjusting invisible imperfections in the dress's fall.

"The sleeve requires adjustment," Morticia murmured, her touch feather-light as she smoothed fabric along Wednesday's shoulder. "Perfection demands attention to minutiae."

The room's gothic splendor pressed against Wednesday's consciousness—velvet drapes that swallowed light, ebony furniture carved with symbols that seemed to shift in candlelight's dance, shadows that breathed with their own peculiar life. She should have found comfort in the familiar darkness, but her hands betrayed a tremor she couldn't quite suppress.

"The orchestra performs at seven forty-five precisely," she said, her voice carrying its usual flatness despite the tightness in her throat. "Professor Capri requires all musicians to arrive forty-five minutes early for final tuning and sound checks."

Her mother's fingers paused against the fabric. "How fascinating that technical details suddenly require such thorough articulation."

"I'm merely ensuring adherence to the evening's schedule." Her gaze fixed on a point beyond her reflection, avoiding the knowing look in her mother's eyes. "The social aspects begin at eight o'clock, following the orchestra and dance performances—"

"Wednesday." Morticia's voice carried gentle interruption. "You're cataloguing details that have been finalized for weeks."

The observation settled into Wednesday's chest with uncomfortable accuracy. Her fingers pressed against the gown's texture, seeking stability while her mind raced through contingencies she'd already analyzed exhaustively.

"The gala represents Nevermore's most significant social gathering," she continued, deflection wearing thin. "Protocol dictates specific behavioral expectations that—"

"You're terrified."

The words weren't accusation but simple maternal recognition. With spine stiffening further, her reflection revealed the rigid posture of someone preparing for combat rather than celebration.

"I don't experience terror," she replied automatically, though the protest lacked conviction.

Morticia moved to face her daughter directly, dark eyes holding Wednesday's. "Then what would you call this unprecedented focus on scheduling?"

A tightness formed in her throat as carefully constructed defenses began fracturing. The mirror reflected someone she barely recognized—vulnerable in ways that had nothing to do with physical danger and everything to do with the emotional territory she'd committed to exploring.

"I've never..." The words emerged haltingly, each one a struggle against ingrained resistance to vulnerability. "I lack experience with public romantic display."

"Ah." Morticia's expression softened with understanding. "You're concerned about navigating unfamiliar waters."

"I asked Enid to accompany me as my date." The admission seemed to tear a piece of her along with it. "The entire academy will witness our... association. They'll draw conclusions about the nature of our relationship."

"And this troubles you?"

"No." Her response came quickly, defensively. "Their opinions carry no weight."

With the patience of someone who recognized deflection, Morticia waited. The silence stretched between them, broken only by candleflames' whispered conversations with shadows.

"She'll see me," Wednesday said finally, her voice low. "Not just performing with the orchestra or enduring social obligations, but attempting something I've never..." She stopped, jaw tightening against the admission threatening to escape.

"Something you've never what?" her mother prompted gently.

"Romance." The word emerged almost painfully. "She'll witness my attempts at romantic behavior and recognize their inadequacy. My emotional inexperience will become apparent, and she'll realize—"

"That you're trying?" Morticia interrupted softly. "That you care enough to venture beyond your carefully maintained boundaries?"

Her hands clenched against the gown's fabric. "She deserves someone who understands these dynamics instinctively. Someone who doesn't require instruction manuals for basic romantic gestures."

The fear that had been building since morning finally found voice—not concern about public scrutiny or social expectations, but the terrifying possibility that Enid would observe her romantic efforts and find them insufficient. That clarity of vision would reveal Wednesday's emotional limitations in ways that couldn't be deflected or rationalized.

"I don't know how to be what she needs," Wednesday admitted, her voice dropping to barely a whisper. "My attempts at affection emerge stilted and analytical. I calculate appropriate responses instead of... feeling them."

A gentle hand found Wednesday's shoulder, the touch grounding despite its lightness. "My darling girl, do you genuinely believe Enid expects you to become someone else?"

