Nevermore, My Broken Heart

Chapter 5: When Woe Breaks

The Jericho Sheriff's Department fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like dying insects, casting harsh shadows across Santiago's cramped office. Wednesday sat perfectly straight in the metal chair across from Santiago's desk, her torn Nevermore uniform bearing witness to the evening's violence. Dried blood matted her braids where Tyler's claws had cut flesh, and fresh cuts decorated her pale hands like abstract artwork.

Santiago's uniform told its own story—fabric ripped at the shoulder, dirt ground into the fabric from pursuing Tyler through the forest. Coffee rings stained her metal desk in overlapping circles, evidence of countless late nights spent chasing cases that defied rational explanation.

"Let's start from the beginning," Santiago said, her voice carrying professional restraint despite the exhaustion in her eyes. She flipped through incident reports, each page documenting another fragment of the carnival's destruction. "What were you doing at Pilgrim World Fair?"

"Attending a public event. As I'm legally entitled to do."

"Don't play games with me." Santiago's pen clicked against her desk in an irritated rhythm. "Tyler Galpin attacks a carnival, and you just happen to be there. That's not coincidence."

Wednesday tilted her head slightly. "Tyler is a creature of predictable patterns. He targets locations where I have emotional investments. The presence of my roommate made the carnival an obvious choice for his hunting ground."

Santiago's radio crackled. "Unit Seven to Command. Negative contact on the logging road sweep. Trail's gone completely cold."

The sheriff's jaw tightened as she keyed her response. "Copy that. Expand search radius to Highway Fifteen." She clipped the radio back to her belt, her attention returning to Wednesday.

"So you knew he might target the fair, and you went anyway?" Santiago leaned forward, her brown eyes searching Wednesday's face for any crack in the stoic facade. "You used yourself as bait."

"I used tactical thinking to intercept a threat before it could harm innocent civilians." Wednesday's fingers traced the edge of a cut on her knuckle. "A concept your department might consider implementing."

Santiago's pen stopped clicking. "You were thrown through a third-story window just a few days ago. What part of 'dangerous escaped psychopath' made you think a foot chase was advisable?"

The question hung in the air between them. Wednesday's gaze shifted to the evidence boards covering Santiago's walls—photographs of crime scenes, connecting strings that formed a web of violence stretching back months. Tyler's face stared down from multiple angles, school photos and security footage creating a gallery of calculated normalcy that had masked something monstrous.

"Advisable and necessary are often mutually exclusive," Wednesday said finally. "Tyler's fixation on me provides opportunities to control the engagement on my terms rather than his."

"Control?" Santiago's voice cracked with disbelief. "You call what happened at that carnival controlled? Multiple civilians injured, thousands of dollars in property damage, and a monster loose in my county?"

Wednesday's lips curved into something that might have been a smile if it had carried any warmth. "Perhaps if your department had established proper containment protocols instead of relying on a psychiatric facility with the security measures of a daycare center, this situation could have been avoided entirely."

The radio interrupted again. "Command, this is Unit Three. We've got nothing on the north perimeter. Whatever this thing is, it moves fast and doesn't leave much of a trail."

Santiago's hand moved to her radio, but she didn't respond immediately. Instead, she kept her eyes fixed on Wednesday.

"You have any idea where he might go?" Santiago asked quietly. "Safe houses, people who might help him?"

Wednesday considered the question briefly. "Tyler's psychological profile suggests he'll seek isolation to recover from his injuries, then return to stalking behavior once he's regained strength. His targets remain predictable—anyone connected to me personally."

"That includes you."

"Obviously."

"I'm going to say something, and I want you to really hear it," Santiago said, her tone shifting from professional to personal. "This isn't some school mystery you can solve with your friends. This is a killer who's fixated on you personally. He's stronger than human, faster than human, and he's already tried to murder you twice."

"Your concern has been noted and filed appropriately."

"My concern," Santiago said, rising from her desk, "is that I'm going to find pieces of you scattered across my county if you keep playing amateur detective." She moved to the window, watching the search teams coordinate under harsh spotlights. "Stay away from this case. Completely away. That's not a request."

The fluorescent lights continued buzzing overhead, filling the silence that stretched between them. In the distance, radio chatter continued, confirming what Wednesday already knew: Tyler had vanished into the Vermont wilderness like smoke, leaving only destruction and fear in his wake.

The office door burst open without ceremony. Gomez strode in, his dark suit impeccable despite the late hour. Behind him, Morticia glided through the doorframe, her black evening gown suggesting they'd been pulled from some formal engagement.

"Sheriff Santiago, I'm here as my daughter's legal counsel—"

"Mr. Addams, that won't be necessary." Santiago raised a hand, cutting off what promised to be another elaborate explanation. "Wednesday isn't being charged with anything."

Gomez's prepared speech deflated slightly, though his eyes remained sharp as they catalogued Wednesday's injuries. Morticia's gaze swept the office, taking in the evidence boards, the radio chatter, the controlled chaos of an active manhunt.

"Then why," Morticia asked, her voice carrying the subtle threat of a blade drawn in darkness, "are we here at this unseemly hour?"

Santiago gestured to the chair beside Wednesday, but Morticia remained standing. Her posture suggested she viewed the sheriff's office as enemy territory requiring constant vigilance.

"Your daughter has been present at every major incident involving this escaped patient," Santiago began. "Tonight she actively pursued him into the forest despite being hospitalized by him days ago. I need you to understand that my department cannot keep pulling her out of situations like this."

Wednesday's fingers stilled on her injured knuckle. The weight of both her parents' attention pressed against her like a gathering storm.

"Furthermore," Santiago continued, directing her words to Gomez and Morticia, "Tyler Galpin specifically targets locations where Wednesday has emotional investments. This isn't random violence anymore—this is personal obsession. Your daughter is deliberately placing herself in harm's way."

Gomez's mustache twitched as he processed this information. His hand moved instinctively toward Morticia's, a gesture of unity that didn't go unnoticed.

"Sheriff Santiago," Morticia said, her tone deceptively conversational, "we are quite familiar with our daughter's... tendencies. Rest assured, we have our own methods of ensuring her safety."

The sheriff's eyes flicked between the three Addamses, noting family dynamics that operated by rules she couldn't fully comprehend.

"With respect, Mrs. Addams, your methods haven't prevented Wednesday from nearly getting killed twice in the past week." Santiago's radio crackled again—another negative report from the search teams. She quickly silenced it. "Tyler Galpin is not just a random threat anymore. This is personal for him. He's obsessed with your daughter, and he won't stop until either he's captured or—"

"Or he succeeds," Wednesday finished flatly.

