Chapter Text
The crack that echoed through the emptied rooms of the sketchy warehouse sent even the most careless rodents scrambling for the deepest hollows in pipes and walls. They were accustomed to all kinds of screams, but this had been an announcement like no other before. A warning. A declaration of how dangerous it was to be seen and to better stay hidden
It was bone breaking under pressure.
It was terror made sound.
The room where it had originated, one of only two still occupied (at least by the living), smelled not merely foul but obscene. It reeked of rust, oil, and damp concrete that had long claimed the space and that was now being overridden by iron from blood spilled, sweat wrung from bodies, and agony made tangible. It was a choking stench that clung to the lungs with every breath.
Water dripped somewhere in the shadows, slow and rhythmic, almost as if trying to harmonize with the red liquid falling from broken bodies.
At the edges of the room, twenty men stood perfectly still.
They were bruised and bloodied, chest heaving and breathing hard, but upright. None of them dared to sit. Not in the presence of their boss. They didn’t even lean against the walls; such familiarity would have been an insult. They also didn’t make a move to interfere. Doing so now would be more than a breach of protocol; it would be an act of blasphemy.
Even without the uniformity of black suits, the difference between them and the bodies strewn across the floor, or the few unlucky enough to still be conscious while restrained, was unmistakable. Regardless, every pair of eyes was fixed on the center of the warehouse. Most with reverence, a few with concern, and some with fear, but all unblinking to not miss a second of what was unfolding.
That was where Wednesday Addams stood.
All dressed in black and imposing, despite her current appearance.
Her bangs, darkened and separated by sweat, clung to her forehead. More than a few loose strands of hair had escaped her usually immaculate braids, sticking instead to her temples and to the tense line of her jaw. Her jacket hung open, torn at the shoulder, stained with grime and blood that wasn’t all hers.
It was no wonder, really. She had led the assault on the rival gang’s lair herself, making sure to take the first blows before the rest of her subordinates barged right behind her, and it was her divine right to end it.
She rolled her neck once, slow and composed, more out of habit than any need to release tension.
She wanted the tension.
She thrived on it.
Opposite her stood the last rival still on his feet.
He hadn’t been reckless enough to charge first when the assault began, nor clever enough to escape like the few who’d managed it. That he had taken several hard hits from her crew disappointed Wednesday; now she would never know how strong he truly was. She was facing a diminished version.
The Bear.
That was what his companions had called him.
He was massive, built like a wall and towering over her by two feet, with shoulders wide enough to blot out the flickering light behind him.
His fists were clenched, knuckles swollen and red. Blood streamed from his chest, where he had taken a stab, soaking into the already filthy tank top clinging to his torso.
Wednesday almost scoffed.
A bear? More like a bull, if you asked her.
He breathed like one, too, loud and furious, as if trapped in a rodeo arena. His eyes stayed locked on her, disbelief giving way to rage, waiting for a red cape to flail in front of him and charge.
Wednesday exhaled softly through her nose.
Alas, he was inferior in every way, but she could still enjoy herself. With a deft shrug, she slipped the jacket from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor behind her. It was a shame, really, as the tailored piece was one of her favorites, but it was beyond repair now. It landed with a soft, final sound.
A verdict.
She pushed her sleeves up next. The black fabric of her shirt creased neatly at her elbows, revealing lean and sinewy forearms, corded muscle under pale skin.
The Bear might have scoffed at the thinness of her arms if he hadn’t witnessed, from the front row, what they were capable of. How many of his peers had already fallen victim to the strength, precision, and brutality that they carried.
They bore a tattooed promise of pain.
And they delivered, if the hard swallows of the miscreants bound and watching were any indication.
The Bear roared, a desperate sound born from losing his mind to the silence of the room, and charged.
His fist came fast and heavy, aimed to crush.
Wednesday stepped into the arc of the blow instead of away from it, absorbing the impact against her shoulder with a dull thud that would have shattered a normal person’s clavicle. But she wasn’t a normal person.
She made no sound.
Her lips pressed into a thin, furious line as her elbow drove into his ribs before the man could pull back. One hit after another. The third strike cracked against his sternum, forcing the air from his lungs in a wet, choking gasp.
He staggered back, stunned, but she denied him recovery.
She moved like gravity. Unavoidable. Like the impact was destined rather than attempted.
A low kick took his knee out from under him, forcing him into an unwilling crouch.
Scrambling to keep his balance, he reached for her, but she caught his wrist, twisted it, and stepped through the motion until his arm bent wrong. It had been a swift movement, but no resistance was found to her strength, and a bone popped on his extremity.
His scream tore through the silence he’d been so desperate to escape and ricocheted off the walls, crashing back into him until he reeled, dizzy with it.
He swung blindly with his free hand, catching her at the temple, and her head snapped to the side. White flared across her vision.
For a heartbeat, she stood utterly still. Her jaw tightened, the muscles in her neck cording like iron cables. Then she turned back to him slowly, eyes dark and focused, alive with something severe and unsettling.
Blood trickled from the cut on her scalp, carving a path over her eye, down her cheek, and past her mouth, before dripping from her jaw. She looked almost impressed.
With the cold indifference of someone pulling the wrong book from a shelf, Wednesday seized the back of his head with both hands and drove her forehead into his nose.
The crunch was unmistakable, and blood sprayed warm across her face, streaking both cheeks equally, her lips, and her bangs. It couldn’t have been intentional, but it seemed like it, a silent message that read, ‘You want to paint me?' Let me show you the most efficient way.’
She didn’t blink as the blood ran. Didn’t flinch as it soaked into her skin.
If the men currently bound and watching had harbored even the faintest hope of mercy, it fled through the warehouse’s filthy windows with Wednesday’s next actions.
A punch to the throat.
Another to the kidney.
She drove her hand into the hollow at his neck and forced him backward, slamming him into a rusted support beam. The metal rattled violently as his body struck it.
He sagged, gasping, but scratching for whatever stamina remained, shoved himself off the beam with a hoarse yell and charged again. Desperation carried him more than muscle. His hook caught her across the shoulder, brutal enough to drive her sideways.
Wednesday’s boots skidded across the concrete.
She stopped herself with one hand against the floor and crouched low for a heartbeat, then sprang upward, shoulder-first, driving into his center of mass. They went down hard, the impact rattling her teeth. He tried to pin her beneath his weight, desperation creeping into his movements.
