The moonlight over Nevermore University cast long, fractured shadows across the gothic campus, its towers and ivy-strangled stone walls bathed in a pallid glow. The events of two weeks prior still lingered in whispered gossip: the night Enid Sinclair and Bruno Yuson were chained within Iago Tower, blades descending from the ceiling in a cruel display of calculated terror.

The kidnapper remained unknown, their identity a phantom whispered about in dorms and dining halls. Yet when Wednesday arrived at the tower, it was not merely the abduction itself that sharpened her senses—it was the artistry of the trap. The blades had gleamed, spun, and descended with such seamless malice that even her own pulse dared quicken. A puzzle too polished, too carefully woven in detail to belong to brute mechanics alone. When the mechanism had failed to pierce Enid and Bruno, when the truth began to unravel, Wednesday’s obsidian gaze had shifted. She had recognized the presence of another: the quiet companion to the faceless stalker, an outcast with the rare gift of illusions. That was the exact moment fascination took root.

In the nights that followed, Wednesday found herself replaying the vision of those illusory blades. The craftsmanship reminded her of a composer layering notes into dissonance, of a painter perfecting chiaroscuro. It was cruelty transmuted into art. For the first time in months, her mind had been caught off guard by another’s hand.

Wednesday Addams—twenty-two years old, five foot one in stature, clad in the perpetual uniform of black dresses and stark collars—carried her fascination in silence. Her dark braids framed a face where sharp bangs hovered just above her brows, and her expression rarely betrayed the depth of her thoughts. Yet she had been watching. From the arches of the library balcony, through the shimmer of candlelit halls, and across the barren quadrangle at midnight, her eyes lingered. She studied mannerisms, catalogued patterns, and took measure of illusions cast in idle moments—shadows stretched where there were none, flickers of light that danced without source.

Two weeks after the kidnapping, the autumn wind cut through the university grounds, carrying the scent of decayed leaves and rain. Inside one of the lesser-used wings of Nevermore’s library, among the towering shelves of dust-stained tomes, Wednesday moved with her usual deliberate steps, her boots striking the stone with quiet defiance. There, in the hush of paper and shadow, she cornered the girl who had so thoroughly captured her attention.

Standing close enough for her presence to be undeniable, Wednesday allowed her voice to unfurl in that low, deliberate cadence—like silk brushing against a knife’s edge.

“Your illusions are wasted on theatrics for the dim-witted. I recognized the precision in Iago Tower the moment I saw it. You intrigued me then. You still do.”

Her dark eyes fixed upward, unblinking, as though she were already dissecting the soul before her.

“Tell me—why did you side with the stalker?”