Santiago leaned forward, her voice dropping to something approaching personal rather than professional. "I've seen obsessive killers before. They don't just give up and move on. Tyler will keep coming, and he'll escalate each time until something stops him permanently."

"Then perhaps," Wednesday said, rising from her chair, "the solution is to ensure that 'something' is me."

"Wednesday." Morticia's voice carried a warning sharp enough to cut.

Santiago stood as well, her exhaustion evident in the way her shoulders sagged. "That's exactly the kind of thinking that's going to get you killed. And probably others along with you."

The radio interrupted once more: "Command, we're pulling back the perimeter teams. Trail's completely cold. Whatever this thing is, it's gone."

With a tired sigh, Santiago responded. "Copy that. Maintain patrol protocols and report any unusual activity." Returning the radio to her belt, she addressed the Addams family again.

"You're free to go," Santiago said. "But I'm warning you plainly—keep your daughter away from this investigation. My department has enough problems without adding teenage vigilante casualties to the list."

Wednesday walked between her parents, maintaining her rigid posture despite the exhaustion pulling at her injured frame.

Outside, harsh security lighting turned the parking lot into a stark landscape of shadows and glare. Lurch stood beside the idling hearse like a monolithic guardian.

Their footsteps echoed across the asphalt in rhythm. No one spoke—the weight of Santiago's warnings and the night's violence settling over them like a shroud. Wednesday could feel her parents' tension radiating outward, their controlled facades beginning to crack under the strain of fear disguised as concern.

The hearse's rear door opened and Wednesday climbed into the back seat. Gomez and Morticia followed, settling on either side of her in the plush interior.

Lurch closed the door with silence, sealing them into the vehicle's dim sanctuary. The engine's steady rumble filled the space as he guided them toward the parking lot exit, leaving behind the harsh lights and radio chatter of the sheriff's department.

In the charged silence, Wednesday could practically hear her parents' thoughts spinning—protective instincts warring with respect for her autonomy, family loyalty battling against the growing certainty that their daughter was walking deliberately toward her own destruction.

The hearse's interior felt like a velvet-lined coffin, the silence broken only by the steady rhythm of Lurch's careful driving and the soft tick of Gomez's pocket watch. Wednesday sat rigidly between her parents, her spine pressed against the plush upholstery as her mind catalogued her ever-growing list of threats.

Tyler would likely seek an isolated location to recover from the pack's assault—abandoned buildings, perhaps, or caves in the foothills beyond Jericho. His Hyde physiology would accelerate healing, but the wolves had inflicted significant damage. Three days, maybe four, before he regained full strength. Enough time to implement security measures for Enid, assuming her roommate would accept protection instead of stubbornly involving herself.

The calculation fractured as Judi Spannegel's face materialized in Wednesday's mind. The woman had vanished during Willow Hill's collapse, taking with her the ability to weaponize entire murders of crows. Two threats instead of one, both personally motivated, both—

"—absolutely reckless behavior that could have resulted in your death." Morticia's voice cut through Wednesday's thoughts. "Are you listening to me, Wednesday?"

Her attention snapped to the present, realizing her mother had been speaking for some time. Gomez's nervous fidgeting with his pocket watch suggested the lecture had been ongoing since they'd left the sheriff's station.

"Tyler Galpin nearly killed you," Morticia continued, her dark eyes fixed on Wednesday's profile. "Twice. And your response is to chase him into the forest like some sort of—"

"Avenging angel," Gomez interjected, though his voice carried more worry than admiration. "Very dramatic, querida, but perhaps not entirely practical."

Wednesday turned to meet her mother's gaze directly.

"Tyler's behavior follows predictable patterns," she said. "He'll target anyone connected to me personally. The logical solution is to confront the threat directly rather than wait for him to select victims at his convenience."

Morticia's lips compressed into a thin line. "The logical solution is to allow trained law enforcement to handle an escaped psychiatric patient while you remain somewhere safe."

"Sheriff Santiago's department lost his trail within an hour."

"Because you compromised their search by wandering through their crime scene like a tourist."

The accusation hit closer to truth than Wednesday preferred to acknowledge. Her pursuit through the forest had likely contaminated evidence that might have aided the professional manhunt. Still, accepting responsibility felt dangerously close to admitting fault.

"Furthermore," Morticia pressed, "your obsession with preventing Enid's death mirrors Ophelia's tragic fixation. You're following the same path that led to her complete psychological collapse."

Wednesday's jaw tightened. It seemed as if every conversation with her family eventually circled back to Aunt Ophelia's cautionary tale as of late, as if Wednesday's situation bore any resemblance to her aunt's descent into madness.

"Aunt Ophelia chased visions to prevent random strangers from experiencing misfortune," Wednesday replied, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "I'm protecting someone I—" The words caught in her throat like splinters. "Someone whose survival has value."

Gomez's pocket watch clicked shut with finality. "Mija, we understand your loyalty to your friends. But this Hyde creature—"

"Has made specific threats against Enid's life." Wednesday's voice rose slightly, the first crack in her emotional armor since entering the hearse. "Threats he demonstrated tonight he's capable of carrying out."

Through the window, Nevermore's wrought-iron gates materialized in the headlights, their twisted metalwork casting elaborate shadows across the hearse's interior. The sight should have provided relief—sanctuary, familiar territory, controlled environment. Instead, Wednesday felt only the weight of unfinished business pressing against her chest.

Morticia followed her gaze toward the approaching campus. "Wednesday, I know you believe your actions protect those you care about. But consider that your determination to keep Enid safe has actually been putting her in danger."

She'd entertained similar thoughts during her darkest moments of self-analysis, but hearing them voiced by her mother transformed speculation into accusation.

The hearse rolled to a stop in the circular drive before Ophelia Hall. Through the windshield, Wednesday could see the building's familiar facade—tall windows, climbing ivy, the comforting predictability of institutional architecture. Her room waited somewhere within those walls, along with the crime board that needed updating and the investigation that demanded her continued attention despite everyone's protests.

"All of your theories and contingencies won't matter if you're dead," Morticia said as Lurch moved to open their door. "A reality Tyler nearly ensured tonight."

Wednesday felt her patience finally snap like an overtaxed cable.

"I understand your concern. Your advice, however, remains irrelevant to my decision-making process."