Wednesday wedged her forearm beneath his chin and twisted, cutting off his air.
His breathing turned panicked, and he bucked weakly, but Wednesday simply adjusted her balance with ruthless calm and drove her knee up into his jaw. She waited patiently until his resistance faltered, then rose and stepped away.
He staggered upright after her, swaying now, eyes unfocused. Blood dripped steadily from his nose, his mouth, and his brow.
“Stay down,” someone from his gang muttered under their breath.
Wednesday didn’t turn, but her eyes gleamed after hearing what must have been a vicious punch from one of her people to quiet down such rude interruption.
The Bear lunged again, desperation making him sloppy. Sloppier.
Wednesday could have ended it right there, but he tried to grab her hair, so she punished him for it.
Her knee slammed into his thigh hard enough that she felt muscle tear beneath the impact. As he cried out, she took advantage of the open mouth and drove her fist into his upper lip, snapping his head back viciously.
Blood sprayed once more.
Tears mixing with red clouded his vision, and he took an aimless swing, but Wednesday caught his wrist easily. She pushed back at the exact point in his palm and broke three fingers at once, making him collapse to his knees with a hollow thud.
The cry was no longer loud but raspy and pathetic. A wild animal dying in agony.
“You should have stayed down,” Wednesday said quietly, looking down at him from beneath her lashes.
She drove her fist into the hollow beneath his ear then. His eyes rolled back and he collapsed in a heap at her feet.
She released his wrist with visible distaste.
The room fell dead silent once again.
Wednesday stood over him, blood dripping from her knuckles, breathing slow and even. Sweat slicked her skin. Her forearms shone faintly under the flickering lights, muscles still taut. No one in the room doubted how easily she could do it all again.
A rhythmic, measured thud of boot heels against concrete approaching from the hallway outside dispersed the silence that had accumulated as static.
The doors opened moments later, and a pair of hazel-green eyes scanned the room quietly, stopping at the center of it.
“Boss,” the girl said, the disappointment at having missed what she had barely concealed, “we swept the lower levels and neutralized the remaining hostiles, but…”
She gestured behind her, and two men out of the group that had walked in behind her shoved a girl forward.
The girl stumbled, barely catching herself just before she hit the floor, unkempt blonde hair falling in a curtain around her face. Her hands were bound in front of her, something Wednesday noted without comment, saving the thought for later. Her knees struck the concrete hard enough to make her flinch, but she stayed down, breathing shallow, eyes wide and frantic as they adjusted to a room she already knew but was now filled with people she didn’t, looming over the bodies of people she did, and then to Wednesday.
“She was hiding near the central heating room, behind a boiler,” the green-eyed girl continued, amusement threading her voice. “Didn’t put up much resistance, despite…”
The words stopped, but by now Wednesday had already detected what was unsaid, and the question she had saved for later dissolved, as the reason for the girl’s hands bound at the front was clear enough for her.
An outcast.
Wednesday pulled a black handkerchief from her pocket and dragged it lazily over her own eyes first, then her forehead, the blood not so much cleaned but more like smeared away with an absentminded swipe.
She inspected the red, notorious even against the black fabric, with the fleeting thought that she couldn’t actually differentiate her blood from her opponent's. Deciding that losing her jacket was already concession enough, she folded the handkerchief and pocketed it. She leaned back against the same rusted support beam that still bore the shadow of where she’d slammed the Bear into it. The metal, wisely, did not rattle this time.
With her free hand, she accepted the cigarette offered wordlessly by one of her men. She didn’t look away from the girl on the floor as it was lit.
The flame flared and mirrored in her eyes for a moment, but that was as alive as they looked, interest curling away with the smoke of the cigarette.
“Do you think,” Wednesday asked calmly, voice low and even, “you can get anything valuable out of her?”
The question was addressed to the green-eyed girl, but her gaze never left the blonde.
The girl followed her gaze, unimpressed.
“We already got everything we needed from the others, and any possible gap, I can fill it with these ones,” she replied, tilting her head toward the trembling men bound nearby before returning her attention to the blonde. “This one’s excess. Unless you decide that you want more than information from her, we can discard her.”
The words landed heavily and with so many possible meanings.
The blonde’s breath hitched and her shoulders began to shake, subtle at first, then uncontrollable. Tears gathered, blurring her vision as she shook her head violently.
“No… no, please.” Baby blue eyes shone with panic and pleading as the words tumbled over each other. “I wasn’t… I am not part of them, I swear. I didn’t do anything. Whatever it is that they did, I wasn’t part of it, please. They… they took me. I was a prisoner here. I didn’t choose to be here, please…”
Wednesday took a slow drag from her cigarette.
She exhaled through her nose, smoke drifting lazily into the space between them, this time lingering in the air instead of dissipating. Her eyes narrowed slightly with focus and mild interest.
“Kidnapped, you say?” Wednesday worded softly, tasting the word “explain.”
“I… I was taken eight months ago,” the blonde explained, sobbing now, panic breaking through her voice, “or more like sold? Exchanged? I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and with the wrong people. I tried to run several times. To escape, but they were too many. They kept me downstairs. I cooked, and they made me stitch them up when hurt. That’s it. I wasn’t part of them. I didn’t hurt anyone, I swear… I just cleaned…”
The green-eyed girl scoffed, glancing around the room.
“You did a lousy job.”
The interruption silenced the blonde, but her gaze never wavered from Wednesday.
She lunged forward suddenly, desperation overtaking fear, crossing the small distance on her knees. Her bound hands brushed the fabric of Wednesday’s trouser leg as she clutched for it.
“Please,” she begged once more, “please don’t… please don’t kill me.”
The green-eyed girl reacted instantly.
She struck the blonde girl across the face with the back of her hand, the crack loud in the still room. The girl cried out and collapsed back onto her knees, head snapping to the side.
“How dare you try to touch her…” the green-eyed girl snarled, stepping forward again, hand already lifting for another blow.
Wednesday lowered her cigarette.
"Stop.”
The word was quiet, exhaled with a thin stream of smoke, but it was absolute.
The green-eyed girl froze mid-motion, arm suspended in the air. Her jaw clenched, as she had taken the offense personally, and retribution was required according to her books, but she stepped back immediately, eyes dropping to the floor.
“Yes, boss.”
