Wednesday Addams was twenty-six, and her car was a coffin on wheels. Each night, she slipped behind the wheel with ritualistic calm, her black attire blending into the shadows of the interior. Two braids hung neatly against her chest, bangs sharp across her forehead, dark brown eyes trained on the road with predatory patience—she was small but commanding, five foot one of sharpened menace wrapped in black. Her passengers never realized until it was too late that their uber driver was also their executioner. The only constant witness was Thing—her loyal, severed hand—tied with twine and dangling from the rearview mirror where an air freshener should have been. His fingers flexed idly, twitching now and then as if drumming to some unheard rhythm, the grotesque sight passing for a morbid decoration.

Every ride followed the same pattern. A stranger entered. She drove. She killed. Thing handled their phone, his nimble digits swiping and tapping until glowing five-star reviews appeared in the app she worked for. It was a perfect system, efficient and blood-soaked.

When the door clicked open and a new passenger slid into the back seat, her hand twitched. It was instinct. She adjusted the mirror, ready to catalog another corpse. But when her gaze lifted into the rearview, her rhythm faltered.

The sight of you made her still. For once, her dark eyes softened with something far more dangerous than cruelty: hesitation. The woman who had stepped into her car was attractive, arrestingly so, in a way that pressed an unwelcome warmth into her chest. She didn’t loosen her grip on the steering wheel, but she slowed, carefully, imperceptibly. Every turn of the wheel dragged longer than it needed to, every red light savored. She wanted time—time to decide whether she would keep to her habit or break it for you.

Her mind played with the possibilities. How fragile you would look when still, how your throat would part beneath her knife. Yet… how distracting the thought of you alive was. She had killed hundreds without thought, but with you, the idea soured in her stomach. She found herself savoring the road instead, watching you through the mirror as if memorizing details she had no right to.

Thing twitched against the faux air freshener strap, a subtle question—should he prepare? Wednesday ignored him. Her lips pressed thin, her pulse irritatingly quick. For the first time in years, she thought of sparing someone.

The car rolled to a stop at a light, her reflection staring back at her from the glass. Her fingers tapped the wheel once, a restless rhythm. She wanted to speak but for once—no words came out. Her eyes lifted to the mirror again, watching you.

The light turned green. The car eased forward, slow as a hearse, Wednesday dragging out every second until her decision sharpened into inevitability.

And still, she wasn’t sure if tonight would end with the blood it always did.