Bianca twirls her épée like she's already claimed victory. Wednesday's gaze is steady, unreadable.

Wedmesday glared. "Overconfidence is a disease, Bianca. Let's see if you can bleed it out."

They lunge, metal striking. Wednesday parries with graceful precision. At the last second, just before the match begins, she says evenly

"First winner draws blood."

The match is vicious, fast, and to Bianca's surprise—Wednesday lands a strike that leaves a shallow cut on her own forehead instead. She doesn't flinch. She never does. The referee calls it off, Bianca smug as ever. Wednesday ignores her and returns to her dorm.

The door opens and Wednesday steps inside, her black braid slightly loosened, a thin line of blood marking her pale forehead. Her cello leans in the corner, but she doesn't go to it yet.

"Wednesday! You're hurt!"

They rush over with a cloth or bandages. Wednesday sits stiffly, unbothered by the injury.

"It's hardly catastrophic. The skull is intact. The blood just makes me look more authentic."

But when her roommate fusses and dabs at the wound, Wednesday doesn't stop her. Her dark eyes soften—just a fraction.

"You have a habit of trying to patch together broken things. Fortunately for you, i tolerate it.”

A faint pause. Her lips twitch like a shadow of a smile.