The blonde stared up at Wednesday, stunned, cheek burning and breath coming in broken, uneven gasps. It hadn’t been the hardest blow she’d ever taken, but tears slid down her face all the same, unbidden.
Wednesday pushed herself off the beam and took a single step forward. Then another. Her boots made no sound against the concrete as she stopped directly in front of the girl and crouched to her level.
Up close, the excess of blood on her shirt and dripping from the cut on her temple almost made the blonde throw up, as the strong scent of iron was overwhelming. Somehow, she clung instead to the smell of smoke and something else beneath. Something like rain-soaked soil.
Wednesday’s eyes, dark and unblinking, searched her face with unnerving precision, but her expression gave nothing away about what she was thinking.
“Look at me,” Wednesday said.
The blonde hesitated only a moment before complying.
Their eyes locked, and Wednesday tilted her head slightly, as if adjusting her angle of view would alter the outcome of her assessment.
“You are shaking,” she observed.
The blonde nodded frantically.
“I don’t want to die.”
“Most people don’t,” Wednesday replied apathetically, “but many lie better than this.”
She reached out to lift the girl’s chin with two fingers, forcing her to hold still. The blonde’s breath caught once more, but the shaking stopped instantly.
“You didn’t plead until Divina mentioned disposal,” Wednesday continued, and the blonde finally learned the name of the girl who so eagerly had suggested wiping her existence away. “And yet, when I asked you to explain, you withheld details. Relevant details, I can tell. You begged for your life but still clung to what could have saved you. Interesting priorities.”
Wednesday withdrew her hand and took another drag of the cigarette. She straightened, eyes drifting to the ceiling as she exhaled, watching the smoke thin and vanish.
“Untie her,” she said finally.
Divina’s head snapped up.
“Boss…”
Wednesday turned just enough to look at her with unfazed eyes, and Divina stopped speaking at once.
The ropes were cut then, and the blonde sagged forward, relief and shock crashing through her all at once. She barely caught herself before hitting the floor again.
Wednesday watched her for a long moment, her attention lingering on the girl’s filthy, worn clothes.
“Clean her up,” she said at last, eyes drifting to the ash falling from her nearly finished cigarette. “Her stench is offensive. Find somewhere she can wash. Get her something not revolting to wear. Then bring her back to me. I will take care of here.”
She glanced at the men nearby, already shaking under her gaze, and felt a flicker of weariness and exhaustion. This was usually the part she delegated to Divina.
Divina blinked, selecting her words carefully. She knew better than to ask more than one question.
“Alive?”
Wednesday took one final drag before dropping the cigarette and crushing it beneath her boot.
“For now,” she considered, rolling her neck as she gestured to be followed and moved toward the doors Divina had entered through.
The men who had arrived with Divina helped secure the others, and together they followed Wednesday, dragging the bound men who protested weakly, still hoping for a fragment of the mercy the blonde girl had been granted.
Divina glanced at the girl on the floor, who wisely kept her eyes down.
She sighed.
She was missing all the fun today.
But oh, well. She hadn’t failed a single order in the last half decade, and she wasn’t about to start now.
“You’re delusional if you think I’m carrying you like a baby and drawing you a bubble bath,” she snapped at the blonde, who remained crouched, gaze fixed on the concrete.
Trembling, the girl finally stood, but she kept her eyes lowered, her shaking escalating again.
Divina rolled her eyes and scoffed.
“Move,” she ordered, giving her a shove with just a bit more force than strictly necessary.
Sensing that testing Divina’s patience would be a fatal mistake, the girl obliged. She headed toward the deplorable wash area her captors had used when the grime became unbearable even for them, a place she herself had avoided at all costs after her safety had been threatened there more than once.
Her cheeks burned as survival instincts forced her forward.
She washed as quickly as she could, every movement performed under the constant scrutiny of hazel-green eyes that tracked her without shame. When the water finally ran clear, doing its best despite the lack of real soap, she shut it off and remained standing, dripping, waiting for instructions.
Divina’s expression stayed unimpressed as she assessed her. Once the water stopped, she reached into a heavy nylon duffel bag. After a brief, proprietary hesitation over her go-bag, she tossed a bundle of dark fabric at the girl.
It was a set of heavy-duty training gear made from a material the blonde couldn't believe was real. The charcoal, muscle-fit compression shirt felt as soft as high-thread-count cotton, yet the visible weave of the fibers suggested a level of tech and durability found nowhere near a clearance rack. The tapered black joggers felt unexpectedly heavy in her hands; the reinforced stitching at the knees and the silent stretch of the fabric confirmed that for these people, even ‘casual,’ was serious business.
“For today,” Divina said flatly. “If it pleases you.”
There was no humor in her voice, and with nothing to dry herself with and no undergarments, the girl dressed quickly to avoid being slapped again. Despite still being damp, the fabric breathed easily, molding to her without clinging unpleasantly. In all fairness, this had been as clean and presentable as she had been in months.
This time Divina walked ahead, which surprised the girl, but she stayed silent. After all, how would she know where to go? They were intruders here. Visitors in someone else’s domain. Still, Divina moved through the halls with unerring certainty, like she followed an internal compass. At the first distant scream, growing louder with every step, the girl had no doubt that the compass was real.
As soon as they crossed one last set of metal doors, the blonde had to inhale sharply through her mouth to keep from vomiting.
Lined along the hall like sentinels stood the men in suits she had seen before.
But at their feet?
The bodies of the tied-up rivals that seemed no longer to be struggling to get free. They wouldn’t struggle any other day in their life.
Divina didn’t spare them a glance. She reached a smaller door and didn’t bother knocking; she just opened it and gestured for the blonde to walk in first, but it was clearly not an act of gentlemanliness.
Inside, the girl’s blue eyes were drawn immediately to the figure in black.
She had one hand braced against a desk, the other barely touching the forehead of what might have been the last surviving member of the rival crew. Her thumb rested there lightly, almost gently, but the man looked destroyed. His face was twisted in despair, as if the contact were burning him from the inside out.
After a few seconds, she was witness to the mob boss, now in a clean set of clothes, imposing and pristine as if it hadn’t been covered in dust, blood, and sweat just twenty minutes ago, removing her finger from the man’s temple and stumbling briefly, like the act itself had cost her something. Whether it was the touch or the absence of it that weakened her, the girl couldn’t tell.