The hearse door opened and Wednesday exited immediately, her boots striking the cobblestones with sharp clicks that echoed across the courtyard. Behind her, she heard Gomez's voice calling her name, but she didn't slow her determined stride toward Ophelia Hall's entrance.

The night air felt crisp against her skin after the hearse's stifling atmosphere. Here, surrounded by Nevermore's protective walls and familiar shadows, Wednesday could breathe again. The school grounds offered controlled variables.

Her room waited above—empty now, but still containing the tools she needed to continue her work. The investigation demanded her attention, regardless of parental concerns or official warnings. Tyler and Judi remained threats to be neutralized, and Enid's safety depended on Wednesday's ability to anticipate their next moves.

She reached the building's heavy wooden door, her fingers finding the ornate handle in the darkness. Behind her, the hearse's engine continued its steady rumble, waiting to carry her parents away from this place where their protective instincts held no authority.

Wednesday climbed the familiar spiral staircase of Ophelia Hall, each step driving fresh agony through her battered body. The adrenaline that had carried her through Tyler's assault and Sheriff Santiago's interrogation was ebbing, leaving behind exhaustion that threatened to buckle her knees. Her shoulders rounded slightly—a deviation from her usual military posture that she would have found unacceptable under normal circumstances.

Solitude would allow her to process the evening's chaos, update her investigation board, and formulate countermeasures against Tyler's next inevitable assault. The door swung open with its familiar creak.

Enid sat cross-legged on her own bed.

A jolt of surprise ran through her. Enid wore fresh clothes—a soft pink t-shirt and grey sweatpants that made her appear smaller than usual, more vulnerable. Angry red scratches from Tyler's claws marked her exposed arms and neck, testament to her bravery at the carnival. Thing perched motionless on the windowsill nearby, his stillness suggesting either anticipation or guilt.

"Enid."

"Wednesday." The single word carried weight that made the air between them electric with unspoken accusations and revelations.

Her dark eyes swept the room, noting the deliberate staging—Enid positioned where she couldn't be avoided, Thing strategically placed as witness. This wasn't chance. This was an ambush.

"What are you doing here?"

Enid's blue eyes held steady, unflinching. "Waiting for you."

The admission hung between them like a challenge. Wednesday calculated the variables—Enid's expression suggested more than simple concern for her wellbeing. The positioning, the careful word choice, the way Thing avoided meeting her gaze all pointed toward a conclusion that made her chest tighten with growing dread.

"You should be in the medical wing," Wednesday said, deflecting toward practical concerns. "Those wounds require attention."

"I'll be fine." Enid's fingers traced one of the angry-red lines on her forearm absently. "They're mostly just scratches."

The casual dismissal of medical care felt like misdirection, a prelude to more dangerous territory.

"How long have you been waiting?"

"Long enough." Enid's voice carried implications that made Wednesday's pulse quicken. "Thing and I had quite the conversation while we were waiting."

Her gaze snapped toward Thing, who finally looked up from the windowsill. His posture conveyed resignation—the stance of someone who'd made a difficult choice and would stand by its consequences.

"What did you tell her?"

Thing's response was immediate and unapologetic. The truth.

"Which truth?" She asked through clenched teeth.

"Thing told me about the vision."

Wednesday's eyes narrowed as she turned back towards Thing, who remained motionless on the windowsill—a guilty conspirator caught in his treachery.

"I see." Her voice was flat and emotionless. "And what exactly did Thing share during your illuminating conversation?"

"Everything." Enid's voice carried steel that Wednesday had never heard before. "The vision at the bonfire. My death. Me blaming you.”

She felt the foundation of her carefully constructed lies begin to crack, and each word from Enid's mouth drove the fissures deeper.

"Thing had no right—"

"Don't." Enid rose from her bed, her movement sharp with anger. "Don't you dare blame Thing for telling me what you should have told me yourself."

Wednesday took an automatic step backward, but Enid was already moving, circling to position herself between Wednesday and the door.

"Every cruel thing you've said, every time you've pushed me away,” Enid continued, her blue eyes blazing with hurt. “It was all because of some vision you decided I wasn't allowed to know about?"

"I was protecting you."

"You were lying to me!" Enid's composure finally cracked, fury spilling out like water through a broken dam. "For weeks, Wednesday! Weeks of watching you pull away, of trying to figure out what I did wrong, of having my heart broken over and over because you kept treating me like I was nothing."

"I never lied to you."

"Because you never trusted me to begin with!" The accusation rang off the room's gothic arches. "You made that decision for me. You decided I couldn't handle knowing about my own death."

"And I was right."

"That's not your decision to make!" Enid stepped closer. "You don't get to decide what I can and can't handle. You don't get to lie to my face and call it protection."

Wednesday retreated until her back hit the window, cornered. "The vision showed your death, Enid. Your tombstone. Your voice telling me it was my fault. If keeping you alive means you hate me, that's a price I'm willing to pay."

"God, you're so arrogant." Enid's laugh held no humor. "You think you're the only one who gets to make sacrifices? The only one who gets to decide what matters?"

"I never claimed—"

"Yes, you did." Enid's interruption cut sharply. "Every time you pushed me away. Every time you pretended we meant nothing to each other. When you looked me in the eye at the hospital and said we weren't friends." Her voice cracked slightly. "Do you have any idea what that did to me? Thinking I'd just... imagined everything between us?"

The memory flashed through Wednesday's mind—Enid's face in that sterile hospital room, the devastation that had contorted her features before she'd fled. She felt her breath shift from its steady to rythym to something irregular.

"Tyler specifically threatened you." Wednesday attempted to redirect, but her voice lacked its usual conviction. "Because he knew that hurting you would—"

"So your bright idea was to face him alone?" Enid's voice rose with something between fury and fear. "If I hadn't saved you, were you just going to let him kill you? Was that your grand strategy to keep me safe? Die heroically and let me blame myself forever?"

Wednesday's hands clenched into fists at her sides, nails digging crescents into her palms. "Tyler was only at the fair because you were there. He wouldn't have—"

"So it's my fault?"

Wednesday's jaw clenched. For perhaps the first time in her life, her words felt truly inadequete. "That's not what I said."

"It's what you meant." The accusations became more personal, targeting every vulnerability Wednesday had tried to conceal. "You know what you are, Wednesday? You're not some brave detective solving mysteries. You're a coward."

"I am not—"

"Yes, you are!" Enid's voice cracked. "Every time we get close, you sabotage it. You ruin it on purpose and claim it's for my own good. Because Wednesday Addams can't let herself actually care about someone."

