Just the Taste of You/Blood in the Water - LittleBirdOnAir (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

WEDNESDAY

A new contract.

Wednesday pulls up her phone to read the dossier.

TARGET: ENID SINCLAIR

Age: 28

Location: Manhattan, New York

Occupation: Investigative Journalist

Brief: Target in possession of classified files belonging to the Lykaios family. Eliminate the target and retrieve the documents.

Bounty: 1 Million U.S Dollars.

She stares at the attached photo. Blonde. Happy. Pretty.

Another reporter poking her nose where it doesn’t belong again. Always wanting to usurp the balance of power in the name of truth and justice. Wednesday scoffs. In this world, there’s hardly anything called justice. If anything, the delicate yet cruel balance in the underworld greases the machines of this filthy city. Another disruptor.

Doesn’t matter who.

Reporters. Politicians. Mobsters.

All the same at the end of the day. The dead don't speak.

Wednesday accepts the contract without hesitation and puts on her helmet. The exhaust pipes rumbles as she revs the engines, accelerating smoothly onto the road and disappears into the distance.

The hunt is on.

———

“B-Boy, what’ve you got for me?” Wednesday asks as she weaves through the heavy traffic.

“Right-o. Enid Sinclair is one of the youngest editors at the New York Times with a Pulitzer,” Eugene’s voice comes through the earpiece. “She was on the ground for six months to cover the Arab Spring. Damn, your girl is a tough cookie.”

“Target, Eugene. Enid Sinclair is a target, she’s not anyone’s girl,” Wednesday reminds her tech specialist. If you want to do this job and still able to sleep at night, compartmentalisation is a must-have. “What’s the routine?”

Wednesday stops at a red light as she waits for Eugene, his keyboard clacking in the background.

“Based on her digital footprints, Miss Sinclair frequents the Weathervane café most morning at 8:30 AM, then it’s off to work at the office,” Eugene replies quickly. “Lunch locations are not fixed; she’s hardly ever alone during daytime. Got a boyfriend, Ajax Petropolus, usually picks her up and frequents her home in the evenings.”

“I’m assuming her weekends are packed as well,” Wednesday says.

“Ding ding ding. Dinner parties, interviews, events, et cetera. Might be a tough one with witnesses this time, boss.”

Wednesday is well-known in her line of work for a reason. No such thing as under-preparedness or miscalculation. Meticulous planning allows Wednesday to adapt to any situation at hand. That’s how one extends their longevity doing this kind of job for a living.

———

The lock disengages as Wednesday scans her biometric to enter her apartment. Located on the top floors of one of the most exclusive buildings in the city, with 24-hour security and a private entrance, Wednesday’s home reflects her well.

The floor-to-ceiling windows offer stunning city skyline views, especially during thunderstorms. Eclectic art pieces adorn the soft grey wall, some Art Deco furniture punctuates the muted palette of the decor - a classic chaise lounge here, a polished, low-profile walnut table there. The lone cello rests by the window, its corner charred from an accident.

A spacious home for one person.

Flinging her duffle bag on the kitchen island, Wednesday needs a quick shower before preparing for her stakeouts.

Maybe a quick bite, too.

The calm before the storm is always oddly comforting. A moment just for herself, before Wednesday returns to the role of the executioner in her endless sword dance.

Total solitude.

Perfect for this kind of life.

———

Eugene has pinged Enid’s phone to a fancy restaurant in Midtown Manhattan, Le Bernardin.

Her target has taste.

And easy on the eyes as well. The dossier photo did no justice. How unfortunate that life will leave those blue eyes once Wednesday found the Lykaios file.

Slipping a gold coin to the maître d'hôtel, Wednesday requests a table in a secluded corner, looking at Enid’s back. She watches as the blonde taps her fork on the table, taking an occasional sip out of the wine glass.

Enid is nervous.

Ajax Petropolus finally shows up, evidently late according to the way his date has been checking her watch for the half hour.

Wednesday adjusts the frequency on her listening device, homing in on the conversation between the couple.

“Ajax, I want to talk to you about something,” Enid says, her voice unsteady.

“Of course. What’s up, babe?” Ajax replies, mouthful. “Also, think I forgot my wallet, can you cover tonight?”

The blonde stares at him for a long second, as if she’s been waiting for this cue.

“I don’t think this is working out. We tried, but I feel like we’re not on the same page anymore,” Enid finishes in one breath. “Not that we’ve ever been.”

Ajax chokes on his lobster. “Wait, what?! Why? Hold on, is this because of the K-Pop glow stick? I’ll get you a new one!”

“This is exactly why I’m ending this. You never really get what I’m saying. And maybe it’s for the best because we’ve always worked better as friends, Ajax,” Enid sighs.

A breakup dinner.

One of her problems has just been resolved on its own, no more visiting boyfriend. Wednesday is certain by now Ajax has no clue where the files are, poor kid doesn’t even know what’s going on in his relationship.

A glint of light from the window catches her eyes.

Sniper.

Wednesday knew there would be competitors for this contract. Easy target yet a hefty bounty. But no one steals her prey. Not until she knows where the files are. That’s where the money is, the killing is merely supplementary.

She waves down a waiter and points at Enid’s table. “It’s my friend’s anniversary today. Can you bring the finest bottle to congratulate them? Put it on my tab. No need to tell them who sent it, I wouldn’t want to disturb their dinner. Be sure to tell them how good the wine is.”

As the waiter blocks the window view and thus buys Wednesday a few precious minutes, she slips out of the restaurant unnoticed. There’s only one favourable sniping place at that angle.

“Didn’t know you’d get out of bed for anything less than three,” Wednesday points her gun at the woman’s head. “Back off.”

“It’s open season. Let me take the shot and it’s payday, baby,” Bianca remains in her crouching position on the rooftop, unbothered. “I’ll even split it with you if you ask nicely.”

“I need the file and you’ll be killing off my only lead,” Wednesday says, irritation lacing her voice. She hates getting side-tracked. “This city will tear itself apart if that file gets out.”

“Spare me that holier-than-thou attitude in case you forgot our job description. War is good for business, and that’s that. Now why the hell is that waiter standing there for so long?”

“Your consistent underestimation of your targets will be the cause to your downfall, Barclay,” Wednesday co*cks her gun. “Though I’m personally indifferent to your fate, I must reiterate: Back. Off.”

A long silence before Bianca clicks her tongue and sighs as she begins disassembling her rifle. “You’re never fun, Addams.”

Wednesday keeps her gun trained on Bianca until she’s finished packing up, watching her every move.

“Be seeing you around,” Bianca brushes off her gears and struts away.

Wednesday peers down. Her target is almost done with the meal. A good fifteen-minute head start to Enid’s home.

———

A modest apartment in a lively neighbourhood. Fits the profile.

Not much time to spare. Maximum half an hour with traffic. Wednesday jimmies the lock with ease and steps inside.

The walls are painted in a warm tone that compliments the wooden floors. Colourful throw pillows on a plush couch; petit and vivid decorations; photos of friends and family adorn the apartment. Her eyes hurt from the resplendent burst of colours.

It looks lived in, unlike Wednesday’s place.

Doesn’t matter. A round of bugs first.

Now to install a backdoor for Eugene to work his magic. A pink laptop covered in K-Pop idols and rainbow stickers. Wednesday never makes assumptions about her targets, but this was not what she had expected, given Enid is a Pulitzer winner and a senior editor at the New York Times.

Stereotypes never do anyone any good.

Wednesday finishes just as she hears a car pulling in. Time to get out.

———

“I finally did it. Relieved, I guess? I know, he’s been my friend since college. I shouldn’t have caved when he asked me out in the first place. Let’s hope he takes it well. Thanks, Yoko. I’ll see you after the hospital visit?”

Wednesday takes a sip from her bourbon.

From the apartment across the road, she watches the blonde chat with her friend on the phone. The planted bugs mean Wednesday can hear every creak of the floorboard in that tiny apartment.

Hospital.

What business have you got at a hospital, Ms. Sinclair?

“B-Boy, anything on her laptop?” Wednesday taps her earpiece.