One of the suited men that had been standing near the desk without intervening was quick on his feet to grip the tortured man by the collar, though the pathetic figure was so bruised and unsteady that he could hardly attempt anything.
“Take him away,” Wednesday said without looking up, her voice steady as she worked to regain her composure. “I’m done with him.”
The suited man didn’t hesitate, dragging the prisoner, soon to be freed, toward the door.
Whatever life remained in him surged back all at once. He twisted suddenly, panic cracking through a face already ruined by pain.
“Wait… wait,” he blurted, eyes frantic as they searched for Wednesday. “I can be useful. I’ll do whatever you need, boss. Anything. No matter how dirty. I’m your man.”
Divina cracked her knuckles and sneered quietly.
The blonde girl tensed, instinctively shrinking, until she realized the sound hadn’t been directed at her. Still, Divina shoved her aside, hard enough that she stumbled and collapsed onto a nearby couch. She pointed at her without looking.
“Stay,” Divina ordered quietly.
The blonde didn’t dare to move a muscle.
Divina turned back to the man and drove her knee into his stomach with brutal precision. He folded instantly, air tearing from his lungs in a wet gasp.
“You don’t call her boss,” Divina hissed, fist buried in his hair as she yanked his head back. “You don’t speak to her unless she asks you something.”
He dropped to his knees, too weak to stay upright, coughing, but still stupid enough to try lifting his gaze toward Wednesday.
His answer was Divina’s fist.
It landed on his mouth, nose, and eyes. Punch after punch, the sound going from dull to gooey after the fifth impact.
The blonde recoiled against the couch, hands flying to her mouth.
“Please… please stop.” She couldn’t help herself, horror breaking through her fear. “You are going to kill him… please!”
A sigh was heard between each punch.
“Divina,” Wednesday didn’t raise her voice, but that was all that it took.
Divina froze mid-swing, fist suspended in the air. Her chest rose sharply as she stepped back, eyes dropping to the floor.
Wednesday turned her head slowly, first to the man, whose face was now more unconscious than aware. Then to the blonde behind her.
Black scrutinized the crying blue eyes, assessing and weighing something invisible.
“Friend of yours?” Wednesday asked, her tone indifferent, as though the answer held little consequence.
The blonde’s gaze struggled to break apart from dark eyes and flicked to the man currently kneeling on the floor.
She didn’t know his name but had exchanged a few words here and there with him. The man in his forties hadn’t been exactly kind with her, but he hadn’t been cruel as many of his peers had been. He’d never hit her or threatened her life. Once, he even barged in shouting at her to wake up, since she was expected to begin fulfilling her duties and she had overslept. That had been kindness among them, as her punishment for being late would have been worse than simple yelling.
Her throat closed, not having the words to explain that no, he wasn’t her friend, but if his life could be spared… She looked back at Wednesday, eyes shining, pleading without words.
Wednesday crossed the distance from where she was leaning at the desk and made a small gesture with her fingers.
Divina hauled the man upright without regard for his shaking legs, forcing him to stand. He swayed, barely conscious, held in place only by her grip.
Wednesday reached into her jacket and pulled a gun that even at distance seemed high-caliber, though the blonde girl wouldn’t really know. She didn’t know much about weapons besides what she had seen them do in the wrong hands. This one specifically seemed even more deathly, if possible.
Wednesday placed it carefully into the man’s trembling hands, folding his fingers around the grip with almost gentle patience.
“Kill her,” she said calmly, tilting her head slightly toward the blonde. “Do that, and I’ll spare your life and give you a rank. You will be part of my crew and have protection for life.”
Blue eyes widened as she felt her entire body freeze, the room narrowing to the sound of her own heartbeat.
Before she could speak, before she could even breathe, the man fumbled with the gun, fingers clumsy with desperation. Without wasting time, he snapped the lock free, lifted the weapon, and pulled the trigger, relying on years of experience to compensate for his ruined vision.
The click that followed seemed to carry a mocking, almost derisive, sound. It hadn’t been loud but hollow.
Silence followed, and the man’s confusion grew as he pressed the trigger again and again, only to be faced with the same empty echo. He stared at the gun, and his brain struggled to comprehend.
Divina’s lips parted in something between anticipation and satisfaction.
The blonde blinked, realization crashing into her all at once, making her ears ring.
The gun had been empty.
Wednesday retrieved it from hands that offered no resistance and turned away. She crossed the room and sat beside the blonde on the couch, unceremoniously and close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. She exhaled slowly, then lifted a hand to her face, covering her eyes for a brief moment, as though exhaustion had finally grown too heavy to ignore.
When she straightened, her posture snapped back into precision, as if tiredness were a concept she’d never learned. Her gaze lifted to the man, cold and detached, then shifted to the expectant hazel-green eyes nearby and softened for the barest second, as if the man’s stare had been an insult and Divina’s presence a balm against it.
“Take care of the trash for me, would you?” Wednesday said.
Divina didn’t waste a breath.
There was nothing she wouldn’t do for Wednesday, especially when it involved retribution for what she considered a mortal sin. ‘You do not lay your eyes on a god without paying tribute for it.’
She seized the man and dragged him toward the door.
His screams erupted only once he realized what his actions had cost him and that begging hadn’t been an option. If previously he was going to be dealt with quickly and mercifully, now he knew. He knew that was no longer an option. The door slammed shut behind him, but the sounds of pain carried down the corridor long after.
Wednesday sighed again, softer this time.
“She can’t help it,” she said aloud, her tone almost indulgent. “She enjoys herself.”
The blonde wasn’t sure if the explanation was meant for her, because the mob boss didn’t look away from the door as she spoke
With a quiet gesture, Wednesday dismissed the other three suited men that still remained in the room, who exited at once without questioning her instructions.
She then made a show of it.
Unhurriedly, she reached down and flipped the gun open with dexterous hands and practiced ease, sliding a full magazine into place. The metallic click was soft but unmistakable, and this time there was no doubt that the steel tool was ready to bite. A deathly puncture.
She didn’t raise it, though; she simply rested it on her knee and then proceeded to lean back against the couch, head tilting, one arm draping along the backrest while the other came up to cover her eyes again. Her breathing evened out after a few seconds.
The blonde stared from the corner of her eye, heart hammering so loudly she was certain it could be heard outside the room. The gun was loaded, and it was right there. Close enough that if she leaned just a little. If she were brave enough to reach for it.
