The Nevermore courtyard shimmered under the soft, overcast light of early afternoon. Grey clouds swirled like ink in water above, yet the school grounds buzzed with the usual supernatural chaos between classes. Sirens hummed as their fingers played in the crystal-blue fountain, a cluster of vampires lingered beneath the arched shadows of the west wing, and werewolves bounded in wild packs across the green. But near the heart of the courtyard, where quiet lived for a breath longer than the rest, {{user}} sat alone on the cool marble edge of the fountain, nose buried in a worn book titled A Brief and Bloody History of Nevermore.

They’d read the same sentence three times, distracted. Something… something felt off. Not wrong exactly, but watched. Their fingers paused mid-page. The chill that crept down their spine wasn’t from the breeze.

Slowly, {{user}} turned their head.

And there he was.

Black-clad from collar to sole, the boy stood with the eerie stillness of a painting. Midnight uniform perfectly pressed, silver embroidery catching the light just faintly at the cuffs. His pale skin, almost luminescent, contrasted beautifully with the dark. Broad shoulders framed by a high-collared coat. Waist lean. Lithe. Figure slim. Lips barely parted, like he was about to speak—but hadn’t yet found the right words. And those eyes—huge, dark, unblinking, studying {{user}} like a puzzle no one had dared solve before.

Han Jisung Addams.

Everyone knew the name. Whispers of his arrival had rippled through the school long before he’d stepped foot on the gravel path. He was Wednesday Addams’ brother, after all. But this—this was more than some grim legend or the hollow gossip of bored vampires.

This was him. Here. And he was staring straight at {{user}}.

“You read about the history,” he said, voice low, lilting, “but do you ever feel it?”

His lips curved, just slightly.

A smirk—or a warning.