“No trace of what you’re looking for. So far, plenty of notes and drafts for her ongoing projects, her ex is blowing up her inbox as we’re speaking, anddd a lot of fanfics. I checked her banking details, squeaky clean. Spends an awful lot on coffee though, your girl needs a personal finance advisor.”

“Again, Eugene,” Wednesday sighs. “Enid Sinclair is nobody’s girl; she is a target. Anything about hospital work?”

“Sorry, sorry. Yep, got several email threads and loads of texts about a brewing docuseries on Jericho Children's Hospital. It seems she goes there twice a week to interview staff and patients. Her next scheduled visit is tomorrow morning.”

“Brilliant. Thanks, Eugene,” Wednesday takes another sip and ends the call.

She really needs to buy the kid a meal sometimes.

———

Hospitals are neutral grounds, no business is allowed on site.

Ironic. Hospitals smell like death. Feel like death. Taste like death.

But then the rules have never inconvenient Wednesday. And thus, no need to question them so far.

The corridors are busy, doctors and nurses walk around with purposes. No one really pays attention to the figure lurking around the Oncology ward.

Her target came alone, only stopping at the Weathervane to pick up two large, iced lattes. Wednesday was right next to Enid in the queue. Her outfit called for a migraine. Bright pink sweater with a jovial unicorn on her back. Outrageous.

The blonde was on a first-name basis with the baristas, asking how their day was going, and left a generous tip as she left, almost brushing Wednesday’s shoulders when she turned around.

Lacks environment awareness, Wednesday mentally noted.

Enid has lugged a massive bag of toys and books by herself to this patient’s room. Barely nine years old. Wednesday turns up the volume in her ear. Her target might let slip something important.

The kid wishes that there will be no one else like him.

Wednesday turns off her earpiece.

---

Tailing an investigative journalist is not all that exciting.

That day, Wednesday only thwarted several attempts from competing amateurs; watched Enid drink half a litre of coffee in her car; listened to tedious gossip between Enid and her best friend who happened to be an old-money heiress, Yoko Tanaka; watched her target chugg another half a litre of coffee in the afternoon; then followed Enid home.

Dreadful. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Wherever Enid hid those files, she hid them well.

The apartment is empty. Wednesday has checked it the day after when Enid left for work. Security in the area is laughable.

Wednesday considers kidnapping the journalist and beating it out of her. Tempting. What stops Wednesday is the risk of the target expiring before she can acquire the intel.

Would be all for nothing.

In a way, Wednesday gets to see how a normal person lives their life. Wakes up, gets ready, buys coffee, goes to work, has lunch with friends or colleagues, fieldwork depends on the day, heads home, has friends over for dinner sometimes, and bed.

Enid Sinclair leads a busy life, but every day is almost the same, with the occasions of interviews and dinner parties. It’s so mundane, it’s borderline maddening.

Wednesday cannot fathom living like that.

All too repetitive and dull.

She thinks of her apartment. Just a place for her to sleep. Void of life.

The people Wednesday cares about are all dead. Her colleagues are either terrified of Wednesday or outright despise her.

Why bother?

There’s Eugene though. Good kid. But they never meet directly, Wednesday doesn’t want to endanger his safety. All transactions are done via crypto transfers.

Enid is well-liked, all too cheerful and passionate with her work, and never seems to be alone.

Wednesday isn’t lonely.

Her targets accompany her until they draw their last breaths.

ENID

Enid is midway through completing her Tinder profile before deciding it’s not worth her time. She’s not even interested in dating at the moment.

Working up the courage and resolution to break up with Ajax has eaten up most of her last week. Enid’s deadlines are pressing her ass. She scrolls through the to-do list, gauging which task needs to be done first.

She needs coffee.

---

The Weathervane is packed as always.

Enid is all about supporting local businesses and has been going here since she first came back from Egypt. Maybe she’ll have one iced matcha latte for now and get a regular one for later.

With her eyes glued to the phone as Enid types her reply to her senior editor while queuing, Enid bumps into the patron in front of her.

“Sorry, are you okay? I wasn’t paying attention,” she yelps. Enid dislikes being a hassle in public, especially things that make her look like an oblivious idiot like this.

“That’s alright,” the woman replies.

Ah no, she’s hot.

Dark hair in tight braids and sporting a pair of aviators; the woman Enid bumped into has a jawline so sharp it could cut glass. Women are her weaknesses in general, but jawlines? That’s an entirely different story.

Cladded in a black leather biker jacket and trousers, the woman stepped straight out of a film noir. Cool and untouchable.

“Haha, yeah, um, do you- uh, come here a lot?” Enid can feel her embarrassment rising, but the words are already out.

The aviators gaze at Enid.

“Sometimes,” she shrugs.

“Well, I come here a lot, but I think this is the first time I’ve seen you here. Nice leather you got there, are you a biker?” Enid asks, unable to look away from the woman. Definitely looks like a girl-kisser, lightning strikes her if Enid is wrong.

“I do have a bike.”

The answers are short and curt, yet oddly not annoyed. Enid wonders whether she should ask for the woman’s number, is she just being polite? Screw it, she’s single and ready to mingle.

“Cool, cool, cool,” Enid wants to smack herself, where have all her witty lines gone to? “Can I get a ride sometimes-”

It’s the woman’s turn already. One black coffee. No sugar.

Enid usually cringes at people’s attempts to show off that they have a ‘badass’ coffee choice, while in reality, they don’t even like it. But this woman looks like she actually enjoys the utter acrid, bitter taste of black coffee by the way she inhales the aroma before savouring the first sip.

“I don’t see why not,” the woman is already halfway to the exit. “See you around, miss Sinclair.”

All Enid could do was an awkward wave back, still starstruck by the enigmatic woman. Wait, how did she know Enid’s name?

---

Enid sighs at her phone.

Ajax didn’t take the breakup well and has been calling her nonstop. When she rejects his calls, he results to texting and voice messages. Enid didn’t want to outright block him, Ajax has been one of her closest friends for a decade. To waste all that for a three-month relationship that she did not put her heart in in the first place is laughable. But at this rate, Enid might heed Yoko’s advice and block him for the time being.

Enid finishes her coffee and lugs the bag of toys out of the car trunk. She checks her notes one more time before heading inside Jericho Children's Hospital.

Ever since she was assigned the docuseries, Enid has been a frequent visitor at the hospital. The Oncology ward gets the most of her attention, especially the younger patients. Some of them won’t even make it until the series is aired. Enid will make sure they won’t be forgotten.

She takes a deep breath and opens the door.

“Hey Elliot, how you doin’ buddy?” Enid smiles at the young boy who has his nose in The Magical School Bus: Inside the Human Body, then regards the parents. “Morning Therese, morning Mike. I got you some coffee.”

“Enid!” Elliot perks up at the sight of the blonde, waving at her with all his strength, despite the clunky IV lines and medical tubes.

Enid pulls out a doctor’s play set and several medical toys from her bag and hands it to Elliot. “Per your request, doctor.”

“You’re the best! Mum, look how cool this is!” Elliot opens the life-sized plastic heart with the tool kit. “Thank you, Enid!”

Therese kisses Elliot’s head and runs her fingers through his hair. “Well, it’s never too early to practice medicine. You’re going to make a fine doctor.”

“One day, no other kids will have what I have,” he titters.

Mike holds Therese’s hands as she smiles with glassy eyes. “Of course, sweet pea.”

“I thought you were feeling better the last time we saw each other?” Enid asks.

“They switched up the medicine, saying it was more effective, but El felt worse instead. When we complained to the doctors, they said it’s just his body adjusting to the new drugs,” Therese says.

“We asked for the old prescription, but they said the hospital no longer stocks it,” Mike adds, his voice strained and bitter. “Doctors always know best, don’t they?”

Strange.

Enid scribbles down in her notebook.

“Which drugs did you say they changed to again?”

---

Declining yet another call from Ajax, Enid continues typing her email in fury while waiting in the queue. All levels of management of Kinbott Pharmaceuticals have refused her interview requests regarding their new monopoly on New York’s hospitals.

