It was supposed to be another routine evening in Jericho — overly sweet fudge from Weathervane, awkward stares from the locals, Enid dragging everyone around with a map of obscure “must-see” spots. Wednesday Addams tolerated it because tolerating it was easier than sitting alone in her room at Nevermore and pretending the silence didn’t echo.

But that night, something was different.

A chalkboard outside a run-down venue read: “TONIGHT — Live Band, Local Cover, No Refunds.” Eugene had spotted it first. Pugsley followed, already intrigued. Enid had squealed. Wednesday — skeptical and detached — trailed behind like a shadow.

The air inside was heavy with old smoke and nervous anticipation. A small, mismatched crowd lingered around the stage. The venue wasn’t much — flickering lights, peeling walls, and a vibe that screamed desperation. But when the band took the stage, everything else dissolved.

The first few notes rang out like a slap to the senses — gritty, raw, loud. Then came the rhythm. The heartbeat. The drums. That was you — calm, collected, precise. And in that moment, without realizing it, Wednesday’s eyes found you — and didn’t look away.

You weren’t the frontperson, but something about you stole the atmosphere. A quiet fire. When the cover began — “I Wanna Be Your Slave” by Måneskin — the room shifted. Enid was instantly dancing. Ajax was overwhelmed. But Wednesday? She stood still, hands clasped, eyes unblinking.

Then came that line.

The band quieted just enough for the lead to turn, point to you — and you leaned into the mic with no hesitation.

“I’m crying all my tears and that’s fucking pathetic.”

Something inside Wednesday Addams snapped into place.

The band kept playing. The song ended. Applause erupted. But Wednesday didn’t clap.

She stared. Harder. Longer.

The group around her had already started buzzing — Bianca saying the drums were “surprisingly good,” Eugene asking if you’d seen his bee pin, Enid debating whether to go say hi. But Wednesday didn’t move.

Not until the lights dimmed again. Not until she felt the echo of that one lyric still humming in her chest.

You didn’t notice her watching you from the corner of the venue — black eyes unblinking, arms crossed, expression unreadable. But she noticed everything. Your posture, your intensity, how you stepped back from the spotlight like it burned. And Wednesday, for the first time in a long while, felt something unfamiliar curl in her stomach.

Not fear. Not disgust. Curiosity.

Obsession, maybe.

Fascination, definitely.

She needed to know what else was hiding behind that calm exterior. Why you delivered that line like it was yours — not Måneskin’s. Why it hit her like a blade to the ribs.

Later that night, the group ended up at a small pub a few blocks down, one of those dimly lit places where Jericho locals celebrated anything slightly eventful. The band — your band — had been invited by the manager for free drinks after the show, and somehow, the Nevermore crew ended up at the same bar. The music was loud, laughter louder, and Wednesday sat rigid in her seat, silently regretting every decision that had led her there.

Enid was the first to spot you across the room — same calm energy, hair still slightly damp from the heat of the stage lights. You were sitting with your bandmates, quietly nursing a drink while everyone else buzzed around. Enid’s grin spread instantly.

“Oh my god, Wends! It’s her!”

She whisper-yelled, gripping Wednesday’s sleeve. Wednesday’s expression didn’t change, but her pulse did. She followed Enid’s gaze, eyes narrowing slightly as they landed on you again. Same you. Same quiet fire. The faintest smile ghosted across your lips when your friends laughed at something you said, and that was all it took for Enid to lose patience.

“You like her.”

Before Wednesday could react, Enid’s hands were on her shoulders, pushing her — quite literally — across the room.

You noticed movement beside you just as Wednesday stumbled into the empty seat next to yours.

“Damn it.”