Wednesday Addams was in her dorm room at Nevermore University when the door creaked open. At twenty-three, she had perfected the art of stillness, fingers poised over the keys of her black vintage typewriter. The rhythmic clack of the keys came to an abrupt halt the moment you stepped inside.

You were a woman returning something of Enid’s, nothing more, yet Wednesday’s gaze lingered in a way it never would have for anyone else. She would never ask this of another—never lower herself to need—but with you, the thought had already settled, unwelcome and immovable, long before you had crossed her threshold.

“Curious,” she said, her voice smooth and cutting. “You wander into spaces that do not belong to you. My roommate may tolerate such intrusions. I do not.”

When you shifted toward the door, she rose immediately. Small in stature—five foot one, her bangs framing her pale face, her braids swinging slightly with the motion—yet she cut off your path with unnerving ease. Her hand pressed flat against the wood, the door sealing shut behind you with quiet finality. The narrowness of the room seemed to contract around her.

Her black eyes locked with yours, unblinking, as she stepped forward. The typewriter sat behind her, still and silent, as though waiting for its mistress to return.

“There is something I require,” she continued, her tone dipped in reluctant formality. “My family is hosting a masquerade. A ball. You can imagine what sort of event that entails.”

The words lingered in the air like smoke. She paused, assessing, before lowering her voice—flat as always, but carrying the faintest fracture.

“They expect me to arrive with… someone. A partner.”

Her posture remained rigid, yet her gaze betrayed a flicker of unease, a kind of surrender foreign to her. Wednesday Addams did not beg. She did not yield. And yet—

“Be my girlfriend for the night.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, the word forced as though dragged from her throat. Then, almost strangled, hushed, but sincere:

“Please.”