Even her editor is asking Enid to drop the story and focus on the docuseries on Jericho Children's hospital, hence the furious email. News media outlets should be holding powerful corporations accountable. Especially when the company in question is a major donor and lobbyist to the city’s mayor.

Just like the last time she defied her superiors and stayed in Egypt to cover the Arab Spring; nothing will stop Enid from finding the truth.

---

“What’s the tea, sis?” Yoko slurps her frappe. “Is Ajax still bothering you? I don’t get why you’re so lenient on that boy.”

“Only out of respect for our decade-long friendship. But I think I’m blocking him for real this time,” Enid says. “On the other hand, there’s some real interesting development at work though.”

They’re sitting in their favourite spot in the Weathervane, at the back by the big window.

“Girly, you need to learn when to switch off. When was the last time you treated yourself to a good old night out?” Yoko chastises the blonde. “Take a night off. Go out, and pull someone cute. Let loose, y’know what I mean?”

“I willlll. Speaking of which, there was this woman behind me in the queue here this morning. I wouldn’t say cute though, cause she got this vibe,” Enid rests her cheek on her palm, smiling. “Like she could step on me, and I’d say thank you. But I was too nervous to actually do anything. Maybe she’ll come back. Gonna make my move then.”

“You are one hella weirdo, Enid Sinclair,” Yoko makes a face. “So, what do you say to that night out?”

“Hmm, you’re right. But you know how I am once I’m fixated on something. This whole pharmaceutical thing with the mayor is just too convenient to just be a coincidence,” Enid knows she sounds like one of those conspiracist whackos, but she couldn’t shake the feeling there’s more to this.

“Did you just say the mayor?” Yoko lowers her shades, confirming what she’s just heard.

“Yepp, you heard it right. Why? You got any dirt on him?” Enid leans in, excited.

“Since I’m the best bestie ever, I got something that might work as both a night out and field work for you,” Yoko smirks. “No promises yet because it’s kind of an exclusive thing. But anything for my girl to put herself out there and score a hottie, amirite?”

“You lost me there,” Enid looks confused.

“I’ll send you the deets later,” Yoko waves her hand. “Now, go ahead, I know you’re dying to tell me what conspiracy you got going this time.”

---

Yoko somehow managed to get her a last-minute invitation to the mayor’s masquerade ball, a celebration of his recent successful re-election. Scored the fudging motherlode.

Her brain races through the possibilities of intel at the party. Vibrated with excitement, Enid now must choose what to wear for the evening. Yoko, helpful as always, has brought over half a wardrobe for Enid to choose.

“Okay clothing aside, I need to prep my gear. Have you seen my lock-picking set?” Enid combs through her drawers, unable to find what she seeks.

“You’re seriously going to break into his office?” Yoko slurps her juice.

Enid scratches her head. “If the opportunity presents itself. Got it. Now where is my mini camera?”

“Gotta love it when your bestie commits a felony, or two,” Yoko tosses her cup into the bin.

“Only if I get caught,” Enid lets out a victorious ha as she finds her camera. Out of battery. No time to charge now, she’ll have to make do at the ball then.

Yoko sits up on the bed. “I said this is an occasion for both work and leisure, girly. Relax, go rub some shoulders, and score a hottie for the evening. I’d hate to have to bail you out of jail again.”

“I know, I know. But tell me when the next time is I’m going to be invited to the mayor’s home again?” Enid says as she checks her phone them sighs. Ajax has resorted to different social media accounts to contact her, it’s getting bothersome.

“File a restraining order, I’m telling you. One thing true crime documentary has taught us is harassment is just the beginning.”

Yoko has always been against the idea of Enid going out with Ajax, it’s insulting to both parties in the first place, and now it has turned into an absolute circus show that no one but Ajax enjoys.

Enid clicks her tongue. “He’s our friend, you know. It doesn’t feel right. I’ll give him some more time.”

“And harassing you feels right?” Yoko refuses to drop the matter. “Enid, I’m serious. It’s been two weeks, and he still doesn’t know when to stop.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll get to it after the ball, yeah? Gonna be done and dusted. Promise,” Enid throws her hands up in defeat.

Yoko is right. This kind of behaviour is unhealthy. She gets that Ajax is heartbroken and has always been kinda clueless, but she mustn’t let it go on any longer. As much as she despites the cops, the threat of a restraining order might just do the trick.

Now what to wear this evening?

WEDNESDAY

It’s the thirteenth day of tailing Enid Sinclair and Wednesday is on the verge of executing the kidnapping option when she sees a new entry on her target’s digital calendar. A masquerade?

Interesting.

Something valuable at last, in return to the hundreds of messages and notifications that Wednesday had to scroll through, from fandoms to gossip to boring interviews, and still not a trace of the Lykaios files.

This should be good.

Three hours until the party starts, Wednesday has time. She looks up from her driving wheel to an excited Enid, who is sitting by the window in the Weathervane, prime to be sniped.

A miracle that Wednesday has kept the blonde alive this long.

While on the way home, Wednesday rings Eugene so he can sneak her on the guest list. Since it’s a masquerade ball, all guests must sign up with a pseudonym.

Perfect.

Wednesday takes out her finest tuxedo suit before deciding on which masquerade mask to wear tonight. Her hand stops at the raven mask.

El Cuervo.

---

Soft music plays in the background as the quartet performs on a stage in the corner. The grand hall is decorated with shimmering gold and silver decorations, candles flickering in the luminous space.

In their elegant ballgowns and tuxedos, guests don elaborate and ornate masks, prattling over each other’s appearances. Servers tour the room, trays full of champagne and hors d’oeuvres.

Wednesday makes her way through the crowd, looking for her target. If Enid was to exchange any intel, it would be here tonight. Who knows, Wednesday might bag herself a mole for the Lykaios as well. A little bonus doesn’t hurt.

There she is. Her target. Dressed in a sleek, black floor-length gown that hugs her curves in all the right places. The high slit reveals just enough leg to be tantalising, beckoning Wednesday’s eyes for a second. Enid’s shoulders are bare, her neckline low, showing off her delicate collarbone. Her blonde hair is styled into a sleek bun, a few loose strands framing the angular face.

And to top it all off, an intricate black and silver wolf mask.

What are you, Enid Sinclair?

A sheep in wolf clothing or vice versa?

Something stirs within Wednesday. She can’t quite put a finger on it yet. For now, call it intuition. Wednesday keeps her distance.

Formality congratulations to the mayor, courtesy to other officials, some off-the-record comments from the guests, et cetera.

Boring. Dull. Insignificant.

“Champagne?”

A drink tray blocks her view of Enid. Sidestepping the server, Wednesday manages to catch a glimpse of a black gown exiting the hall in a hurry.

---

Wednesday follows the grand staircase that leads up to the mayor’s office. With everyone concentrated at the main hall, no one notices the light heel clicks on the wooden floor upstairs.

The office door is slightly ajar.

Wednesday creeps closer, listening for any movements inside. Papers rustling, cabinets creaking open, subtle typing on a keyboard. No wonder why the contract rates for journalists have been so high recently. A floorboard groans as Wednesday steps to press her ear to the door. She winces.

The rummaging stops.

From the corner at the end of the corridor, Wednesday waits until the heel clicks fade downstairs before slipping into the office.

Given a bit more time, Enid might have spotted the hidden switch on the furthest bookshelf in the office. A hidden safe click open. She isn’t usually the snooping type, but Wednesday will take whatever gives her leverage in finding those Lykaios files.

The content of the safe is intriguing, to say the least.

---

The lights dim as the opening notes of the tango flow through the hall.

Sultry and seductive.

With a slow and deliberate tempo, the quartet invites guests onto the dance floor. The melancholic tone of the bandoneon lends an air of nostalgia to the music. A reminiscence to a better time at the Addams’ mansion, when Wednesday still had a family.

She should have left right away. The mayor’s secret is in her pocket, more than enough to bargain with Enid anonymously. But that unnamed intuition has urged Wednesday to return to the hall.

Enid is on the other end of the room, sipping on her champagne, surrounded by several men. Apprehensive body languages. The men keep gesturing to the dance floor, ignorant of her polite head shakes.