"She deserves—"

"She deserves exactly who you are," Morticia interrupted. "The girl who joined an orchestra she despises to help restore Enid's abilities. Who helped her through trauma recovery without attempting to fix or minimize her pain. Who asked her to this gala not because protocol demanded an escort, but because you wanted her beside you."

In the mirror, her reflection wavered as unexpected moisture threatened her carefully maintained composure. "Those were practical decisions."

"Those were love," her mother corrected gently. "Expressed in your particular idiom, perhaps, but love nonetheless."

Studying her daughter with maternal pride that transformed into something deeper, Morticia continued, "You are magnificent, Wednesday. Dark and brilliant as a winter midnight, sharp as obsidian's edge, beautiful in ways that terrify and enchant simultaneously."

The description, so distinctly Addams in its gothic romanticism, made something shift in Wednesday's chest.

"Enid already loves you," Morticia continued with absolute certainty. "Not some theoretical perfect version, but you—with your emotional reticence and analytical nature and inability to comprehend why anyone would willingly wear bright colors."

Despite everything, her mouth curved slightly at the accuracy of that assessment.

"Tonight isn't an examination you might fail," Morticia said, adjusting a final fold in the gown's fabric. "It's simply an evening with someone who already treasures exactly who you are."

Wednesday finally met her own gaze in the mirror, seeing not inadequacy but possibility. The nervousness remained, but it had transformed from paralyzing fear into something more manageable—anticipation threaded with vulnerability she was learning to carry rather than suppress.

She straightened, her reflection capturing dark elegance that needed no alteration or apology. Tonight, she would be completely herself with someone who had already chosen her, intensity and inexperience and all.

"Thank you," she said quietly, the words carrying weight beyond simple gratitude.

Morticia's smile held infinite maternal satisfaction. "Go enchant her, darling. Though I suspect you already have."

Iago Tower welcomed him back with familiar shadows and the whispered echoes of his own footsteps against stone worn smooth by generations of academic ambition. Ezekiel paused at the threshold of his old laboratory, fingers trailing along the doorframe where he'd once carved his initials during a particularly inspired midnight session. The carving remained, weathered but legible—a ghost signature from the brilliant young man he'd been.

E.G. - 1974. Tempus Fugit.

Time flies, indeed.

The tower's upper chamber stretched before him, transformed by days of subtle preparation. Dust motes danced in afternoon light filtering through tall windows as he surveyed his work. New apparatus gleamed against ancient stone—brass coils and glass resonance chambers he'd painstakingly integrated into the tower's architecture over multiple clandestine visits.

Components threaded through gaps in Gothic masonry, hidden within alcoves where decorative elements had once resided. What appeared to casual observation as restoration work was actually the housing for his most ambitious creation.

Settling into the familiar rhythm of assembly, he extended his consciousness outward. The final components—brought here over multiple trips during the past several hours—awaited installation. Telekinetic tendrils, invisible and precise, lifted delicate apparatuses from their temporary storage positions.

Judi Spannegel's death had been the finishing touch on his rejuvenation. The return of his telekinetic abilities was simply the final gift her consumption provided—completing his transformation from mere reanimation to true restoration.

The primary resonance amplifier—a crystalline structure no larger than his palm but capable of channeling tremendous psychic energy—guided itself into position within the tower's central column. His fingers never touched it; they didn't need to. The component settled into its mounting with a soft click that resonated through the stone.

Power coupling assemblies followed, each one sliding through channels in the walls. During the original installation, he'd disguised these pathways as architectural flourishes—Gothic scroll work and carved gargoyles that masked apertures and conduits. Soon they would channel the concentrated abilities of every outcast on Nevermore's grounds.

His younger self had created something magnificent. These designs transcended both supernatural ability and mechanical engineering, blending them into something entirely new.

The calibration chamber rose from its housing, guided by telekinetic force into the tower's apex. Brass gears meshed with intricate matrices, creating harmonic resonances that made the air itself vibrate with potential energy. Each component found its designated position, decades of planning finally achieving physical reality.

