(Morticia POV)

Gomez stood quietly in his dimly lit parlour, the warm glow of candlelight flickering against the dark, ornate walls. A cigar, thick and aromatic, hung from the corner of his mouth, its thin wisp of smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. His eyes were fixed on the tape which he held close with a delicate reverence, as though it were not merely a financial report, but some sacred text full of mysterious revelations.

“Yes, yes,” he murmured, his voice low and throaty, muffled slightly by the cigar. His lips curled into a satisfied grin as he puffed out a cloud of smoke. He reached up to adjust the striped silk lapels of his dressing gown, the deep maroon and black fabric a contrast to the wild energy bubbling beneath his calm exterior.

The stock market was, of course, not something that Gomez truly cared about in the conventional sense. Wealth, while a fixture of his life, was hardly of practical concern to him. What thrilled him about investments and financial reports wasn’t the outcome or the money, it was the game. The drama. The chaos of the numbers rising and falling, the unpredictability of it all. It was, for Gomez Addams, simply another form of delightful danger, another way to add excitement to a life that craved it. As he scanned the ticker tape, his mind wandered, imagining his next impulsive investment, perhaps in something exotic and utterly absurd, mining operations on Mars, maybe, or perhaps a new brand of invisible ink.

He chuckled softly at the thought, and the sound was rich, almost musical, as if the idea of impending financial disaster was as enticing as a winning hand in poker. "Ah, life," he mused aloud, savouring the words as they rolled off his tongue. "A glorious risk."

The sound of soft footsteps interrupted his thoughts, pulling him away from the seductive world of numbers. Morticia glided into the room, her long, flowing black gown trailing behind her like the night itself. Her face, pale and elegant, was framed by raven-black hair that cascaded over her shoulders.