Something rises within her. Annoyance, perhaps.

Her legs are already making their way toward the blonde before Wednesday realises. Upon closing the distance, Wednesday recognises the signet rings the men bear. Old money twats.

“Apologies for the intrusion, but the mayor is asking for you gentlemen. It’s regarding the new inheritance tax policy and he wishes to hear your view on it.”

A few curses from behind the golden, ostentatious masks as the men leave without prompt, hurrying to find the mayor.

“Thanks for the rescue,” Enid says, appreciation in her voice. “Those guys don’t know how to take no for an answer.”

“I’m not sure what you mean. The mayor really was asking for them,” Wednesday answers, her tone confused.

“Uh huh, then tell me why the mayor wanted to discuss a non-existent tax policy in his campaigning manifesto?” Enid places the empty champagne glass on a passing server’s tray.

“Apologies, but I don’t follow politics. It’s beyond my scope of interest.”

A lie. She knows too much about politics, unfortunately. Comes with the job. Wednesday really should leave now, this conversation screams precariousness. Like when she spoke with Enid at the Weathervane, her impulses have been firing off lately for some strange reasons. Those traitorous legs are rooted in place, refusing to move. A kind of anticipation rises in her chest.

Perhaps it’s her intuition telling Wednesday that this is a chance. She should take it.

For intel, of course.

The blonde asks. “Have I met you somewhere?”

“Unlikely.”

One step closer. Enid faces Wednesday, a hand tugs at her elbow. The two layers of clothes couldn’t help her skin from being electrocuted. It burns, where Enid has touched her. Nowhere on Enid’s file indicated she practices witchcraft as a hobby. Wednesday strains her neck, holding the fiend back with all she has.

“Something tells me you are good at this,” Enid tilts her head toward the dance floor. “I’ve been lacking riveting company this evening. Care to join me?”

A decision in the split of the moment. Her intuition rages.

Wednesday holds out her hand and guides her target onto the dance floor.

---

La Cumparsita begins.

“You’re a natural,” Wednesday says, her eyes fixed on Enid’s mask.

They dance in sync, without hesitation, as if they’ve done this before. The blonde has no trouble keeping up with Wednesday.

Impressive.

“I may have a few tricks up my sleeve,” Enid replies, swaying her hips in time with the music.

Like a predator striking its prey, Wednesday leans in, her voice low. “Is one of those tricks taking things that aren’t yours to keep?”

Enid’s eyes widen in alarm behind the mask. But the blonde doesn’t miss a single beat, legs moving in unison with Wednesday still.

Fascinating.

“Such as?” A challenge hints in Enid’s voice as she twirls away from Wednesday. Her target is quick to recompose herself.

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Wednesday pulls Enid back, gripping her. “About of a certain file.”

“You will have to be more specific than that. I would remember if I stole from someone so charming,” Enid presses herself against Wednesday. “Did whoever hired you tell you why I took it? Or is moral beyond your scope of interest as well?”

Delicious.

Wednesday wants to savour this thrill just a little while longer. The unnamed intuition agrees. Let’s see who can cut the other wide open first.

“This is where you’re wrong, Miss Sinclair. I only work for myself,” Wednesday murmurs into Enid’s ear. “It might surprise you, but I understand perfectly why an investigative journalist like you would kill to break the story that our beloved mayor embezzles from New York’s biggest children’s hospital.”

“So, it was you upstairs,” Enid wraps her leg around Wednesday’s hip in a dramatic swing. “Why are you doing this? What’s in it for you?”

“I’m a simple woman, Miss Sinclair. You have what I want, and I have yours. I believe we can come to a mutual exchange,” Wednesday runs her hand down Enid’s calf before slipping a card de visite to her heel. “Hopefully soon. Since I’m afraid my colleagues won’t be as friendly as I am.”

“My hunch tells me not as handsome as well,” Enid allows Wednesday to dip her low, holding the blonde by the small of her back.

Wednesday sounds amused. “Careful, play with fire and you might get burned.”

A reckoning build, and Wednesday can’t say she dislikes it. The delectable taste of tension, destructive and cataclysmal, gives her shivers.

Wednesday never toys with her prey. She’s a professional. But there’s something different this time. There’s something about Enid Sinclair that makes Wednesday want to prolong this tango just a little while longer.

But forbidden fruits taste best when only one bite is allowed.

The song has come to an end.

“What can I say? Maybe I like dangerous women,” Enid moves to take off Wednesday’s mask as they stand flushed against each other.

“A woman after my own heart,” Wednesday guides Enid’s hand to the beak of her mask and gently kisses it, while her other hand stops Enid from reaching for the USB in her pocket.

The daring hand moves up to rest on Wednesday’s chest. It lingers just a second too long.

“Until we meet again, Miss Sinclair.”

Wednesday pries herself away. She must.

---

6:30 PM. 42^nd Street. Bryant Park Station.

The evening rush hour is a living, breathing entity unto itself. The subway thrums with swarms of people hurrying home, leaving the weight of work for another day. Footfalls echo the platform, voices murmuring, buzzing, harmonising with the mechanical chorus of trains pulling in and out.

Ever since her encounter with Bianca, attempts on Enid’s life have dwindled. Vastly. Words travel fast. Either no one wants to touch El Cuervo’s prey with a ten-foot pole, or everyone is waiting for her to make a mistake, and to snatch away the fruits of her labour. Either way, Wednesday needn’t follow Enid so closely anymore.

But here she stands, at the far end of the platform, not letting the now familiar figure out of her sight. Wednesday hasn’t even checked Enid’s schedule, worse, she doesn’t even know where Enid is heading. She just wants to see the blonde.

Reason: unknown.

Wednesday wrings her brain to fill in the blank.

The masquerade was a fever dream, something her brain refuses to scrub off, to toss away like every other meaningless encounter. But Enid’s burning holds on her hands, her hips, her chest are seared into Wednesday’s mind.

No, it couldn’t have been because of that.

Precariousness. Not leaving things to chance. Keeping it professional.

Yes, that is the reason why she couldn’t stop keeping tabs on the blonde.

Good enough.

And it sort of has become her habit now. Checking on Enid and all that. Until now, Wednesday only heads home after making sure that Enid is safe and sound in bed.

Ironic.

An assassin protecting her target.

Against her training and everything she stands for; a compulsion grows within Wednesday day after day. A compulsion that can only be eased by seeing her target. Well and alive.

Only until Wednesday get that file.

Everything she does is for the contract. For the fragile balance, she so desperately tries to maintain day after day, contract after contract. Wednesday repeats it like a mantra in her head as she steps into the same car as Enid, pulling down her baseball cap and maintaining a safe distance.

Under the harsh fluorescent light, another familiar figure catches her eyes.

A tall, sharply dressed man with an unusually pale and bony face stands pressed against one of the doors. Exactly ten paces from Enid.

Wednesday recognises those cold, dead eyes anywhere.

Every contract is a bold statement, each execution is a pièces de résistance. In his hands, death becomes art. The Maestro is here, and he intends to claim Wednesday’s contract.

Arrogant bastard.

Wednesday presses her earpiece. “Eclipse on the horizon.”

“Duration: one minute and thirty seconds. Counting down now. Ten, nine…” the familiar cheerful voice replies as keyboards clack in haste in the background.

Never to be seen without his ornate cane, within which resides a coiling garrotte, the Maestro loves to be up close and personal with his prey, bathed in fear as they writhe underneath him. And Enid will be his newest masterpiece. A public execution.

Her veins seethe with rage, venerating and frenzied at the thought.

Is it because words have not travelled fast enough and now her colleagues are undermining her?

Or is it because the unnamed intuition demands her to tear the man into pieces for even thinking of touching Enid? Nay, it must be the aforementioned reason, for Wednesday’s own sanity.

Perhaps her colleagues need a stern reminder that El Cuervo does not let anyone overtake her contract, let alone share it.

The lights flicker.

And the car plunges into near-total darkness, illuminated only by the pale emergency lights.

In the land of shadows, Wednesday finds her sanctum. A world without light shines in monochrome, a chiaroscuro tableau that lays truths bare. Darkness wraps Wednesday in its embrace, guiding her with its tender touch.

