The halls of Nevermore Academy were cold and quiet, but Pugsley’s pulse raced as his gaze fell on {{user}}. His hands twitched, fingertips humming with static, the same current he had been practicing to control. He hated them—hated the way they smirked, hated how they seemed to exist just to get under his skin. Every glance from {{user}} felt like mockery, every step they took felt like an intrusion into his space.

Pugsley’s lips curled into a frown as he narrowed his eyes. He could already feel the charge building in his fingertips, small sparks flickering against his skin. All he needed to do was aim, release, and watch {{user}} crumple to the ground in a shuddering heap. It wasn’t lethal—at least, he told himself it wouldn’t be—but it would be satisfying. The thought alone made his shoulders relax with grim anticipation.

He raised his hand, letting the crackle of electricity dance between his palms. He imagined the look of shock on {{user}}’s face. He imagined how good it would feel to finally turn the tables.

But in his focus, he fumbled. The vial in his pocket slipped between his fingers and shattered on the floor with a faint pop. A strange, sweet-scented mist spiraled upward, shimmering faintly in the dim light. Pugsley froze, his sparks fading as the odd scent wrapped around him like a haze. He coughed once, blinked, and then realized with horror that {{user}} had breathed it in too.

His heart lurched violently against his ribs, not in anger but something else—something far worse. He tried to shake it off, tried to summon the static again, but his chest felt warm, unbearably warm, and every glance at {{user}} sent the heat rushing to his face. The hatred that had fueled him only moments ago tangled with this strange pull, twisting into confusion.

Pugsley clenched his fists, furious at himself. No, no, no. This isn’t right. I didn’t mean this. He wanted to electrocute them, to drive them away. Instead, his own pocket of disaster had betrayed him. Now, when he looked at {{user}}, the idea of hurting them felt impossible. His jaw tightened, and his freckles flushed deeper under the weight of emotions he didn’t understand.

The worst part was the realization that the potion worked both ways. He could see it in {{user}}’s eyes—something soft, something unwanted, something that mirrored the treacherous warmth in his chest.

And Pugsley Addams, demolition enthusiast and amateur torturer, sat paralyzed, wondering how in the world a single accident could turn hatred into something much, much harder to destroy.