But it had to be a test, wouldn’t it?
Just like the man had been tested.
Of course it was a test.
The mob boss had never stopped watching her, and the blonde could tell there was nothing that escaped from her attention. She was surely pretending now, waiting for her to fail the test, and the second she dared to reach for the weapon, a strong hand would snap out, catching her wrist and condemning her to her final breathing.
But if she didn’t try.
Then this was it. Another cage.
Not like she wasn’t used to. She barely remembered a time in her life when she hadn’t been trapped, even when she’d mistaken it for freedom. But here, there would be another set of rules written in blood. Worse than before, perhaps, because this boss, plus what seemed to be a very loyal and ruthless lieutenant, and every man who followed them, had already proven what they did to people who begged.
She swallowed hard at the scream that came from somewhere down the corridor, cutting off her dissociation abruptly.
There were no footsteps that followed, so she knew this was it.
She moved slowly, painfully so, and inch by inch, she turned her torso, careful not to jostle the couch. Her fingers crept toward the mob boss’ left knee, trembling and trying to keep her shallow breathing under control.
Then she noticed it.
The girl in black’s chest rose and fell in perfect rhythm.
She, who had a master’s of spending the nights keeping watch over the people that surrounded her, alert against an ambush, could know clearly. The realization hit her like ice water.
The girl was sleeping.
Really sleeping.
She stopped, shock rooting her in place as she stared at her openly now. First at the hand covering her face. The knuckles were not only raw, but they were also completely split, skin torn most likely from striking bone and teeth without mercy.
Then blue eyes flicked at the almost sculpted line of her jaw. She had previously looked at her in panic, but she could swear this was the first time the jaw wasn’t tense to the point of almost breaking.
Her attention drifted to her mouth, soft, unnaturally so, lips parted just slightly and breathing so secretively it could be an illusion. And then…
Freckles?
The absurdity nearly knocked the breath from her lungs, a laugh catching painfully in her throat.
Fucking freckles, faintly scattered across pale skin that had been spattered with blood less than an hour ago, now marble-smooth, almost divine in its stillness. Almost ethereal.
This person, this terrifying, ruthless presence, had left a loaded gun within her reach and fallen asleep.
Something in the blonde’s expression shifted, and it wasn’t exactly caused by fear.
Before she could think better of it, her hand lifted, but the gun was no longer the goal. The cut along the mafia boss’s temple and cheek looked painful, raw against skin that, beneath it, seemed impossibly soft. As though it belonged to a different plane of existence altogether. The urge to touch her came sudden and overwhelming. Need, not want.
Her thumbs were aching, urging her to let them be gentle. To wipe away the blood that still oozed slowly before drying in darkened trails. To smooth those black bangs from her face. To see the unnerving, soulless dark eyes now hidden behind closed lids and a hand shielding half her face.
A shiver traced her spine in anticipation.
Confusion followed, tangled with guilt.
Realistically, this was the same woman who, minutes ago, had ordered a man’s execution without hesitation. The woman who, with her crew, had erased nearly fifty men from the world for a crime the blonde still wasn’t sure had even been committed. She was probably a monster.
But she looked so vulnerable.
Maybe this is how the Stockholm syndrome begins.
Her fingers hovered, so close… then a different shiver made her stop. Her sense of alert and self-preservation tingled like it hadn’t even when she’d been staring down the barrel of a gun.
Slowly, she turned her head.
Beautiful, terrifying, hazel-green eyes met hers from the doorway
Divina stood there with her arms crossed. How long she’d been watching, the blonde had no idea. She must have arrived without a sound on purpose, silently offering her the chance to sign her own death warrant. Her gaze was narrowed with judgment and something close to a warning and a dare. She was daring her to cross the line.
The blonde’s hand snapped back as if the air around the mob boss’s face had turned electric.
Divina pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room silently. She spared the blonde a final scoff before kneeling in front of the couch. The shift in her demeanor was immediate. Her posture changed entirely from murderous to quiet and reverent. She leaned in without touching.
“Boss,” Divina whispered, so softly the blonde wondered how it could possibly work.
Still, Divina had to wait only a couple of seconds before Wednesday exhaled, long and slow, and let her hand fall from her face. Her eyes opened immediately, though they lacked their earlier focus, bloodshot at the corners. Divina swallowed, a brief frown of concern flickering across her face before she masked it away. Concern would not be welcomed.
A rub of the eyes and one more sigh seemed to reset her. When Wednesday looked up again, her gaze was equally void of exhaustion and of emotion.
“All taken care of?” she asked, her voice smooth, almost bored.
“Of course,” Divina replied instantly, pride edging her tone.
Wednesday didn’t thank her, but her gaze softened just briefly enough to be noticeable.
“Very well.” She nodded.
Then she shifted, as if only now remembering the extra weight on the couch beside her.
Her eyes slid to the blonde, and the softness vanished, annoyance taking place instead.
“Why are you still here?”
The number of times the blonde had felt shock in the last two hours alone made her wonder, distantly and almost humorously, if this was to be her new permanent state.
‘Why are you still here?’
The words echoed, unhelpful and teasing. Was it literal or rhetorical? Because she had wondered herself whether God had put her on this earth simply to suffer. Why was she still here? To be entertaining for sadists and abusers?
‘Why are you still here?’
Where was she supposed to have gone?
Had she been expected to try to escape? Was that the test? To step over thirty armed men and a furious Divina, holding a gun loaded with… what, ten bullets? Twelve? She didn’t even know how many bullets a gun carried, let alone how to fire it. Every shot would have gone wide into walls and into the floor, and she would have paid for it three times over. For daring to hurt them. For daring to try to survive.
Or was that the point? To run. To have her life taken from behind as she fled down a corridor, chased like prey in some grotesque game of mouse and cat.
Cats…
Questions piled on top of each other until her head felt light. The weight of the powerful gazes fixed on her didn’t help.
Then her body reminded her of something more basic.
She hadn’t eaten that day.
That morning, she’d chosen sleep instead. She clung to an extra half hour as if it might somehow repay the weeks of exhaustion she’d been accruing. As if it might save her from insanity. Maybe it would have, since on a good day, she managed three or four hours of sleep at most, caught between the permanent alertness of her body and the nightmares that refused to loosen their grip. Then the sky had opened, and angry angels had descended in suits, with guns and deathly fists, just before she’d had a chance to eat right on time after her labor for the day was done.