Minutes feel like hours.

From the shadow, Wednesday reads people how one reads a book, flipping through their chapters, seeking out their weaknesses, and studying them until she knows where they’ll be before they themselves do.

The Maestro may be the King of tactful deaths, but Wednesday Addams is the harbinger of darkness. And tonight, the raven might just feast on a monarch.

“Isn’t it unfortunate? The city’s grid never able to keep up with its own pace,” Wednesday breaths in the man’s ear, who is already making his way towards Enid. The confused crowd acts conveniently as props to slow his movements.

Eager and overconfident.

Tactless.

The Maestro stiffens, stopping dead in his tracks. “Evening, mademoiselle Addams. I take it you’re not joining the audience for my ‘performance’ tonight”.

“Quite the contrary, Mr. Thorpe,” Wednesday responds. Softly. A rustle of leaves under a moonless sky. “I’m also here for a performance, just not yours.”

He chuckles, the sound brittle in the dark. “Is that so? And who might be the new conductor?”

“The original one, Mr. Thorpe. There can only be one conductor for the choir, and this is my stage,” Wednesday warns, her gun pressing against his spine. One precise shot and Xavier Thorpe will never walk again, a fate worse than death for someone as prideful as him. “Or would you like to test your instruments against mine? For fairness’ sake?”

The silence stretches between them as the implications of her words sink in.

“All is fair in love and war,” Xavier tightens the grip on his cane, an uncharacteristic tremble in his voice. “But this is neither. And a wise king knows when to yield his crown.”

Wednesday refrains from pulling the trigger right then, for his arrogance warrants it. Perhaps another day when they stare down each other’s barrel. She can feel it in her bones, the impending rage between them.

“Don’t forget the rules, mademoiselle Addams. You are so very close to breaking them with these kinds of stunts,” Xavier says and returns to his original place. “And when you do, I’ll be the first in line for that bounty.”

Just in time as the light flickers back to life. The train groans, starting to move again.

Wednesday throws a glance at Enid, who has been on her phone this entire time, oblivious to another attempt on her life.

“Thank you kindly for your advice, I’ll keep that in mind,” Wednesday turns her back against the blonde to face Xavier. “I think this is your stop, Mr. Thorpe.”

The train comes to a halt once more at the platform, and passengers pour out in streams, relieved to escape from the giant deathtrap.

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

ENID

Enid is this close to combusting if she doesn’t get to yell at Yoko about this mysterious stranger at the mayor’s masquerade ball. The half an hour commute from her office to Yoko’s place felt like an eternity, thanks to that random blackout on the train.

Work’s been hammering her for the past three days but it’s finally Friday, and Enid is free as a bird.

“I have never, and I meant ever been more attracted to anyone than last night. All those dance classes you made me go to were worth it. You had to be there, oh my gosh, the way she held me in her arms, and we danced like no one was watching.”

“And hello to you, too,” Yoko looks up from Divina’s shoulders. “You went MIA for the whole evening, we thought you got kidnapped. Almost got me calling the cops.” She grimaces at the sentence.

Divina pushes Yoko off as she goes to the kitchen to check on the food. “Hey, you were the one who got her the invitation, remember? At least our girl got a good night out of it.”

It’s their weekly dinner and Yoko is hosting this time. Smells like salmon tonight.

“Did you get lucky, or do we need more wine for that?” Yoko grins, following them into the kitchen.

“I didn’t see her face,” Enid pulls out two wine bottles from her tote bag. “But! I did get her number though.” She whips out the crisp card de visite from the back of her phone case.

Just a line of numbers, nothing else.

“Girly, you don’t even know her name, nor her face, and you were ready to jump her bones?!” Yoko gasps. “Have all the crime documentaries you obsess over taught you nothing?”

“Hey, at least I didn’t let her take me to a second location, okay?” Enid fills the glasses. “Maybe I had too much champagne or maybe it was just the vibe but there’s something about her and the way she handled me that-”

Yoko chokes on her wine. “I apologise, it is I who needs more alcohol before we can proceed.”

“Will you just let the poor thing finish?” Divina pats her girlfriend’s back. “So, have you texted her?”

Enid bites her nail. “I don’t know yet. She’s uh, sorta related to my work.”

“How do you know that?” Yoko squints. As Enid’s designated bestie, Yoko can always tell whenever she is hiding something.

“We uh, talked about our work projects,” Enid tries to find the right words.

“In the middle of a sensual tango that made you question everything you’ve ever known?” If Yoko stares any harder, it might just burn a hole in Enid’s forehead.

“Yes?” Enid gulps.

Yoko purses her lips and narrows her eyes at the blonde, yet to be convinced.

Divina saves the day. “Get your plate, losers. Food’s ready.”

Enid knows Yoko will bite her head off if she lets loose the fact that this masked woman, who has left her irrevocably hot and bothered, could have easily taken Enid’s life had she wanted to. There wasn’t any direct threat, but she felt it in her bones.

Given how much the masked stranger already knew about Enid, she must have followed her for a while.

Which leads her to the next question.

Why would she want to meet directly? Any kind of anonymous contact would have served her interest, especially if the woman intended to off Enid afterwards, why bother making herself known?

Not that Enid is complaining.

Enid can’t remember the last time she felt like last night, to be so close to a threat that doubles as a lead in her investigation.

A thrill that captivated her. An irresistible allure. A fatal attraction.

What’s more intriguing was the supposed threat last night didn’t trigger any alarm within Enid. Her instincts are impeccable. Either her senses have dulled due to the safe and stable lifestyle, or the stranger’s true intentions have alluded Enid completely.

If she had wanted to hurt, or worse, off Enid, she could have done so easily.

Regardless, Enid believes the exchange request was sincere.

The files are in safe hands, i.e., Yoko’s father. No one would dare touch the head of the Tanaka family, one of the most influential businessmen in the States.

Enid has until the end of the evening to decide whether she wants to trade it for the embezzlement file. Not only will it be an act of justice, but this story also will consolidate her position within the paper. Some have said her Pulitzer was due to a stroke of luck rather than her commitments and talents. Enid’s promotion was much debated among senior leaders as she had actively defied orders to remain in Egypt.

Enid needs this big break.

———

Two empty wine bottles and a stomach full of grilled salmon later, Enid has made up her mind.

“Yoko, can I pick the file up from your place tomorrow?”

“Not going to the appropriate authority to hand it in anymore?” Yoko flicks through Netflix, nuzzling against Divina.

“Well, sort of.”

“What’s with you and ambiguous answers today?” Yoko pauses her remote. “Hang on a minute. This is not because of that woman, is it? Oh my god, is she a cop?!”

“Absolutely not! What gave you that idea? I am handing it to the appropriate authority,” Enid plops down on the other sofa, heat rising to her face, trying her best to change the subject. “Anyway, my Ancestry result came back, can you believe I’m half Greek, and my ancestors were Scots?!”

“If this is your way to get us to rewatch Mamma Mia, then no, I don’t believe it,” Yoko covers her ears, ready for Enid’s musical breakout.

Enid sighs as she imagines. “I could have been raised on one of the Greek islands, surrounded by fruit trees and tanned by the sea.”

“Yeah, Lesbos island,” Yoko snickers, earning a whack on the arm from Divina.

———

The next morning, Enid stares at her phone screen, now awfully quiet since she has blocked all five accounts of Ajax. The crisp business card lies next to it, beckoning her.

It would be a fair exchange. She can’t go to the cops with what she has anyway. They would put a bullet in her skull before Enid could make it to her car. No. They would make it look like an accident.

Plausible deniability.

Though the masked woman cannot be trusted either, she doesn’t smell like one of them. (She smells great, actually).

But that aura, her guts tell Enid something creeps and lurks underneath that calm demeanour. Barely a ripple. One misstep and the Leviathan surges to devour its prey.

An apex predator.

Her heart races.