He checked his pocket watch: 5:30 precisely. The gala would begin in thirty minutes, drawing every student and faculty member into celebration. Perfect timing.

The device hummed with barely contained power, its resonance patterns extending throughout Nevermore's architecture. Hours of delicate assembly and calibration work still lay ahead, but the evening's festivities would provide perfect cover for the final phases.

And once finally activated, it would extract every supernatural ability from every outcast simultaneously, their concentrated power flowing into him as their bodies surrendered to death. Complete biological termination, just as the original research had always required.

Then transcendence. Power beyond individual limitations, abilities that spanned every outcast classification, strength that could reshape human evolution itself—all purchased with the lives of an entire academy.

But completion deserved appreciation. Instead of taking his usual direct exit through the tower's service passages, he decided to walk through the academy one final time. The halls would be empty as students and faculty prepared for the evening festivities—a perfect opportunity to savor the gothic splendor that would soon become his domain entirely.

Descending the tower's spiral staircase, each step marked the transition from preparation to execution. Tonight, Nevermore Academy would witness the fulfillment of its most brilliant student's ultimate design.

Polished corridors stretched before him like pathways through memory itself. With measured steps, he moved through Nevermore's familiar halls, his gaze cataloguing changes wrought by decades of absence. The Gothic arches remained unchanged—eternal stone guardians that had overseen generations of ambitious minds. Yet subtle modernizations caught his attention: brass fixtures replaced with more efficient alternatives, ancient tapestries updated with preservation techniques that hadn't existed during his tenure.

How quaint, he thought. Progress without vision.

From upper floors, students' voices drifted down as they prepared for the evening's festivities. Laughter echoed through stone corridors, young voices bright with anticipation. Ezekiel listened with detached appreciation, much as a chef might sample ingredients before preparation. Each laugh represented potential power waiting for extraction—werewolf strength, vampire speed, siren influence, psychic sight. A banquet of supernatural energy.

The current generation struck him as remarkably ordinary despite their gifts. No revolutionary thinking, no boundary-pushing experimentation. Simply children playing with inherited abilities rather than understanding their true potential. Augustus had been correct about one thing: most outcasts lacked the vision to appreciate what they possessed.

His footsteps whispered as he navigated the west corridor. Despite death and resurrection, the route through the school remained embedded in his consciousness, unchanged by his extended absence from physical existence.

A glint caught his attention near the Memorial Hall entrance.

The bronze plaque mounted beside the doorway bore elegant script: "In Memory of Ezekiel Grimwald, 1957-1974. Brilliant Student, Visionary Inventor, Tragic Loss." Beneath the inscription, a stylized clockwork heart gleamed against dark metal—artistic interpretation of his most famous creation.

Pausing before his own memorial, his lips curved into genuine amusement. The polished surface reflected his current appearance with clarity. Tall frame draped in charcoal wool, the tailored suit cut to perfection across shoulders that suggested both intellectual refinement and hidden strength. Dark hair styled with the effortlessness of someone accustomed to making impressions at sophisticated gatherings.

His reflection studied him with equal intensity. Sharp cheekbones and strong jawline created an aristocratic profile, while dark eyes held warmth that masked fearful intelligence. The face was almost too perfect—skin unmarked by time or decay, features symmetrical to an uncanny degree. Movements carried the control of someone who'd learned to inhabit his body like a precision instrument.

"Tragic loss," he murmured to his reflection. "If they only knew how temporary tragedy can be."

The memorial represented everything wrong with how institutions processed failure. Rather than investigating his "accident," they'd chosen commemoration over comprehension. Augustus's sabotage had been accepted as genuine misfortune, his death mourned instead of questioned.

Their blindness had protected his work's true scope. While Nevermore honored his memory with bronze platitudes, his actual research waited in Iago Tower—unchanged, uncompromised, ready for activation.