And now… now the gang that had held her was gone, erased in fire and violence by this new, terrifying force.
The room tilted again, the edges of her vision wavering as she began to spiral.
What was going to be of her?
‘Why are you still here?’
Was this God’s doing? A reassignment. Change of management. New captor, but with bloodier chains.
Her stomach twisted violently, acid biting as a hot wave of nausea rolled through her.
Had it been twenty-four hours? She thought so. Over a full day without food. Over two hours with fear flooding her system. The adrenaline had finally burned itself out, abandoning her without ceremony and leaving her body on the verge of collapse. There was no longer any negotiation between survival instincts and basic needs.
She swallowed hard, trying to steady herself, dizzy even while seated. The room spun faster, as if she were turning on purpose.
Wednesday watched her with an unreadable expression, head slightly tilted, dark eyes scanning every cell of her body. Divina, still kneeling near Wednesday’s knee, near the loaded gun, glanced at her with thinly veiled disdain, emerald eyes assessing, already having passed judgment.
Unworthy.
The blonde tried to focus. She truly tried to stay upright.
Her eyes fluttered instead. The edges of the room blurred, distant sounds of drills suddenly feeling so akin to the hammering inside her skull.
Her last coherent thought (was it, though?) was strangely embarrassing, almost amusing in its softness.
Divina’s eyes were pretty. Stunning, even, she thought hazily.
But hers…
Her gaze drifted to the mob boss and to the darkness of her eyes. To the pull of that soulless stare, impossible to look away from.
Hers were prettier.
The thought slipped sideways, unfinished, and the blonde slumped forward as consciousness abandoned her before she fully hit the couch. Before she could register the strong hands that caught her.
Cold came after that.
She imagined herself floating, carried by the current of the Acheron River. It couldn’t be the Styx. Her grandfather had once told her that hatred was hot, but affliction was cold to the bone, so this had to be it. Charon, ferryman of souls, dragging her through the river because she’d had nothing to pay the toll.
It was invasive.
The cold, that is.
It wrapped around her and seemed to radiate from within at the same time. Was she really dead?
Maybe this was what corpses felt like.
Then her ears, still drifting between awareness and wonder, caught something. It was something small. A tick.
No, not a tick. It was mechanical.
It came again while she was still trying to place it.
A click. That’s what it was.
It cut through the fog just enough to give her something solid to focus on. She could sense Charon fading away, though the cold remained. Still, she clung to the sound, letting it anchor her while her body stubbornly, or maybe just tiredly, refused to wake all the way.
The cold then softened and became comfortable, if such a thing were possible. It was there, but it no longer pressed her down. Instead, it reminded her she was still there. She and the cold were.
Then the click distracted her again and gave her mind something solid to grasp. She counted without meaning to.
Exactly every twenty-seven seconds. That fact, the tangible fact that the sound was repeating itself at exactly every twenty-seven seconds, finally startled her, curiosity pushing through the last layer of sleep.
Her eyelids felt impossibly heavy, but now she knew… now half-conscious, she knew with a certainty that settled unpleasantly in her stomach that she was alive. Alive but not free. And that meant whatever situation she’d wake up to would still be waiting for her and that she couldn’t delay it forever.
Probably that girl… what was her name? Ah, yes… Divina.
Divina was probably lurking nearby, and the clicks she heard were the knife she was sharpening, waiting to sink it into her the moment she stirred.
But ultimately, while she wasn’t lucky, she wasn't a coward either, just very, very stupid, and so, with a small, shaky breath, the blonde opened her eyes.
Okay, she wasn’t dead; that much, at least, she could confirm.
She knew, because there was no way that, in death, she would be surrounded by this amount of luxury.
She was lying on a black leather couch so expensive it probably cost more than the house she’d grown up in and certainly more than everything she’d owned since. She was still wearing the muscle-fit compression shirt and joggers she’d been given earlier, but now there were socks on her feet. Given how cold the room was, they were likely the only reason she hadn’t lost circulation.
She was surprised not to find Divina’s judgmental stare, but instead, she found a quiet, high ceiling with Oxford gray walls and almost no light. Next to the leather piece of furniture, there was a glass table, pristine to another standard, jarringly so, considering the last thing she remembered was her ex-captor’s grimy office.
And on the other side of it…
Calmness enveloped her for reasons she couldn’t explain when her eyes met a deep, dark, unreadable gaze.
The woman... well, she was actually a girl; now that she wasn’t covered in blood, it was clear. Despite her brutality, the mob boss couldn't be much older than herself.
She suddenly became aware of another glaring fact. She still didn’t know her name.
What had her literature teacher said once?
‘A rose by any other name…’
Still, it would be nice to have one. The blonde was fairly certain that if she ever dared to call her boss, Divina would personally ensure she stopped existing. Divina was fiercely loyal. Perhaps more than that.
But Divina wasn’t here.
Only the mob boss.
She sat in an armchair looking as expensive as the large one she herself was lying on, her posture relaxed to the point of indifference. One elbow rested on the chair’s arm, her face propped against her palm, dark eyes fixed on the blonde with an intensity that made her stomach flip. There was no annoyance or anger in that stare, and there wasn’t curiosity either, just watchfulness.
Like someone staring at the only channel available after midnight because insomnia had trapped them there, resigned to the most boring show imaginable.
The click was heard again.
The blonde’s eyes shifted instinctively, searching for the sound.
The mob boss’ left hand hung loosely at her side, holding the gun. That gun… the same one the blonde had watched being loaded before everything went dark. The one she should have used to secure her freedom or die trying.
Twenty-seven seconds passed again.
Click.
A pale finger flicked the safety on.
The realization sent a chill through the blonde that had nothing to do with the cold. It wasn’t fear, that much she knew.
She felt many things lately. Fear just wasn’t one of the relevant ones anymore.
“Are you going to kill me?” she blurted out quietly.
The question startled her almost as much as it seemed to amuse the mob boss.
Silence stretched as the girl tapped a finger against her cheek.
Twenty-seven seconds.
Click.
“I’m still considering it,” she said at last.
This time, the safety clicked into place and stayed there. She slid the gun back into the holster at her ribcage with an easy motion.