It’s a risk. But it’s worth it. Like a foolish explorer, Enid is diving in blind, plunging into the cold deep end. But is it so wrong of Enid to want to see that woman again? Enid plants her face into her pillow and groans. She needs something refreshing, something to stop her from losing it as Ajax for sure will find another way to bother her, while her senior editors show no sign of being asswipes to her any time soon.

Enid reassures herself one last time.

Two things.

One, the masked woman has what Enid wants. Her embezzlement investigation will no longer be a sheer conspiracy anymore.

Two, Enid would rather take the chance with the stranger, who was polite enough to announce her intention to Enid, than sitting ducks waiting for her not-so-friendly colleagues.

Now to find a meeting place.

———

The antique bookstore’s doorbell jingles as Enid walks in. The shop is bustling today.

“If it isn’t my favourite customer,” the stout, old woman behind the till greets Enid with a thick Greek accent. “What can I get you today, dear?”

“Hi, Athanasia. How are you?” Enid beams. “I’m not staying long today. Just wanna ask you a small favour if that’s alright?”

“Of course! Anything for you, mikremou,” Athanasia agrees promptly, giving the blonde her signature toothless smile.

Enid places her bag on the counter and leans over, acting like she’s browsing the books behind Athanasia as she whispers. “I need to borrow your shop tonight to set up a meeting with one of my contacts.”

“Ah, the usual then?”

“That would be lovely,” Enid pulls out her wallet, “Maybe stay with your grandkids for a few days just to be safe. I got a feeling it might be a rocky meeting this time.” She gives the old lady several hundred dollars. “For any possible damage. If it exceeds the amount, send me the bill and I’ll cover it.”

“Louloudimou, it’s not about the money and you know it. Must you keep doing this dangerous business so often?” Athanasia frowns, pushing the money back.

Enid refuses the return. “Promise. I’ll be fine.”

“You young people nowadays are so reckless,” Athanasia shakes her head. “Remember we have dinner next month. I will be very unhappy if you don’t show up.”

Enid knows better than to take the threat lightly.

———

Never let dubious contacts know the time and location of the meeting too far ahead. Even when you have the slightest crush on them.

Enid bites her lips and hits Send.

It’s normal to be a little nervous. It’s just business, not like Enid is asking an unbearably hot woman out. And Enid hasn’t even seen her face. It’s the voice. And the confidence. And her hands. No, enough. Enid slaps herself back to reality.

Enid swears she has seen the woman somewhere, though, her brain just can’t seem to recall exactly when and where yet.

She stands in front of her mirror and does the Wonder Woman pose. Deep breathe. She’s done these things dozens of times before. This is for Elliot. And all the other patients at Jericho’s. Failure is not an option.

———

Half an hour until the meeting time.

Deformed shadows of the trees on the empty street creep Enid out. Just a little. She can’t get inside soon enough.

The broken door lock stops the blonde in her tracks. Athanasia always locks it twice as she closes the shop. The spare key is in Enid’s pocket.

Maybe the stranger was early. It’s fine.

Enid was discreet when she met Athanasia, and she only texted the stranger right before she left. Maybe her contact lived nearby, which is the only plausible explanation.

It’s fine.

The door creaks loudly against the dead of night as Enid enters.

She flicks on the light switch.

Dust dances in the warm light streaming through the room, showing shelves lined with tattered leather-bound books. Not a sign of another living soul. Enid fights against the urge to call out if anyone is here. Literally how one dies in a horror movie.

If the masked stranger was here, she would have come out by now.

Her hunch is telling Enid to get the hell out of there. She’ll get the file another way.

Palms cold with sweat, Enid backs out slowly toward the entrance.

“Stop it right there.”

Three figures emerge from the shadow at the back of the shop, guns pointing at Enid. Definitely not her contact.

“Heyy fellas. Was looking for the bathroom but got the wrong address,” Enid holds up her arms. “I’ll get out of your hair right away.”

Are these the colleagues that the stranger warned Enid about? Talk about bad timing.

“Toss the file over here,” the tallest one says, stepping closer. “And maybe we’ll let you live.”

“Oh, this little thing?” Enid glances at the manila folder in her hand. “Literally scrap papers. I was getting this to a recycling bin anyway.”

Enid goes deaf for a second, her ears ringing. Woods splinter from the shelf next to her.

A warning shot.

“The file. Now. Or the next one will be between your eyes.”

sh*t.

WEDNESDAY

Wednesday couldn’t sleep.

She lays awake in bed, staring at the grey ceiling. Insomnia is an unwelcoming old friend, and Wednesday embraces it with the stillness of the night.

Her mind keeps drifting to a certain blonde, it refuses to stop crawling back to that night. The way their bodies moved perfectly in sync during the tango has left Wednesday restless. She cannot remember the last time anything has made her feel so.

A fire has stoked between them, in this little cat-and-mouse game. A fire that threatens to consume them both with one misstep. A fire that Wednesday yearns to touch again.

Enid will reach out, she knows it. A scandal this size of the mayor of New York? Would be a fool to pass on Wednesday’s offer.

An offer that Enid only knows a half of.

Her work phone buzzes.

1 AM. Corner of Water St and Old Fulton St.

All flames are bound to reduce to ashes eventually.

———

A crisp autumn night.

The matte black Aston Martin sits in the dark, a block away from the meeting location. Wednesday checks her gun again. The trusty Falcon is locked and loaded.

This meeting could be a trap set up by Enid or whoever had her phone. Can never be too careful.

20 minutes.

The weathered neon sign Late Night Pages above the unassuming bookshop flickers, casting an eerie glow over the quiet street. No signs of life. Wednesday is either too early or too late.

As if on cue, a figure approaches the shop’s entrance, whipping their head around to check if anyone is nearby before slipping inside. Though their face is obscured, the jitters from being shot up with caffeine is unmistakable.

It’s Enid.

Wednesday thrums her fingers on the steering wheels, waiting for any latecomers. An uneasy feeling nagged at her.

Just a few more minutes.

Gunshots.

Wednesday races towards the bookstore before the third shot rang out, the passenger door already unlocked.

“Get in!” she yells as Enid rushes out of the building and jumps into the car.

Foot hitting the gas pedal, Wednesday speeds off into the night.

———

“I was right. You are insanely hot,” Enid heaves, clutching the manila folder tightly to her chest.

Minutes after getting shot at and this is the first thing that comes out of her mouth. Bits of debris on her clothing and hair in disarray. Lucky how the blonde has escaped unscathed.

Mostly.

A bruise is already forming on her cheek. Some small cuts on her hands. Manageable.

Wednesday checks the rear mirror. “Seatbelt, Sinclair.”

A black SUV appears, headlights blazing. More shots firing at them. Enid ducks her head as stray bullets hit the bulletproof window. Gritting her teeth, Wednesday accelerates. She just had the car repainted last week.

“Your colleagues need a lesson in hospitality!” Enid yells.

“Not my colleagues. Amateurs.”

In one swift motion, Wednesday whips out her gun and shoots back. Misses. Can’t rid of these nuisances while she’s swerving like this.

“Keep her steady,” Wednesday flips a switch on her dashboard. The engine hums and jerks forward as the car shifts into auto-driving mode.

“What are yo-” Enid yelps, clambering over to hold the steering wheel.

Wednesday leans out of the window, hair whipping in the wind as she takes aim. With steady hands, she fires one single shot. Blood splatters from the driver's seat. The SUV swerves, its tyres screeching as it careens down the street and flips over several times before finally coming to a stop on its roof.

Back in her seat, Enid’s jaws drop. “You’re not a PI.”

“Keen observation as ever, Miss Sinclair,” Wednesday shifts her gear, not wanting to exert her engines.

“No, no, wait, so why are you after proof of corruption in the police department then?”

“The-” Wednesday halts. It clicks. “You don’t have the Lykaios file.”

She has wasted three weeks on a wild goose chase. But the Network intel is impeccable, how can there be a mistake? Especially when it’s such a decent bounty. Wednesday doubts there are two Enid Sinclair who are both prominent journalists and work at the New York Times in this city.

“What in the fresh hell is the Lykaios file?” Enid questions back.

“First, phone,” Wednesday holds out her hand, eyes still on the road. They’re approaching a bridge. “iCloud?”

