The vision broke.
Wednesday stood in the dim stillness of her room, her breathing calm and controlled. On any other night, she would have dismissed the message outright—a trap so obvious only a fool would rush toward it.
And yet, she was considering doing exactly that.
The realization displeased her. Recklessness was not her habit. But the thought lingered anyway, unwelcome and persistent.
Perhaps Enid's influence was to blame. Prolonged exposure to optimism and impulsive bravery had a way of eroding one's better judgment.
Another image surfaced unbidden—Ethan's body, motionless, lying in a pool of blood.
Goody's warning followed immediately. The moment of Crackstone's revival was drawing closer. And if the vision was to be believed, that meant Ethan's death was also nearing.
She turned and left the room, heading straight for Ethan's dorm.
When she opened the door, he wasn't there.
Instead, she saw Thing—sitting on the table, waiting.
"What are you doing here?" Wednesday asked, stopping short.
Thing's fingers moved quickly. I saw the note. I went to find Ethan—to ask for help. He wasn't there.
That was confirmation enough.
"Let's go," she said, certain now of who had taken Enid—and where they would be headed next.
Minutes later, the shoreline of Raven Island emerged from the darkness.
The night air was cold, the water restless. She crossed and stopped before Joseph Crackstone's crypt, its stone face pale under the moonlight.
She knelt briefly, eyes level with Thing. "You wait," she said. "Move only when it matters."
Thing nodded once and vanished into the darkness.
Wednesday rose, facing the crypt alone.
If Crackstone was returning, she would be there to greet him.
She stepped into the crypt.
Stone steps descended into darkness as she entered the underground grave of one of the most infamous psychopaths in history.
Then—
BOOM.
The sound ripped through the chamber, deafening in the enclosed space. A flash of fire.
Then, directly in front of her, a falling body entered her vision.
It came down slowly. Too slowly. Blood lifted into the air as it fell, breaking apart mid-drop, hanging for a fraction of a second before coming down in uneven splashes.
Thud.
The body hit the stone near her foot.
Wednesday froze.
Her eyes dropped.
Blood was already spreading across the floor, dark against the pale stone, pouring from a single, brutal wound in the chest. It widened as it pooled, creeping toward her shoes.
Ethan.
Her vision from earlier slammed into place with brutal precision—same position, same stillness, same impossible silence after the violence.
For a fraction of a second, her mind refused to accept it. Then reality caught up.
The blood kept moving. He didn't.
Wednesday knelt beside him, fingers hovering just above his wrist, not touching yet—as if contact would make it final.
"This was supposed to be preventable," she said quietly.
"So," a voice said lightly, amused, "even you can show that kind of emotion, Addams."
Wednesday lifted her head.
A boy stood a few steps away, with a shotgun still raised. Beside him was Marilyn Thornhill.
"Laurel Gates," Wednesday said, her voice steady now.
The pieces locked into place.
The smell in her room. Belladonna. Strong enough to render someone unconscious. Few people at Nevermore had access to it—fewer still knew how to use it without killing the subject. And fewer still could move through Ophelia Hall without raising suspicion.
A dorm mother could.
A teacher could.
Someone who belonged.
She also had enough knowledge of plant poisons to use them to awaken the Hyde.
"You always were observant," Laurel said. "It's why you were a problem."
Wednesday's eyes flicked once to the body on the floor, then back to Laurel.
"So you hid in plain sight," she said. "Changed your name. Changed your role. Raised a monster and pointed it where you wanted."
"Control requires patience," Laurel replied. "Something you and I both understand."
Wednesday straightened slowly, her face unreadable again. The shock was gone. What remained was focus.
"And Enid?" she asked.
Laurel's smile sharpened as she motioned toward Enid, unconscious on the stone floor.
"I had to," Laurel snapped, her voice cracking with something wild beneath it. "She was the weakness—for both of you. Without her, I never could have made that monster bleed."
Her gaze dropped to the body at Wednesday's feet.
"And now," she went on, almost triumphant, "look at him. Dead."
Her composure finally collapsed into raw hatred.
"That damn outcast," Laurel spat. "Do you know how many times he looked at me like I was nothing? Like he was superior?"
Her hands shook—not from fear, but rage.
"How dare an outcast do that to me," she screamed, "to someone of Crackstone lineage"
Wednesday rose in one sharp motion.
The knife flashed in her hand, her intent clean and precise. She lunged—straight for Laurel's throat.
Something intercepted her.
A massive hand closed around her wrist mid-strike and hurled her aside. She hit the stone hard, the breath knocked from her lungs, the knife skittering away across the floor.
The Hyde stood between them now.
Wednesday pushed herself up just enough to see it clearly—the bulk, the unnatural posture, the thing that had once been human. Her gaze slid past it, to Laurel.
Laurel smiled.
"Don't worry," she said, almost gently. "He won't be alone for long."
She gestured toward the coffin behind her.
"When my ancestor—Joseph Crackstone—returns, you'll join him."
Wednesday's eyes flicked once more to the body on the floor. Then back to Laurel. Then to the Hyde.
For the first time, the possibility surfaced—cold and unwelcome.
That this might be where her story ends.
Fifteen minutes earlier.
Before Ethan's present condition.
*****
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