She tried to speak, tried to formulate some response that would restore order to the chaos consuming her thoughts, but her voice refused to cooperate. The room felt too small, the air too thin, as if she was being suffocated. Her hands had begun to tremble against the window.

"Stop." The word emerged smaller than she intended.

"Why? Because I'm right?"

Wednesday's vision began to blur at the edges. Her chest felt compressed, as if her ribs had forgotten how to expand properly. This wasn't pain from her injuries, this was something far more terrifying. Emotions she'd spent sixteen years containing were hemorrhaging through her defenses all at once.

"Are you okay?" Concern flickered across Enid's face as she noticed the distress. "Wednesday, you're shaking."

The observation made everything worse. Wednesday Addams didn't shake. Didn't panic. Didn't feel her carefully constructed world collapsing around her while someone she cared about watched her fall apart.

Without thought, without planning, without any of the careful calculation that defined her existence, Wednesday did something she had never done before:

She ran.

Her body moved before conscious decision could intervene. She bolted past a stunned Enid, wrenched open the door, and fled into the hallway. Behind her, she heard Enid call her name, heard footsteps beginning to follow, but Wednesday didn't stop. Couldn't stop.

She ran from the vision of Enid's death, from the terror of loss, from the emotions she couldn't contain. Most of all, she ran from the devastating truth that Enid was right—she was a coward, too afraid to face the feelings that had her rather die than watch Enid be hurt.

The hallway blurred past as Wednesday fled into the darkness of Nevermore's corridors, leaving behind her dignity, her control, and the girl whose life she'd been desperately trying to save by destroying everything between them.

Find. Find. Find.

The command pulsed through hollow bones, a rhythm more insistent than heartbeat. The crow dropped from its perch on the storm drain cover, talons clicking against wet concrete as it folded wings close to its body. Below ground, the air tasted different—thick with metal and rot, layered with the ghost-scents of a thousand rainstorms that had washed the surface world's sins into these tunnels.

Blood-scent. Fresh. Follow.

Fragments of red caught the bird's attention where human hands had pressed against rusted grating. Torn fabric fluttered from a shard of rebar like a grotesque flag. The trail pulled its consciousness forward, each clue triggering cascades of neural firing that translated to a single, driving need: locate.

These subterranean passages stretched in all directions, concrete arteries beneath Jericho's sleeping streets. Calls bounced off curved walls, creating maps of sound that revealed chambers and passages invisible to other creatures. Its eyes tracked movement patterns in darkness, catching ultraviolet traces that marked the target's passage like luminous breadcrumbs.

Deeper. Always deeper.

Air currents carried information—old rain, motor oil, something organic and wrong that made the bird's primitive brain recoil before the overriding command reasserted itself. As it moved deeper into the system, the tunnels narrowed, forcing wings tight against its body while navigating spaces barely wide enough for a human child.

Shopping carts jutted from walls where flash floods had wedged them into impossible positions. Glass shards caught what little light filtered down from street grates, creating tiny stars in this urban underworld. Processing all obstacles, the crow maintained focus on the scent trail growing stronger with each turn.

Hyde-musk. Fear-sweat. Close.

The drainage pipes converged into a maintenance chamber where the smell intensified. Fresh blood mixed with older stains, creating a palimpsest of violence written in copper and iron. With a twitching head, the crow processed the layered information: recent wounds, prolonged stress, the distinctive chemical signature of a creature caught between forms.

In the alcove where concrete curved into shadow, the target huddled like something trying to merge with the stone itself. Human-shaped but wrong somehow, clothing in tatters that revealed pale skin marked with fresh scratches. His chest rose and fell in shallow, careful breaths, as if sound itself might betray him.

Without emotion, the crow observed—noting the defensive posture, the tension in muscles at every distant echo from above, the hollow exhaustion that spoke to days without proper food or rest. It catalogued injuries with clinical precision: superficial cuts along forearms, deeper gashes on his left shoulder, distinctive marks where his own transformation had torn through fabric and flesh.

Target located. Signal.

The bird's beak opened, releasing a harsh cry that shattered the tunnel's silence. The sound reverberated through drainage pipes like a victory bell tolling for the hunt's end.

The target's head snapped up, eyes wide with alarm as he understood his sanctuary had become a trap.

While the crow's cry still lingered, she descended the maintenance ladder, her dark shroud incongruous against the rusted metal rungs.

Water dripped steadily from overhead pipes, creating a percussion that masked her footsteps as she navigated toward the source of that distinctive call. The tunnels reeked of stagnant rain and urban decay, but underneath lay something more interesting—the copper-salt scent of fresh blood mixed with the distinctive musk of a creature caught between forms.

Poor little monster, she thought, stepping carefully around chunks of concrete that had fallen from the aging infrastructure. Let's see what Wednesday's righteous crusade has accomplished.

Before her, the maintenance chamber opened like an underground grotto, curved walls disappearing into shadow beyond the reach of filtered streetlight. Her crow perched on a support beam overhead, fixing her with one bright eye that held flecks of intelligence no ordinary bird should possess.

And there, pressed against the far wall as if trying to become one with the concrete, cowered the infamous Tyler Galpin.

The sight almost made her laugh.

This was the creature that had terrorized Jericho? The Hyde that had carved through trained professionals and left body counts in its wake? He resembled a drowned rat—gaunt and desperate, his hair lank with grime and moisture. Blood had dried in dark streaks along his forearms, and when his eyes met hers—wild, desperate, utterly defeated—she saw nothing of the confident barista or even the predatory monster she remembered.

"My, my." Judi's voice carried clearly through the chamber, pitched with the same helpful warmth she'd once used to greet visitors at Willow Hill. "How the mighty have fallen."

Muscles coiling with the promise of violence, Tyler tensed, though the motion seemed more reflex than genuine threat. His eyes darted between her face and the exits, calculating distances with the frantic energy of cornered prey.

"You don't recognize me, do you?" Taking another step closer, she clasped her hands loosely behind her back in a posture projecting calm authority. "Judi Spannegel. I used to assist Dr. Fairburn at Willow Hill, before your little friend Wednesday burned my life's work to the ground."

Recognition flickered across his features—memory assembling itself from fragments of institutional encounters and administrative pleasantries. His breathing quickened, and she caught the telltale flicker of yellowish light behind his pupils before he forced it back down.

"Easy," she murmured, as if gentling a startled animal. "I'm not here to cage you. I've seen quite enough of what cages accomplish."