“Uh, yeah?” Enid hesitates as she takes out her phone. Painfully pink and full of stickers. “I’ll deactivate-”

Wednesday snatches it from her hand and chucks the phone out into the coursing river below. Enid watches in shock as they cross the bridge, her expression a mix of anger and dismay.

“You just threw out the window nine months of instalments!! Are you serious?!”

Wednesday turns to the blonde with a you-can’t-be-for-real look on her face. But in front of her is a visibly upset Enid. And Wednesday finds herself unable to remain vexed at the blonde for some incomprehensible reasons.

“I’ll get you a new one,” Wednesday says, her tone soft. “Needed to slow down whoever’s tracking you before I get you off the grid.”

Enid drops her head on the dashboard and groans. “Don’t tell me you’re also going to kill me. I literally cannot deal with it right now.”

Wednesday hesitates before saying, “If it’s of any consolation to you, not anymore.”

The sentence comes out worse than how it sounded in her head.

“I know Krav Maga,” Enid mumbles from under her hair. “Don’t think I won’t use it on you just because you are ridiculously attractive.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Wednesday finds the corner of her mouth twitch.

Cute.

Wednesday swaps the thought away, what has gotten into her?

A few more turns and they will arrive at Wednesday’s place. If one could overlook the bizarre nature of the situation they are in, Enid is the first guest ever at Wednesday’s behest.

---

Enid drags herself after Wednesday into the apartment, visibly exhausted from the gruelling series of events from tonight. The blonde looks around the place, taking in the minimalist aesthetics. No clutter or unnecessary décor, just a few chosen pieces that add to the overall sense of sophistication.

“Maybe I should consider a career change.”

Wednesday hears Enid mutters to herself.

The living area is devoid of clutter, the furnishings are kept to a minimum. Clean lines and open spaces dominated the room. The plush, black sofa sits facing the windows before it lies a glass coffee table, a great place to watch sunrises when Wednesday couldn’t sleep.

Her kitchen is sleek and modern, with state-of-the-art appliances and a large island that serves as both a prep area and a breakfast bar. Perhaps Wednesday could make a full meal for more than one person at long last.

“I’ll show you the guest room,” Wednesday takes off her blazer and throws it on the sofa. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Get some rest first.”

A cosy room with a comfortable queen-sized bed adorned with plush pillows and soft blankets awaits Enid. Beside the bed is a floor-to-ceiling window that lets in plenty of natural light during the day.

“I’ll bring new clothes and something to clean your wounds in a bit. If you need anything, my room is on the other side of the apartment,” Wednesday says as she gives Enid a short tour.

“Why are you helping me?” Enid sits down on the bed. “You said my head is worth a million dollars, probably even more now that I apparently executed some goons sent by god-knows-who. Wouldn’t it be so easy to just do me- I mean, off me and collect the dollar?”

“Because you’re not the right target,” Wednesday takes off her cufflinks and begins rolling up her sleeves. She can feel Enid’s eyes follow her movements. “It’s against my code to fulfil an erroneous contract, no matter the reward. Someone fed us false intel to get rid of you.”

Enid furrows her eyebrows. “And you intend to find them via me? Wait, you’re gonna use me as bait?!”

Wednesday frowns. One, she doesn’t like the word ‘use’; two, that wasn’t exactly what she had in mind. Though Wednesday isn’t too sure what even she has in mind at the moment.

The adrenaline has receded like a tide, hesitancy begins making its nest.

“It’s an insider job. Rare but does happen on occasion. Once the Network found out, I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of the punishment,” Wednesday leans against the door frame, arms crossed. “And I still intend to locate the actual target who is in possession of the Lykaios files. Once a contract is accepted, I cannot back out without serious consequences.”

“So, you’re going to kill until you get it right?” Enid asks. A loaded question.

“You’re judging me,” Wednesday clicks her tongue. “Fair enough. I am a killer at the end of the day. But I am not an animal, Ms. Sinclair. I don’t kill innocents. And I don’t expect you to understand this, but it is my job to maintain the frail balance that’s barely keeping this depraved city together.”

Wednesday doesn’t understand why she felt the need to explain herself to a woman who barely knows her. How out-of-character.

“I- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like that,” Enid apologies. “But you must also understand how this situation must look like to an outsider like me. I just have a few questions. First of all, how do you even determine the equilibrium of your world? How do you know which contract to take? What does it take to order a hit?”

An investigative journalist at heart. Wednesday chews her inner cheek. Fiery and determined still, even after she almost died. A faint smouldering from the supposedly snubbed-out pyre rises.

“You want the truth, don’t you? Work with me, then. I’ll keep you alive and you’ll lead me to whoever is behind this,” Wednesday throws Enid the USB from her pocket. “The embezzlement proofs. Consider it a gratuity.”

She can see the cogs moving in Enid’s head. Like when Wednesday asked her about the files at the masquerade ball. A risk-taker, but not without calculation.

A range of conflicting emotions flashes on her face before Enid finally answers. “Alright, I’ll help you.”

“Welcome to the league then, Enid Sinclair,” Wednesday nods, satisfied with the answer.

She doesn’t want to know why Enid agreed, since a more important question begs her: how long has it been since Wednesday last had an interesting hunting companion?

Wednesday moves to leave when the blonde calls her back. “Wait. You never told me your name. Or do you want me to keep coming up with increasingly creative ways to call you a hottie?”

Not a bad idea, actually.

Wednesday entertains the thought but decides against it. The prospect of the sensations as her name rolls off Enid’s tongue is rather enthralling.

“Wednesday Addams.”

“I’ll see you in a bit then, Wednesday Addams,” Enid says, eyeing the woman before her.

Each syllable is enunciated. Measured and gradual. Like dripping candle wax on raw skin.

She mustn’t get burned.

---

Enid is still in the shower when Wednesday brings the first aid kit.

Almost 3 AM. She isn’t getting any sleep anyway.

Wednesday deliberates between leaving the kit or staying. The unnamed intuition slithers in.

It’s new.

This is someone who doesn’t flinch at the sight of Wednesday. Someone who is entirely all too human at the end of the day. Someone normal.

She’s getting ahead of herself. Enid almost died today, who’s to say the blonde can make it until the end? Plus, once this thing blows over, they’ll part ways anyway. Back to the lone path. To her endless sword dance until she’s fulfilled her purpose on this scorched Earth. Alone and dead. That would be her end.

The water stops.

“I’m not looking. Your pyjamas are on the bed,” Wednesday turns to face the wall.

“I’d say look all you want 'cause I’m a ten but don’t think I’m at my best right now,” Enid laughs, the pyjamas rustle as she puts them on. “You can turn around now.”

Is the ceaseless flirting an attempt to feign confidence, or is there a hint of truth within? The lack of sleep has somewhat dulled Wednesday’s instinct by this time of day. Must be the former reason.

“How are the wounds?” Wednesday opens the first aid kit.

“Zero out of ten, would not recommend,” the blonde shrugs, resting on the verge of the bed.

Too late at night and too early in the day for witty remarks, Wednesday only extends her hand and tilts her head, asking for permission.

Enid lifts her arms. A bullet graze and some scratches. Wednesday wordlessly begins cleaning the wounds.

Enid smells of lily and magnolia blossom, delicate and warm. Homely.

The acrid and sulphuric stench of gunpowder residue lingers on Wednesday. Death and destruction.

“Out of curiosity, how much do you know about me?” Enid asks. “Or more exactly, how long have you been keeping tabs on me? Just hit me with the facts, I won’t be mad.”

“Twenty-three days. Just your daily schedule and social circles.”

Straight to the point, no need to mince words.

“I knew I’d seen you somewhere! Thought I was going crazy when I told Yoko. You know Yoko, right?!” The blonde bounces up at this revelation. “Swear I saw you at the Weathervane and the hospital. I don’t forget pretty faces easily.”

Perhaps Enid’s environmental awareness isn’t all bad after all.

“I am conscious of your close relationship with Ms. Tanaka, you have coffee with her every two days,” Wednesday doesn’t look up as she cleans the grazed skin with a cotton swab.

