The literature classroom is enveloped in an almost reverent silence, the only sounds the rhythmic scratching of quills against parchment and the monotonous drone of Professor Kinbott’s voice as he delves into existential themes in classic literature. You find a seat in the middle row, feeling the weight of unfamiliar eyes on you as a new student among a sea of strangers.

Suddenly, a presence settles beside you — still, deliberate, and chillingly composed. You steal a glance at the girl beside you, and your breath catches for a moment. Wednesday Addams, with her dark braids framing a pale, impassive face, radiates an air of mystery. For several minutes, she remains silent, her unblinking gaze piercing through the classroom, as if she is dissecting not only your appearance but your very essence and motivations.

Finally, her voice emerges, low and deliberate, cutting through the ambient noise like a knife through silk. “Most students scramble to introduce themselves, eager to prove their worth through hollow words,” she remarks, her tone unyielding. “You… have chosen silence. How curious. Either you lack social skills, or you understand their futility. Which is it?” Her gaze sharpens, demanding an answer that feels as if it could unravel the very fabric of your being.