With a gesture toward his wounds, Judi continued. "That looks painful. Multiple lacerations, defensive positioning, signs of prolonged stress and malnutrition. Tell me, how did it feel when those little wolves overwhelmed you? When they reduced the great and terrible Hyde to fleeing through sewage like a cornered rat?"

Tyler's face twisted with something between rage and shame, hands clenching into fists against the concrete.

"But then again," Judi added, her voice taking on a warmer, almost conspiratorial tone, "you did get one moment of absolute satisfaction, didn't you? When you finally wrapped your claws around Marilyn Thornhill's throat and squeezed until her bones cracked?"

The transformation in his expression was immediate and visceral. The defeat melted away, replaced by something hungry and satisfied that made his eyes burn with inner light.

"That's better." She smiled with genuine approval. "That's the look of someone who remembers what it feels like to be the predator instead of the prey. To finally take control instead of following orders like a trained dog."

Slightly straightening his posture, Tyler no longer attempted to disappear into the wall. "What do you want?"

"What I want," she said carefully, "is to see Wednesday Addams pay for what she's done to both of us. She destroyed my father's legacy, freed my test subjects, and reduced me to hiding in shadows like some common criminal. And you—well, she humiliated you in front of the whole world, didn't she? Exposed your secrets, turned your own strength against you, set her pack of wolves to tear you apart."

His jaw clenched at the memory, shoulders rolling with barely contained fury.

"They say Hydes are apex predators," Judi mused, approaching him slowly. "Natural dominants who bow to no creature. Yet somehow a teenage werewolf and her friends reduced you to this—hiding in drainage pipes, licking your wounds, running from children who should fear your shadow."

"I'll kill her," Tyler whispered. "I'll kill all of them."

"I believe you would try." Judi's tone remained conversational, almost indulgent. "But rage without direction is just noise, isn't it? And Wednesday has advantages now—her visions, her network of allies, the institutional protection of her family name. She's not the isolated girl you knew at the Weathervane."

A silence stretched between them until curiosity outweighed pride.

"However," she continued, "I know things about Wednesday that her wolf pets don't. Weaknesses in Nevermore's armor. Pressure points that could turn their greatest strengths into fatal vulnerabilities."

Tyler's eyes sharpened with interest despite himself.

"I'm not proposing to be your master," Judi said quietly. "Those days are over for both of us. But I am suggesting that two apex predators might accomplish more working together than alone. You provide the claws, I provide the strategy. You get your revenge, I get mine."

She extended one pale hand toward him, not close enough to touch but near enough to represent choice.

"The question is: are you content to remain a victim of Wednesday's meddling, or would you prefer to remind the world what happens when you corner something truly dangerous?"

Tyler stared at her outstretched hand for a long moment, the mechanical drip of water marking time around them. When he finally moved, it was to push himself away from the wall, accepting her offer with a smile that promised bloodshed.

"Let's make them all remember," he said, "why monsters are meant to be feared."

From its perch above, the crow watched with a baleful eye, its presence a dark harbinger of the vengeance to come.

Wednesday emerged from the forest path that wound through Nevermore's grounds to Rotwood Cottage, her boots finding familiar footholds despite the darkness. Her Nevermore uniform hung in tatters from Tyler's assault hours earlier—fabric torn at the shoulder, dried blood crusting along her collar. Bits of leaves and debris clung to her usually immaculate braids, testament to her aimless wandering through the woods since fleeing the devastating confrontation with Enid.

The perfect straightness that defined her posture had collapsed into something smaller, shoulders curled inward as if protecting vital organs from further assault. Each step forward required conscious effort, the weight of emotions she'd never learned to process pressing down like an invisible weight.

The cottage windows glowed warmly against the darkness, casting rectangles of amber light across the cobblestone path. Through the stained glass panels, her mother's silhouette moved between rooms.

Approaching the front door, Wednesday's pale hand rose toward the wrought-iron knocker. But her fingers stopped inches from the metal.

This hesitation was foreign territory. Wednesday Addams didn't pause at thresholds. Didn't second-guess her decisions. Didn't stand paralyzed by the prospect of admitting vulnerability to one of the few people whose opinion carried weight.

Move, she commanded herself. Knock. Enter. Maintain dignity.

But her hand remained frozen in space, and she found herself studying the intricate metalwork as if it held answers to questions she couldn't formulate. Behind the door lay warmth, safety, maternal protection—and the inevitable dissection of her spectacular failure to contain the chaos consuming her carefully ordered world.

Finally, she forced her knuckles against the iron, the sound echoing through the quiet night like a gunshot.

Footsteps approached from within, measured and unhurried. The door swung open to reveal Morticia draped in a black silk robe that seemed to absorb the light around her. Her dark hair remained perfectly arranged despite the late hour, not a strand displaced from its elegant coiffure.

Morticia's expression shifted from mild surprise to sharp alarm as she catalogued Wednesday's appearance—the torn uniform, the disheveled braids, the barely controlled tremor in her hands. But most unsettling of all was the look in her daughter's eyes: hollow, desperate, like someone drowning in depths they couldn't navigate.

"Wednesday." Morticia's voice carried the dangerous edge of maternal fury mixed with concern. "What are you doing here? You should be safely within Nevermore's walls, not wandering alone through the forest after nearly being killed hours ago."

Wednesday opened her mouth to respond with some deflection about tactics and strategies, but the words emerged smaller than intended. "I needed to—to assess the situation from a strategic perspective."

Her voice carried a tremor that made Morticia's eyes narrow. This wasn't teenage rebellion or stubborn independence. This was something far more fragile.

"Come inside." Morticia stepped back. "Now."

Wednesday crossed the threshold into the cottage's warmth, the contrast between the cozy interior and her internal chaos making her feel like an invader in enemy territory. Morticia guided her toward the sitting room.

"Sit," Morticia commanded softly.

Wednesday perched on the edge of the cushion, her spine rigid despite the exhaustion pulling at her frame. Her hands folded in her lap to conceal their trembling, though she suspected her mother's sharp eyes missed nothing.

Settling into the chair across from Wednesday, Morticia didn't speak immediately—a maternal strategy honed through years of managing her daughter's more explosive moments. Instead, she observed the telltale signs of Wednesday's unraveling: the way her fingers pressed white against each other, the slight hitch in her breathing, the tremor she couldn't quite suppress.

Wednesday quickly seized the silence before it could become an interrogation.

