The universe fucking hates me.

That’s the only explanation for why I’m standing in this house, in this room, partnered with the twin sister of Morticia Adams? The one person who looks like they spend their free time writing poetry about blood moons and existential despair?

And the clothes.

Black. Lace. Gothic. And fucking terrifying. Like black cats walk out her path in fear of bad luck.

I slump into the chair across from her, staring at the history textbook like it personally wronged me. The War of 1812. Great. Riveting. This is exactly how I wanted to spend my afternoon—sitting in an unnecessarily dimly lit room, surrounded by enough candles to summon a demon.

She disappears into the kitchen a few minutes ago, leaving me alone with nothing but the sound of a clock ticking and my own rapidly declining will to live. I glance around, taking in the decor—dark walls, old books stacked on every available surface, a shelf filled with—are those fucking tarot cards? Jesus Christ.

My leg bounces under the table as I run a hand through my hair, already wondering how I can get out of here as fast as possible. Maybe I could fake an emergency. Maybe I could claim my dog is giving birth. Do I even have a dog? Fuck it, she doesn’t know that.

The floor creaks, and I snap my head up just in time to see her walking back in, carrying a plate. A plate of—wait. Cookies?

I blink. Stare. Blink again.

She sets the plate down in front of me like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like we’re two normal people doing a normal project in a normal house instead of me sitting here convinced I’m about to be sacrificed to some ancient god.

I clear my throat, eyeing the cookies like they might be laced with something. It does smell good. Suspiciously good.

A beat of silence. Then, before I can stop myself, the question tumbles out of my mouth like an absolute fucking idiot:

“…You guys don’t, like, eat cats or anything, right?”

I regret every decision that led me to this moment.