Augustus's betrayal had taught him valuable lessons about trust and revelation. The older man's conscience had proven weakness, his inability to embrace necessary sacrifices a fundamental character flaw. Tonight would vindicate every calculation Ezekiel had made during their partnership, every design choice Augustus had questioned.

His resurrection required no improvement on his original genius. The mechanism waiting in Iago Tower was the culmination of his vision—a masterwork of engineering brilliance and supernatural understanding. Death had been merely an inconvenient interruption, not defeat.

Adjusting his cufflinks—simple silver that caught corridor lighting—he continued deeper into the academy.

Quick, purposeful strides approached from behind, suggesting someone with a destination in mind. Turning, Ezekiel saw a young man rounding the corner, curly hair catching the corridor's warm lighting and thick-rimmed glasses reflecting the Gothic arches overhead.

"Excuse me," the student called out with genuine warmth. "Are you looking for someone? The gala preparations are mostly happening in the Great Hall and courtyard areas, but if you're trying to find a specific faculty member, I can point you in the right direction."

Eugene Ottinger. Ezekiel recognized him immediately—one of the few students who hadn't fled screaming during his mindless phase, though the boy had certainly maintained a cautious distance.

"How thoughtful of you," Ezekiel replied, allowing warmth to color his tone. "I'm Dr. Elias Grimm, visiting researcher from Middlebury College. I'm here for tonight's festivities—your academy has quite a reputation for innovative programs."

Eugene's face brightened with pride. "Oh, that's fantastic! Are you working in any specific field? We've got some amazing faculty here. Dr. Capri runs our music program now, and the botanical studies are legendary—well, they were under Ms. Thornhill, but that's a whole different story."

"My research focuses on the intersection of supernatural abilities and technological enhancement," Ezekiel said smoothly. "I'm particularly interested in how institutions like Nevermore foster innovation among gifted students."

"That sounds incredible! We've had some really brilliant students over the years." Eugene adjusted his glasses enthusiastically. "Actually, there's this whole memorial display in the Great Hall honoring past students who made significant contributions. One guy, Ezekiel Grimwald, designed this amazing clockwork heart before he... well, before he died in an accident. The engineering was supposedly decades ahead of its time."

"Fascinating," Ezekiel murmured, noting how the boy's admiration remained untainted by suspicion. "Tell me about the current student body. Do you find your peers embrace that same innovative spirit?"

"Most of us try, though I think we're probably not as ambitious as some of the earlier generations," Eugene admitted. "I run the beekeeping club—it's mostly just me, but Wednesday Addams joined last year, which was amazing. She's got this incredible ability to see patterns and solve mysteries that would stump anyone else."

The mention of Wednesday Addams sent a flicker of interest through Ezekiel's consciousness. The psychic who'd disrupted so many of his prior conspirators' plans.

"And your own work with the bees—that must require considerable understanding of complex biological systems."

Eugene's expression lit up. "Oh, it's not just regular beekeeping! I can actually communicate with them, coordinate their movements. It's called apikinesis, though that's evolved into broader entomokinesis now. The girls are amazing—they have this whole social structure that's way more sophisticated than most people realize."

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"The applications must be quite varied," Ezekiel continued, deliberately stepping closer as if drawn by intellectual curiosity. "I imagine the coordination possibilities are extraordinary."

"Exactly! And it's not just about giving orders—it's more like... like conducting an orchestra where every musician understands their part intuitively." Eugene paused mid-gesture, his head tilting slightly. "Sorry, do you hear that? Sounds like there's some kind of metronome or—"

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The sound grew more distinct as Ezekiel moved within conversational range, their discussion naturally drawing them closer together. Eugene's expression shifted subtly, enthusiasm giving way to puzzled concentration.

"That's odd," Eugene said, blinking behind his glasses. "It's really rhythmic, like clockwork or..." His words trailed off, uncertainty creeping into his voice.

"Perhaps gala preparations," Ezekiel suggested smoothly. "Large events often require considerable coordination."