"Tyler escaped into the forest beyond the fairgrounds," she began, her voice gaining strength as it found familiar territory. "The werewolves inflicted significant damage, but his Hyde physiology will accelerate healing."

Morticia's dark eyes never left Wednesday's face as she continued.

"Furthermore, Judi Spannegel remains unaccounted for since Willow Hill's collapse. Her ability to weaponize murders of crows presents a secondary threat that—" Wednesday's voice caught slightly before she recovered. "That requires immediate countermeasures."

"And your plan?" Morticia asked quietly.

"Systematic tracking. Both subjects will need to stick to nocturnal patterns. If I can establish their—"

"Wednesday." Morticia's voice cut through the deflection effortlessly. "What happened tonight?"

Wednesday's hands stilled in her lap, fingers pressing against each other until the knuckles whitened.

"Which particular event are you referencing?" Wednesday attempted another deflection. "Tyler's assault at the carnival, or Sheriff Santiago's interrogation, or perhaps—"

"What happened at Nevermore after we returned?"

Morticia's question left no room for evasion. Wednesday's gaze shifted toward the fireplace, where flames danced in patterns that reminded her of Tyler's yellow eyes.

"Enid was waiting for me in our room."

"And?"

"She discovered the truth about the vision. Thing told her everything."

"And?"

"And she's angry." Wednesday's fingers twisted in her lap. "She believes my protective measures constitute betrayal rather than… rather than necessity."

Morticia leaned forward slightly. "What protective measures?"

The question hung between them like a trap.

"I never told her." The confession escaped before rational thought could intervene. "About the vision. About what I saw—her death, her accusations. I thought if she didn't know—if she maintained distance—"

"You spent weeks trying to prevent a vision of Enid's death without telling her it existed?"

"Distance was the only logical solution," Wednesday said, her voice growing desperate. "Tyler targets people I care about. If Enid believed I didn't care, if she stayed away—"

"Wednesday."

Morticia's voice carried a warning, but Wednesday was already spiraling beyond the reach of maternal intervention. The words poured out in a torrent of desperation she'd never permitted herself before.

"I spoke to Grandmama. I asked how to restore my psychic abilities. I've tried everything—touching Enid's belongings, her sweaters, her cosmetics. That ridiculous stuffed unicorn she treats like sacred scripture." Wednesday's hands began to shake violently. "Clutching them like talismans, hoping for visions that would show me how to save her life."

The admission revealed depths of feeling that Wednesday had never voiced, wrapped in the language of necessity but carrying the unmistakable weight of something far more profound.

"I held her things and willed my sight to return," Wednesday continued, her voice lower. "Searched for any fragment of vision that might reveal the path to her death, the moment I could intercept, the choice I could alter."

Her breathing grew more ragged. "But my abilities remain fractured, and she's still walking toward a grave I can see but can't prevent, and now she knows I've been lying to her for weeks about it."

Morticia watched her daughter's careful composure dissolve. The trembling had intensified, Wednesday's usually perfect posture collapsing as panic consumed her defenses.

"I can't—" Wednesday's voice broke before she managed to catch herself. "I can see the outcome but not how to stop it. I can feel Tyler hunting her but can't predict when he'll strike. I sense Judi circling like a vulture but don't know what she's planning." Her dark eyes finally met Morticia's, raw with terror. "I'm failing, and Enid will die because I can't see clearly enough to save her."

The scrape of chair legs against hardwood drew Wednesday's fragmented attention as Morticia rose from her seat. Her mother moved to an antique secretary desk tucked into the cottage's shadows, its dark wood gleaming like polished bone under the lamplight. Wednesday watched as Morticia produced a key and unlocked a drawer that released the musty scent of old secrets.

From within, Morticia withdrew a leather-bound journal, its covers worn smooth by decades of handling. The binding showed stress marks where fingers had gripped too tightly, and the pages had yellowed to the color of old teeth. She'd seen this book before, glimpsed in passing during childhood visits to the family vault.

"Ophelia's vision book," Morticia said softly. "I kept it after her breakdown. Both as a memorial and as a warning."

Morticia settled beside Wednesday on the settee, the journal resting between them like evidence of a crime.

"The illustrations become progressively darker as her mental state deteriorated," Morticia explained, opening to pages near the beginning. "But the early visions... they possessed a terrible beauty."

The page revealed itself gradually. Ophelia's delicate hand had crafted an illustration in sepia ink that seemed to pulse with its own dark life. A raven-haired girl in flowing black garments knelt in a graveyard, cradling the broken form of a pale wolf. Blood matted the creature's silver fur, its limbs twisted at angles that spoke of violence. Ravens circled overhead in perfect spirals while tombstones stretched toward a horizon that disappeared into shadow.

The artistry was exquisite—every feather rendered, every fold of fabric captured with loving detail. But beneath the beauty lay something that made Wednesday's breath stop momentarily.

Her own face stared back from the page, drawn decades before her birth. The girl's features were unmistakably similar to hers—the severe cheekbones, the unforgiving line of her mouth, the particular way grief carved itself into familiar expressions. And the wolf in her arms...

"Enid," Wednesday whispered.

Morticia nodded slowly. "We thought it was about me and Cynthia—my close friend at Nevermore who was a werewolf. When she died in a car accident our sophomore year, we assumed Ophelia's vision had been symbolic. Perhaps representing the general dangers faced by outcasts."

Wednesday's fingers hovered over the illustration, not quite daring to touch ink that had dried before her existence was even a possibility.

"But watching your reaction to Enid's potential death," Morticia continued, "I realize we misinterpreted everything. The vision was never about my generation. It was about yours."

"This was drawn decades ago," Wednesday managed, her words coming in fragments. "Before either of us existed. How—how is that possible?"

This wasn't just another family vision. This was prophecy that had waited decades for the right players to enter the stage.

"Psychic sight doesn't follow linear time," Morticia explained, though her own voice carried undertones of awe and fear. "The most powerful visions transcend generations, connecting souls across decades of separation."

Wednesday stared at the image until the ink seemed to move, the ravens circling faster, the blood growing darker. Her breathing hitched as she traced the careful rendering of her own devastated expression.

"She saw this exact moment," Wednesday whispered. "Enid's death. All of it predetermined, waiting for us to fulfill what Aunt Ophelia witnessed."

If this vision had been accurate enough to capture her face decades before her birth, what hope did she have of altering the outcome?

"What you're experiencing isn't just a broken vision," Morticia said as she closed Ophelia's journal. "It's a psychic block created by your own resistance."

