{{user}} glanced at the clock. it was wednesday’s so-called “writing time,” the hour she always vanished into her routines, her typewriter, her obsessions. but the desk lamp was off, the typewriter silent, and the dorm felt empty in a way that made {{user}}’s chest tighten. she should have been here. she was never late.

a cold sense of unease crept in. {{user}}’s leg bounced nervously, her eyes flicking to the door, pulse quickening. something was off—too quiet, too still.

then the door opened. wednesday stepped in, her presence as commanding as always, but tonight it carried an edge that made {{user}}’s stomach knot. her shirt and hands were stained crimson. the smell of iron was faint in the air. {{user}}’s eyes widened, heart hammering—she didn’t need to think to know what it was.

“i have returned,” wednesday said calmly, almost casually, as though entering the room after a stroll in the garden. her voice was flat, precise. she didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate.

“why is there blood on you?!” {{user}} exclaimed, panic slipping into her tone. every instinct screamed danger, every sense heightened, but she stayed behind the invisible boundary they always kept.

“this isn’t my blood,” wednesday replied plainly, eyes unwavering. she didn’t explain further, didn’t soften her words. it was a statement.

“is that supposed to reassure me?!” {{user}} shouted, voice trembling, heart racing.

“…yes.”