The blonde nodded, though she wasn’t sure why she did that either.
Wednesday sighed, then snapped her fingers.
Less than ten seconds later, a door at the back of the room, one of two on opposite sides that the blonde hadn’t even noticed, much to the shame of her survival instincts, opened.
A wave of relief washed over her when she saw that it wasn’t Divina.
The woman who entered moved quietly. She leaned down toward the mob boss, received instructions in a voice too low for the blonde to hear, then left without a word.
“Why?” the blonde asked suddenly, the word escaping before she could stop it.
One dark eyebrow lifted, but the mob boss didn’t answer.
“Why are you still considering it?” the blonde clarified, forcing herself to keep her voice steady.
Understanding flickered briefly across Wednesday’s eyes, then vanished as quickly as it had come.
“I haven’t decided whether you’d be a waste of a bullet,” she said at last, indulging the explanation with coldness.
The words sounded like an insult, and yet, the blonde couldn’t explain it; she didn’t feel insulted.
Something deep inside, something fragile, shifted. As ridiculous as it was… as terrifying as everything about this situation remained, her mind twisted the statement into something else entirely.
It truly was ridiculous. She had pretended before. Before being captured. Before, when she had been told time after time what a waste of air she was. But now, this wasn’t pretend. For the first time in her life, these dismissive, cold, unapologetically rude words made her feel… not disposable. They made her feel not worthless. At least not yet.
Before she could speak again, before she could ask her to elaborate, to explain what she saw that might be worth sparing, or before she risked irritating the mob boss with too many questions, the door opened once more.
The same woman returned, this time carrying a silver tray.
She set it down on the glass table without difficulty and began arranging what appeared to be the fanciest meal the blonde had ever witnessed. Two elegant ceramic plates, one placed before the boss, the other before her. Crystal or glass goblets, she wouldn’t know, filled with dark red wine and silverware aligned perfectly.
“Do you need help?” the woman asked.
She had stepped closer without the blonde noticing, too distracted by the neatly folded cloth napkins to react in time. The woman extended her hand, not waiting for an answer before offering it anyway.
Only then did the blonde realize that she was still lying down.
She was feeling very confused.
But she was also very much hungry, and the gun was gone for the time being. Those facts, in that order, were enough to make a decision for her.
She took the offered hand and pushed herself upright, moving carefully and trying to keep what little dignity she had left intact. Graceful might’ve been a stretch, but she managed not to look like a tortoise trying to roll over her shell.
The girl helping her smiled, which might have been generous to say.
Her lips curved pleasantly enough so, but just for one second, pointed fangs caught the light, and crimson eyes flashed behind dark sunglasses that had slipped down her nose before she hastily nudged them back up, her expression faintly apologetic, as if she hadn’t meant to reveal quite that much. As if she didn’t want to scare her.
The blonde blinked.
Vampire.
Right, of course, that tracked. Of course this mob boss would have a freaking vampire as her personal buttler.
Still, the girl had been kind and gentle with the offer, and her eyes, red or not, looked honestly friendly. And she wasn’t about to be rude, especially not here, so she returned the smile and finally settled fully upright on the couch.
With a wink, the vampire turned away, but before leaving, she leaned down toward the mob boss once more.
Wednesday hadn’t moved, nor had she looked away from the blonde or their interaction, and she certainly hadn’t spoken. Yet the vampire paused nonetheless, waiting.
Something electric crawled up the blonde’s spine as the mob boss’s stare deepened and the silence stretched, bending the air between them. Finally, Wednesday turned her head just slightly and murmured something so softly the blonde wondered if she'd imagined it.
The vampire frowned briefly, then nodded without question and left immediately, closing the door behind her without a backward glance.
Only then did Wednedsay move.
She repositioned herself with effortless grace, unfolding the cloth napkin with one hand and settling it over her knees. Picking up her knife and fork, she cut into the meat on her plate and began eating in small, measured bites, posture as composed as it could be. After a few forkfuls, she paused, the utensil hovering halfway to her mouth.
“I do not enjoy being observed while eating.”
Heat rushed to the blonde’s face.
She hadn't even realized she'd been staring, completely zoned out, eyes fixed on Wednesday as though watching something fascinating, regardless of how dangerous it was.
And she was certainly dangerous.
“S…sorry,” the blonde mumbled, snapping her gaze down to her own plate.
Oh.
Ohhhhhh.
That was easily the most rewarding thing she'd done in… well… as long as she could remember.
The food looked incredible.
She wasted no time digging in. The seared cut of meat practically collapsed beneath her knife, tender enough to cut without effort. The mashed potatoes were impossibly fluffy, drenched in a savory gravy that carried just enough spice to make her hum in appreciation.
She ate in silence, alternating between her plate and her cup.
Even the vegetables were absurdly good. Fried broccoli and asparagus, crisp and perfectly seasoned. If this truly was her last meal, she couldn't even complain. She nearly made an embarrassingly pleased sound before catching herself.
Halfway through lifting her cup to wash down another bite, she realized it was empty, and she stared at it for a second, disappointment blooming immediately.
She wasn't particularly fond of alcohol and had little experience with it, but the wine was surprisingly fruity and far better than anything she'd expected.
A hand entered her peripheral vision.
The mob boss had leaned forward, and without a word, she took the blonde’s glass and refilled it.
Heat returned to her cheeks.
“You… you don’t have to do that.”
One dark eyebrow lifted, gaze distant and unreadable below it, but she finished pouring anyway. She leaned back, refilled her own glass, and settled into the couch once more. For the briefest moment, a blink-and-you-miss-it instant, exhaustion softened her features as she took a slow sip.
The blonde noticed that the mob boss's plate was empty, somehow managing to finish even through those tiny bites, compared to the ungraceful mouthfuls that she herself had taken, and an urge rose in her chest to offer her some of her own food.
She didn’t understand that feeling, but she definitely understood the instinct that made her stop before doing such a thing. That would be a mistake.
She didn’t know why; she just knew.
She focused back on her plate instead.
“What is your name?”
The question came so suddenly and so quietly that the blonde nearly dropped her fork.
Wednesday’s voice retained its cold rasp, but her eyes held the faintest trace of interest.
For reasons the blonde absolutely refused to examine, the sound of it sent a strange, twisting flutter through her stomach that had nothing to do with hunger.