"I'm not resisting. I've been actively pursuing these visions."

"Not the visions, Wednesday. What they reveal about you."

Something shifted in Wednesday's chest. The sensation was alien, unpleasant, and impossible to categorize within her usual understanding of physical responses. But she had been feeling it often lately.

"Your grandmother was right," Morticia continued. "Though it pains me to admit it. Psychic sight requires absolute surrender to what is shown—not just the parts we can bear to witness."

Wednesday stared at the closed journal. "I've never shied away from truth, no matter how grotesque."

"Truth about others, perhaps. But this vision strikes at something you've been fighting much longer than Tyler or Judi Spannegel."

Wednesday's jaw tightened.

"This isn't about…" Wednesday began, but the lie died before completion.

"To see the complete vision," Morticia said, "you must first acknowledge what you're protecting. Not just Enid's life, but what she means to you."

Wednesday's usual armor of sarcasm and deflection failed her completely. Her mouth opened, but no sound emerged.

"I can't," she finally managed.

"You must," Morticia insisted. "For both your sakes. Or you won't have anything left to save."

Wednesday's gaze fixed on a point beyond her mother's shoulder, where flames danced in the hearth with more freedom than she had ever permitted herself.

"What if I can't save her?" Wednesday's voice was barely audible over the crackling flames. "What if all I manage to do is accelerate the prophecy?"

The tremors continued in her hands despite her attempts to still them. The sensation was foreign—unfamiliar muscles contracting without permission, her body betraying commands that had always been obeyed without question.

"I've calculated everything," she continued, her words quickening. "Mapped potential outcomes, created contingencies, even destroyed our friendship to keep her at a safe distance. And still—"

Each breath came faster than the last, her lungs working at cross-purposes with her mind's demand for control.

"Wednesday." Morticia's voice cut through the chaos. "Look at me."

She raised her eyes to meet her mother's gaze, finding not the judgment she'd expected but something else—understanding.

"The thought of losing her feels..." She struggled to articulate the sensation expanding beneath her ribs. "Unsurvivable."

Wednesday's fingers clenched around the fabric of her tattered uniform.

"I pushed her away knowing it would hurt us both." Wednesday's voice cracked slightly before she forced it back into submission. "It was the only logical choice."

"Logic isn't always wisdom," Morticia said softly.

"Enid has never been logical. She's messy and emotional and insists on painting the world in ridiculous colors. She talks to that absurd unicorn when she thinks I'm not listening. She leaves glitter on everything she touches."

Her voice dropped low. "And she sees me—the real me—not as a curiosity or a monster or a problem to solve."

Morticia reached across the distance between them, her cool fingers finding Wednesday's wrist. The contact provided an anchor—something solid in a world that seemed to be dissolving around the edges.

"Your father once fought a duel with a baron who insulted my honor," Morticia said, her voice carrying a thread of fierce pride. "He was outmatched in every way—the baron was a champion swordsman with decades of experience. Yet your father emerged victorious."

"When I asked how he managed such an impossible feat, he said, 'Tish, a man fights differently when he has something worth dying for.'" Morticia's dark eyes held Wednesday's gaze. "Your feelings for Enid aren't weakness, Wednesday. They're your greatest strength."

She had spent weeks trying to outmaneuver fate, but perhaps the answer wasn't in avoiding the prophecy. Perhaps it lay in meeting it head-on.

A sense of clarity formed over her like a familiar coat, the chaotic emotions of the evening transforming into actionable purpose. Wednesday rose from the settee with renewed determination, straightening as her mind catalogued the tasks ahead.

"I need to return to Nevermore," she announced, her voice carrying more of its usual conviction. "I need to speak with Enid. If we're going to locate Tyler before—"

"No."

The single word cut through Wednesday's momentum like a blade. Morticia had risen as well, her full height commanding the room.

"You will not return to the school tonight," Morticia continued, her dark eyes holding Wednesday's with unwavering intensity. "Not while Tyler remains at large in the surrounding area. Not while your judgment remains compromised by emotional upheaval."

Wednesday's jaw tightened. "My judgment is perfectly—"

"You spent the night wandering alone through dark forest after nearly being killed," Morticia interrupted. "You approached my door in a state of barely controlled panic, your uniform torn, your hands trembling. That is not the behavior of someone exercising sound reasoning."

The assessment stung precisely because it contained uncomfortable truth. Wednesday had indeed fled Nevermore without conscious destination, driven by emotions she couldn't process rather than strategic thinking.

"Furthermore," Morticia continued, moving closer with predatory grace, "you cannot approach Enid from a place of desperation and unresolved terror. She deserves honesty, not your emotional wreckage that you've yet to process."

Wednesday opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. Even she knew when to fold.

"The guest room is available," Morticia said, her tone shifting to something softer but no less final. "You'll sleep here tonight, where I can ensure your safety. Tomorrow morning, after you've processed everything we've discussed, you'll return to Nevermore and tell Enid the complete truth."

"And if she refuses to forgive me?"

"Then you'll know you tried."

The simple honesty of that response settled something restless in Wednesday's chest. Not every outcome could be controlled or calculated. Sometimes courage meant stepping into uncertainty without guarantees.

Wednesday nodded slowly, accepting both the wisdom and the maternal protection being offered. Tomorrow would bring the most terrifying confrontation of her life—but tonight, she would gather strength in the safety of the Rotwood Cottage.

Sheriff Santiago's eyes burned from staring at fluorescent-lit paperwork, the incident reports from Pilgrim World Fair scattered across her desk like pieces of a puzzle she couldn't solve. Coffee had gone cold hours ago, leaving a bitter film on her tongue that matched her mood. The station's overhead lights buzzed with persistence, casting harsh shadows across photographs of splintered carnival booths and blood-darkened asphalt.

She rubbed her temples, trying to massage away the headache building behind her eyes. Each witness statement told the same story from a different angle: screaming crowds, flying debris, a monster tearing through the fairgrounds with inhuman fury. All because Wednesday Addams had decided to play bait again.

Seventeen civilian injuries, she noted, scanning the medical reports. Three broken bones from crowd stampedes, multiple lacerations from flying carnival debris, and God knows how many trauma cases that'll need therapy for months.

The property damage assessment ran to six figures—destroyed booths, ruined equipment, a Ferris wheel that would never turn again. All of it preventable if a sixteen-year-old girl hadn't decided she could handle a supernatural predator better than trained law enforcement.

