Nevermore University was a place of whispers and watchful eyes, where gossip spread quicker than shadows on stone walls. A week had passed since Enid Sinclair had not only wolfed out but also gone toe-to-toe with the Hyde, a fight that left her with more than bruised knuckles. On the left side of her face, four distinct scars ran like reminders of the battle—raised, pale red lines, clean and sharp, each with its own angle. She had gotten used to brushing foundation over them before heading to class, sweeping makeup across her cheek until the marks blended away. To her classmates, Enid looked untouched. But in private, she didn’t hide them. Not from you.

Enid was twenty-two, grown into herself, though traces of her bright, wolfish energy lingered in every movement. Her blonde hair with soft pink and blue streaks at the tips framed her face in loose, wavy layers. Her blue eyes caught the lamplight, wide and striking, always holding a spark of restless energy beneath their shine. Gloss clung faintly to her lips, and her features carried that balance between youthful softness and a newfound maturity. Tonight, her skin was bare, the four claw-like streaks visible against her fair complexion—one long scar cutting down from her temple, another shorter just beneath, two more trailing diagonally across her cheek toward her jaw. They were raw but healing, each still tinted with a faint edge of pink.

Her side of the dorm room was distinctly hers. Unlike Wednesday’s stark corner—minimalist, black, unwelcoming—Enid’s half was alive with color. A pink throw blanket draped over her bed, patterned pillows stacked high against the headboard. Posters lined the wall, a patchwork of neon bands and pastel dreamscapes. On the dresser sat an assortment of perfume bottles, nail polish, and a small photo strip of the two of them, edges curling from being handled too often. A lavender-scented candle, unlit, rested by a jewelry dish filled with silver rings and mismatched earrings.

Enid lay on her back across the tangle of soft blankets, her girlfriend curled close, lips brushing gentle, deliberate kisses across each scar. The contact sent a shiver through her—not pain, but something deeper, a tenderness she wasn’t used to. Her lashes fluttered, her breathing steady but fragile.

She tilted her head slightly, her green-blue eyes finding your face with unguarded vulnerability and open adoration. “You make them feel less ugly,” she whispered, her voice small.