But Eugene wasn't listening anymore. His gaze had sharpened, studying Ezekiel's face with growing intensity. The earnest friendliness remained, but something else lurked beneath—recognition dawning like sunrise over familiar landscape.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"Your voice," Eugene said slowly, his hands unconsciously moving to adjust his glasses in a nervous gesture. "There's something... I mean, this is going to sound crazy, but you remind me of someone."

Ezekiel maintained his pleasant expression, though internal calculations accelerated. The boy's memory was proving more acute than expected.

"I have one of those faces," he replied with charm. "People often think they've met me before."

"No, it's not just that." Eugene stepped back slightly, creating distance that only made the mechanical rhythm more noticeable by contrast. "The way you talk about innovation, about advancement. And that sound..."

The ticking had become unmistakable now—steady, relentless, emanating from beneath Ezekiel's perfectly tailored jacket. Eugene's expression transformed from confusion to dawning horror.

"Oh God," he whispered. "Slurp?"

The mechanical rhythm filled the corridor like a countdown to catastrophe. Eugene's face drained of color as understanding formed, his eyes wide behind his glasses.

"You're him," Eugene breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're actually Ezekiel Grimwald. But that's impossible. You died fifty years ago, and then you were... you were a zombie. Mindless. How are you—"

"Resurrection has its unexpected benefits," Ezekiel replied, his tone remaining conversational despite the boy's obvious terror. "Though I prefer to think of recent events as an extended sabbatical from proper academic work."

Eugene stumbled backward, his hand fumbling for the wall. "The ticking. That's your heart, isn't it? The clockwork heart from the stories." His voice cracked slightly. "How many people did you... you're different now."

"Considerably more articulate, certainly," Ezekiel replied, adjusting his cufflinks casually. "Recent experiences have been quite... revigorating."

"I have to warn everyone," Eugene said, turning toward the corridor that led to the Great Hall. "Whatever you're planning—"

The words cut off abruptly. Eugene's body went rigid, his feet lifting several inches from the stone floor as invisible force seized him. His glasses slipped askew as his head tilted back, eyes bulging with the effort to breathe against the telekinetic pressure around his throat.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," Ezekiel said mildly, studying the boy's suspended form. "Though I do appreciate your sense of duty. It speaks well of your character."

Eugene's fingers clawed uselessly at the air around his neck, his lips moving soundlessly. The desperate panic in his eyes was almost touching—this earnest young man who'd tried to help a lost visitor, now discovering that visitor was his academy's greatest threat.

"Your apikinetic abilities will integrate beautifully into my device," Ezekiel continued. "Insect neural networks, properly channeled, can coordinate remarkably complex operations. I'd hate to waste such potential killing you beforehand."

With measured steps, he guided Eugene's floating form toward a storage alcove hidden behind decorative stonework—one of many architectural secrets Nevermore's current occupants had forgotten. The space was small but adequate, lined with thick stone that would muffle any attempts at calling for help.

"You were one of the few who didn't flee immediately during my... less articulate period," Ezekiel said, lowering Eugene gently into the alcove. "I consider this a courtesy in return. You'll simply wait here until the device activates. Much more civilized than the alternative."

Eugene's eyes widened further as understanding penetrated his oxygen-starved brain. The device. Whatever machine Ezekiel had built, it would target everyone at once. The whole academy.

"Please," Eugene managed to rasp as the telekinetic hold shifted to pin him against the stone. "The other students. They don't deserve—"

"'Deserve' has nothing to do with evolution," Ezekiel replied, his fingers tracing a pattern in the air that sealed the alcove with another invisible barrier. "Progress requires sacrifice. Your generation simply happens to be providing it."

He checked his pocket watch: 5:55. Perfect timing.

The mechanical ticking faded as he walked away, leaving Eugene trapped in darkness with only the terrible knowledge of what was coming. Ezekiel's footsteps echoed against the stone, measured and unhurried. The gala would begin in five minutes. His life's work would achieve completion shortly after.

Fifty years of waiting were nearly over.