Her jaw clenched as she flipped through crime scene photos. Tyler's claw marks scored deep gouges in the wooden platforms where he'd torn through vendor stalls. Blood spatter patterns told their own story of violence barely contained by Wednesday's intervention.

Leaning back in her chair, Santiago sighed as the metal joints creaked under her weight. Jericho's police force wasn't equipped for this. They had protocols for domestic disputes and traffic violations, not Hyde attacks and psychic teenagers who treated murder investigations like puzzles to solve.

The phone's shrill ring cut through the station's quiet hum.

"Sheriff's Department," Santiago answered, straightening in her chair.

"Sheriff, it's Martinez. We've got a triggered alarm at Jericho Corner Market on Elm Street. Silent alarm went off about ten minutes ago."

Her pulse quickened. The Corner Market had been closed for weeks—the family that owned it couldn't compete with the chain stores on the highway. Empty building, quiet neighborhood, perfect place for something wounded to hide.

"Any visual confirmation?" she asked, already reaching for her duty belt.

"Negative. Building's been dark since the Hendersons moved their business out last month. Could be a malfunction, but..."

"But the timing's suspicious." Santiago clipped her radio to her belt, adrenaline sharpening her focus. "I'm en route. Call in all available units."

"All of them?"

"Every officer we can spare." She grabbed her keys, remembering the inhuman strength and speed Tyler had displayed at the carnival. "And contact County—see if they can spare any backup units. We're not taking chances with this one."

With keys in hand, Santiago headed for the door, her mind already calculating approaches. If Tyler was holed up in that store, injured and desperate, this might be their only chance to corner him when he was vulnerable. But cornered predators were often the most dangerous of all.

The Corner Market's parking lot looked like a crime scene before they'd even confirmed there was a crime. Eight squad cars formed a semicircle around the dark building, their emergency lights casting alternating reds and blues across the empty storefront. Santiago counted heads as her officers took positions—Martinez at the northeast corner, Ryken covering the rear exit, everybody else spread in a loose perimeter that would catch anything trying to bolt.

The broken window near the front door caught her flashlight beam. Clean edges, controlled break. Santiago frowned, crouching to examine the glass scatter pattern. When Tyler hit something, he didn't leave neat little entry points—he left wreckage. This looked more like someone who knew how to break glass quietly.

"Careful entry," she radioed, drawing her service weapon. "Something's not tracking right here."

The door swung open under Martinez's shoulder, revealing aisles of shadow and silence. Their flashlights carved through the darkness, illuminating overturned shelves and scattered merchandise. But as they advanced deeper into the store, confusion spiraled into certainty that they weren't chasing what they'd expected.

A trail of empty food packaging wound through the aisles like breadcrumbs. Torn bread bags, crushed cracker boxes, scattered crumbs creating an obvious path toward the back of the store. No predator left signs this sloppy—not even Tyler in full Hyde mode. This spoke of desperation, of someone operating on pure hunger rather than hunting instinct.

"Sheriff," Martinez whispered, gesturing at a demolished cereal display. "Whatever this is, it's been here a while. This stuff's been picked clean."

Santiago nodded, following the food trail past the checkout counter toward a narrow hallway lined with faded employee notices. Health department certificates hung askew on their pushpins, relics of when this place had been a functioning business instead of an apparent shelter for the desperate.

The trail led to a storage room door at the building's rear. Santiago positioned her officers with hand signals—Martinez and Ryken flanking, weapons ready but not aggressive. Whatever was behind this door, it wasn't Tyler. The evidence pointed to someone scavenging for survival, not stalking for sport.

Santiago performed the silent countdown on her fingers. One. Her weapon trained on the entrance but not quite steady—something about this felt wrong for a tactical breach. Two. Her finger resting on the trigger guard rather than the trigger itself. Three.

The door burst open.

A woman huddled in the corner like a wounded animal, clutching half a sleeve of crackers against her chest. Hospital gown torn and stained with dirt, hair hanging in matted tangles around a face that belonged in a medical textbook on malnutrition. Her eyes went wide as the flashlights hit her, and she pressed herself further into the corner as if she could disappear between the storage boxes.

Santiago immediately lowered her weapon, signaling for the others to follow suit.

"Ma'am," she said, holstering her pistol and taking a careful step forward. "You're safe now. We're not going to hurt you."

The woman's eyes darted between their faces, searching for signs of deception. Everything about her screamed long-term institutional abuse—the hollow cheeks, the brittle-looking skin, the particular exhaustion that came from sustained neglect. Her movements were jerky and uncertain, like someone who'd forgotten how to exist around other people.

Crouching down to appear less intimidating, Santiago watched as the woman flinched but didn't bolt.

"Can you tell me your name?" Santiago kept her voice gentle, observing the woman's face carefully. The simple question seemed to cause actual physical difficulty—her brow furrowed with concentration, as if accessing basic information required tremendous effort.

After several long seconds, the woman's lips parted slightly.

"O..." The single letter emerged as barely more than a whisper, rusty and unused. But she looked directly at Santiago for the first time, and in those eyes Santia saw not just fear and confusion, but desperate hope.

Santiago's radio crackled. "Sheriff, do we need medical response?"

She keyed the mic without looking away from the woman. "Affirmative. Send an ambulance, not a bus. And tell them to approach quietly—we've got someone who's been through trauma."

The woman's attention fixed on Santiago's voice, as if the calm tone was something she hadn't heard in years. She clutched the crackers tighter, protective of what might be her first real meal in weeks.

"O..." she tried again, the sound a little stronger this time.

Santiago settled into a more comfortable crouch, ignoring the way her knees protested. This was going to take patience, and patience meant time. Time to coax a name, a story, an explanation for why someone in a hospital gown was hiding in an abandoned grocery store instead of Tyler Galpin.

"That's good," Santiago said. "Take your time. We're not going anywhere."

Behind her, she could hear Martinez coordinating with the ambulance crew over the radio, his voice professional but carefully modulated. The woman's eyes tracked the sound, then returned to Santiago's face with something approaching trust.

Whatever had happened to this person, whatever institution had failed her so completely, Santiago was going to find out. Because in her experience, people didn't end up hiding in abandoned buildings unless someone with authority had failed them catastrophically.

The emergency lights continued their rhythmic rotation outside, washing the storage room walls in alternating hues. But for now, Santiago focused entirely on the woman in the corner, waiting for the next fragile syllable that might begin to explain how a simple alarm call had led them to someone who looked like she'd escaped from a nightmare.