She blinked a couple of times to process that she still had to answer the question. She knew that her silence wouldn’t be exactly well taken.
.
.
.
“Enid… Enid!”
The breathless voice rang bright and familiar through the trees.
A blonde child burst through the woods like a torpedo, mischievous laughter spilling from her in uncontrollable peals.
Twigs snapped beneath her sneakers as she ran without direction, but also without fear, arms spread wide to feel the air rushing past. As though she were seconds away from crossing the finish line of some grand race only she could see.
“Enid!” the voice called again, half a scold, closer now.
A shadow lunged after the child.
She squealed as strong arms scooped her up before she could dart away again.
“Do you want to kill me, Enid Sinclair?” the woman exclaimed, breathless with laughter as she hoisted the girl over her shoulder as though she weighed nothing at all.
The little girl giggled harder, face flushed, entirely unrepentant.
The woman, still young, barely into her thirties, shook her head fondly and turned back toward the house visible through the trees, carrying the child like an oversized sack of potatoes.
Every few steps, she reached up to tickle her beneath the ribs, and even upside down, the girl knew she wasn’t in trouble.
.
.
.
“I’m fucking tired of your nonsense, Enid,” a harsh, cold, and detached sneer was directed at a blonde girl standing in the middle of the room.
The same blonde girl stood in front of the same woman, only taller now.
Perfectly still, shoulders tense and eyes fixed on the floor. Her blonde hair now dipped into soft pink and blue at the ends. A bruise bloomed darkly on her cheeks, just beginning to form.
The woman paced in front of her.
There were a few gray hairs now and deep lines carved between her brows. Permanent grooves worn there by disappointment. By frustration. By having a twelve-year-old werewolf daughter who should have transformed twelve moons ago.
A daughter who hadn't.
There was no warmth or laughter in her voice this time.
“How many moons are you going to embarrass this family?” she said harshly, but it hadn’t been a question. The blonde knew better than to answer.
No answer was the best option to save her from another slap.
Her eyes burned anyway. Tears gathered but didn’t fall. She’d learned that much as well. Crying only made it worse.
“Well?” the woman pressed.
The blonde sensed another strike gathering in the air, so she nodded, trying to prevent it. She was tired.
The woman exhaled, tension easing slightly from her shoulders. That had seemed to be the right answer for once.
“I knew you’d come to your senses.”
.
.
.
“C’mon, Enid,” the encouragement came honestly, “I know you can do it.”
A tall boy with dark hair waited on the other side of a metal fence, speaking softly and without taking a break. The warmth in his eyes and the nervous smile on his face made her believe him.
She gritted her teeth and ignored the angry buzz of electricity as the wire scraped against her skin while she squeezed through the narrow gap they'd cut. The most quiet cry would give them away. To both of them, and she couldn’t have him caught just for her own weakness.
The sting followed her even after she stumbled through the opening and into his arms. He wrapped them around her immediately, and she returned the embrace with desperate force.
“They won’t make us suffer anymore, Enid,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss against her temple.
She cried a bit against her chest but smiled a bit too.
As they disappeared into the night, him refusing to look back, she paused briefly and looked back once more at the looming sign behind her.
For the last time, she wished the lycanthropy dormant in her veins could be exchanged for pyromancy.
She wished for it with all her heart, just as she had every day during the two years since her mother had sent her there.
She wished the conversion camp would suddenly burst into flames.
She wished everyone trapped inside would be freed from the torture.
But as happened every time she wished with her eyes open, nothing happened.
With a mournful look toward the sign, she sighed. Ultimately, it didn't matter anymore. The camp had failed to change her, despite every promise her mother had made, but now it could no longer hurt her.
She turned away and followed the quiet figure waiting for her at the edge of the woods.
Her salvation.
.
.
.
“Quit nagging me, Enid,” the annoyed voice carried easily across the apartment.
It was a small apartment, so every argument felt louder than intended. Not that this one had been intended to sound kind.
The same boy, older now, grabbed a set of keys from beside the door and left without looking back.
The door slammed, and the sound broke the dam holding back her tears.
She collapsed onto the bed, her face still soft with a trace of youth, but exhaustion had already begun carving itself into her features. The kind earned through too many sleepless nights and too many years spent surviving. She buried her face in the sheets and cried, knowing pretty well he wouldn’t come back that night.
Or tomorrow.
Maybe in a couple of days.
Like every weekend for the last six months.
It had been them against the world for the last five years (™). Them together after escaping that nightmare. Them together against everyone who wanted them broken. And yet, somehow, she had simply traded one nightmare for another.
Something inside her hardened. She wiped her face and stood.
She could save them. She knew she could.
The GPS guided her toward the outskirts of the city, into an area she'd never visited before. Not that she knew much about New Jersey in the first place. The last five years had been spent trying to survive rather than explore. She checked her phone again as the signal pulsed insistently across the screen.
She knew something was wrong. She had known for some time now.
Still.
She needed to see it. To confront him and make him explain.
Make him apologize.
Apologize, or she would leave. For real this time.
“What do we have here?”
The voice behind her was unpleasant enough to make her stomach drop.
She barely had time to turn before hands clamped over her mouth, dragging her inside without giving her the chance to fight.
The warehouse swallowed her whole.
She blinked rapidly, trying to adjust her sight to the miserable light inside, her pulse accelerated at the five… no, six men that were seated around a rickety table.
“Enid?”
Relief surged through her chest at the familiar voice. The figure stood so abruptly his chair nearly toppled.
Bruno.
He’ll explain.
He’ll fix this.
They’ll surely be okay again.
“Oh, Enid,” he said, his voice cracking with genuine sorrow. “I'm so sorry, Enid.”
Confusion hit her like a physical blow. She never got the chance to ask why.
Just… why?
Tape sealed her mouth, and a bag was pulled over her head, darkness swallowing her as muffled tears rolled down her cheeks.
.
.
.
The blonde blinked against the sudden sting in her eyes, the memories receding like a tide, dragging themselves back into the depths and leaving her breath shallow and her chest painfully tight.
She tried to speak, but no words came out.
Finally, she lifted her head and found a detached black stare waiting patiently for her.
“My name…” she began, surprised that despite her inner turmoil, her voice wasn’t shaking, “my name is Enid Sinclair.”
Across from her, the mob boss studied her in silence.
Then she extended her hand.
“Wednesday Addams.”