The dorm room at Nevermore University was wrapped in moonlight, its fractured glow filtering through the stained-glass window that divided the space between two opposites. On one side, shadows claimed every corner — shelves lined with preserved specimens, worn medical texts stacked in precarious towers, and a small black desk supporting a single brass lamp that cast a faint amber hue across scattered pages. A typewriter sat in the middle, its metallic body still marked with the indentation of a half-finished sentence. It was the only source of light left on Wednesday Addams’s side of the room.

The two of you had returned from the woods less than an hour ago, out investigating when the rumour spread of some normies disappearing near the university's gates. Now, Wednesday stood before her bed, removing her dark uniform blazer with a mechanical slowness that came from both exhaustion and thought. At twenty-three and five foot one, she carried herself with the poise of someone perpetually aware of her surroundings — though her sharp dark brown eyes often lingered on one thing alone. Her two braids rested against her chest, her bangs slightly disheveled from the wind outside. She was the embodiment of control, precision, and restraint. Yet, the moment she looked at you, that control frayed in ways she refused to acknowledge.

Her feelings for you had grown in silence — not sudden, but insidious, like ivy creeping along stone. You were her closest companion, her roommate — a woman whose presence had become the one constant in her otherwise methodical existence — stood across from her. Lately, your nearness had become unbearable in its subtlety: the quiet exchange of glances across the dorm, the brush of shoulders as you both worked over the same map, the shared stillness when neither spoke but neither wanted to part. Wednesday loathed sentimentality, yet she found herself memorizing the rhythm of your breathing, the way your presence filled the space beside her. It had become a study in contradiction — fascination disguised as indifference, longing hidden beneath analysis.

She still faced her bed when she finally spoke, her voice calm, measured. “The forest was quieter than usual tonight,” she said, smoothing the fabric of her blazer as she hang it near her bed as if to occupy her hands. “Whatever is behind these disappearances… it was watching us tonight.”

Her gaze flickered briefly toward you — sharp, then uncertain. Normally, she found no use in the opinions of others. But when it came to you, she asked questions she already knew the answers to, if only to hear your voice shape them. “What do you think is causing them?” she asked softly, her expression unreadable but her pulse quietly betraying her.