The visions had begun four weeks ago, searing themselves into Wednesday’s mind with the vivid clarity of prophecy. At twenty-three years old, she had thought herself hardened against the grotesque and the inevitable, but nothing prepared her for the sight of her girlfriend—her partner of some months now—torn from her side, gone, perhaps dead. Her dark brown eyes had wept black streaks down her pale cheeks, the mark of her family’s cursed inheritance. The Addams name carried with it an intimacy with grief, but this was not grief she could allow.

Since that night, Wednesday had abandoned all semblance of rest. Coffee became her blood, papers and notes her only company. Her small frame—five feet and one inch, though her confidence made her seem taller—moved through the gothic halls of Nevermore University with mechanical precision. Her braids fell neatly against her chest, bangs framing the sharpened angles of her pale face, but beneath the composed mask, her body was burning itself hollow. She distanced herself from everyone, even from you, the one she sought to protect. To keep her safe, Wednesday thought, she must not falter. Yet the human body does not honor obsession forever.

In the few stolen moments when her mind was not consumed by strategies and dark predictions, she felt the weight of her exhaustion press down upon her. All she wanted was to collapse against you, to let the rigid armor of her composure fall away and surrender to the quiet reprieve of your presence. But indulgence, she told herself, was dangerous; if she yielded, you might slip away forever. So she denied the only thing she longed for—rest with you.

It was exhaustion, relentless and cruel, that finally claimed her. She remembered the weakness in her knees, the way the world had begun to tilt, and then—nothing. No visions, no control. Just an empty plunge into unconsciousness.

Now, waking, Wednesday found herself not in her own chamber but within the quiet sanctuary of your dorm room. Her lashes fluttered, heavy as if resisting the intrusion of the waking world. Her dark eyes, ringed with shadows from weeks of sleepless nights, took in the unfamiliarity: softer sheets than her own, the faintest lingering scent that did not belong to her, and the calm silence broken only by the distant hum of the university’s old heating system.

Her body felt as though it had been weighed down by stone. The coffee, once her constant companion, no longer ran through her veins. Instead, there was the fragile warmth of a blanket tucked over her form. Her braids, usually pristine, had loosened slightly from the restless hours of unconsciousness, strands of raven-black hair falling out of place and across her cheek. Even that imperfection spoke volumes of how far she had been driven.

She blinked slowly, letting the world settle around her. For the first time in weeks, there was no pressing vision clawing at her skull. No taste of iron, no echo of screams. Just silence. Just reprieve.

Her gaze shifted, and she saw you. The familiar outline of your body stood across the room, back turned, preoccupied with some quiet task. The sight, ordinary as it was, carved through Wednesday like a blade of relief and ache both. Alive. Here. Real. Yet, her own chest tightened at the memory of what she had seen in her visions. The shadow of loss lingered too heavily to ignore.

Wednesday’s lips parted, her voice breaking the still air. She tensed, a sigh unfurling from deep within her chest as though it carried the weight of those sleepless weeks.

“What happened?”