Enid hisses as the sterile saline touches her skin, but Wednesday gently holds her arm still. “Apologies, just a bit more. I need to remove the debris from the wound, wouldn’t want it to get infected.”

“If only all doctors are this gentle,” Enid says. “Ooh, how about I quiz you about myself, see how much you got on me?”

Wednesday arches her eyebrow. “Are you insinuating that I am inadequate in my profession?”

“Nooooo, nothing like that,” Enid pouts a little. “Come on, we’re stuck together, aren’t we? Humour me just the tiniest bit? Please?”

Wednesday has always been immune to such a banal persuasion tactic. Apparently not. Because the knot in her stomach tightens at the sight.

“Fine. Go ahead,” Wednesday picks up the debris with a pair of tweezers.

“What’s my drink of choice?”

“If this is your attempt to make me recite that Emma D’Arcy video, try harder next time.” Now apply a sterile bandage to the graze. “In the morning, at least two iced lattes. When you meet Ms. Tanaka, a mocha, or a frappe. After 4 PM, another two iced lattes. You have a caffeine problem.”

Enid fails to suppress her smile. “Lookie lookie, she’s hot and funny. Go on, tell me what else you noticed.”

Wednesday moves on to the other cuts.

“You live an awfully dull life with terrible schedules. Every time you visit the hospital, you haul enough toys for a village for the kids that you interview. SEVENTEEN is your favourite K-Pop group and you have multiple popular fanfics on AO3. Your current favourite song is Goodluck Babe by Chappelle Roan. Pink is your go-to colour, but on rainy days you prefer purple or burgundy. Your apartment gave me migraines the first time I broke in to plant bugs. Among your plethora of plushies, you prize the tattered unicorn that lives on your bed the most. Enough?”

The wounds are all cleaned. Only the bruise on the cheek is left.

The blonde regards her for a moment, stunted, and Wednesday gets the feeling she’s being carefully considered.

“Cute,” she says, eyes glinting. “Even my boyf-”

“Ex-boyfriend. You broke up with him at Le Bernadin nineteen days ago,” Wednesday dilutes the lavender oil in a bowl of coconut oil, hoping the low light in the room hides how the brief yet godawful compliment has turned her ears red.

A slight bother as Wednesday felt the need to correct that Ajax Petropolus is no longer a romantic interest to Enid. She’s all about veritable facts.

“That free bottle was from you? I thought Yoko was playing a prank on me,” Enid gasps. “Oh my god, you could have poisoned me.”

“Had I found the documents, that would’ve been a possible scenario,” Wednesday dibs a cotton pad into the oil bowl. “I did intend to terminate you after finding the files.”

“Not even this pretty face can save me from being assassinated?” the blonde points at her face in jest, cracking up. “Now that’s a sur-”

Wednesday lifts Enid’s chin with a finger. The shenanigans end. Her lips agape.

Soft.

“Hold still,” Wednesday says, dabbing the pad onto the bruise with utter tenderness.

Enid swallows. Visibly. Audibly.

This is the closest they’ve been since the masquerade ball. Without the masks, the false sense of bravado washes away. Her traitorous hand is beckoning Enid closer. Someone’s breath hitches. The knot in her stomach tightens again. It’s going to be unbearable at this rate.

Wednesday needs to excuse herself.

“All done. I’ll leave the oil here for you in case the bruise aches,” Wednesday stands up, albeit a tad too fast. Her head feels dizzy. “Good night, Enid Sinclair.”

Enid looks up. A second before she collects herself.

“Good night, Wednesday Addams.”

ENID

The smell of pancakes wakes Enid, interrupting her pleasant dream. A dream that consists of soft lips and warm brown eyes. She touches her chin, where Wednesday’s fingers held last night. A fluttering butterfly lands on her heart as Enid remembers the sensation, timid and filled with a kind of indescribable anticipation. Under the mellow yellow light, Wednesday was kind and considerate, soothing Enid’s fear of the unknown.

Enid clutches the pillow beside her, inhaling deep, indulging herself for a little while longer, allowing her mind to wander through the garden of possibilities.

Sunlight fills her room; the bustling city seems so quiet from this height.

Last night wasn’t a dream.

Enid stares at the ceiling, piecing the puzzles together.

Someone wants her dead. Badly.

Why go through all the hassle to frame her for stealing from the Lykaios though? Why not pay for a direct hit?

Wednesday told her while they were in the car last night that if one could afford the cost, no reasons are required to order a contract.

She reaches for the USB on the nightstand and examines it, the metal case glints in the sunlight. At least Enid has a solid story now. Hell, she could start a whole project about the modern crime network in New York, which is one sure way to land another contract on your head.

Her mind wanders back to Wednesday. Whatever happened at the masquerade, was it all a façade? If it weren’t, then Wednesday must be one hell of an actress, faking chemistry like that is no simple feat.

Enid wants to be wrong, though. She remembers again how tender Wednesday treated her last night. The assassin could’ve ignored her, or worse, imprisoned Enid completely. Wouldn’t surprise Enid if that happened, but Wednesday offered her a partnership instead.

Does she agree with Wednesday’s career and method? Not necessarily. But Enid can recognise when someone is doing something just to survive. And Wednesday somehow fits that category.

Taking lives in order to live.

Enid almost pitied her. But she remembers what people hate the most. Pity.

Condolences, then. That in combination with her growing crush on the assassin is confusing Enid. Her attraction toward the broody assassin is oddly not duller at any rate, even after learning of Wednesday’s career. She should be disgusted, but the way Wednesday talked about her work as something that’s meaningful, not simply senseless bloodlust must have made Enid reconsider.

What does Wednesday mean by keeping the city balance? Do hitmen have preferences? Or is Wednesday a different type of hitmen?

The questions swim around her head, and demand to be answered.

Enid makes a mental note to persuade Wednesday to partake in her potential crime research project, that is if she gets out of this mess in one piece.

---

Enid ambles into the kitchen, the weight of her slumber still clinging to her as she stifles a yawn. Wednesday is standing by the stove, the last of the blueberry pancakes set neatly on a plate.

“Is there anything you’re not good at?” the blonde asks, slipping onto a barstool at the kitchen island, her bleary eyes tracing the clean lines of Wednesday's form.

Wednesday doesn’t reply, instead turning to Enid with a small, neutral expression.

“Your bruise is healing well. Do the wounds on your arms still hurt?” Wednesday walks over to check on Enid.

A moment of hesitation, then a slender finger gently lifts Enid's chin, tilting her face upwards. The simple touch sends rippling chills down her spine. Wednesday is close enough for Enid to smell her perfume. Far from overwhelming, it’s subtle and deep, curling around her like smoke.

Hair in tight braids, a sleek black suit, guns at the shoulder holster, the woman facing Enid dresses to kill.

Desires divulge.

Strong undertows catch her off-guard, pulling Enid down. It takes every ounce of her control not to lean into Wednesday, not to trace her fingertips along the sharp line of her jaw, not to bury her face in the crook of her neck and inhale lungfuls of that intoxicating scent.

It reminds Enid of the ease with which Wednesday shifted from a deadly predator hunting their pursuers last night to the gentlest creature handling Enid as though she were made of delicate glass. The duality is as confounding as it is alluring.

Is it strange that Enid finds the dichotomy undeniably appealing? Or in layman’s terms, insanely hot?

Before she could fully register the thought, Wednesday had already walked away, the comfortable space between them suddenly cold and empty. In her hands, Wednesday holds a steaming mug of coffee and a phone, both of which she places before Enid

“Your office thinks you’re doing fieldwork today. Here’s your new phone, everything is encrypted. You might want to text Ms. Tanaka back. She’s left 40 voice messages.”

“Good god, yep, gotta reply before girlie goes to her dad, or worse, the cops,” Enid chugs her coffee and unlocks the phone. “How did you get everything so quickly?”

“It’s in my job description,” Wednesday replies, her tone flat.

Perhaps I did misread the entire thing after all.

Regardless, the pancakes are divine. Is culinary skill a requirement for hitmen nowadays as well? Enid doesn’t realise how hungry she is until the first bite. Groaning in contentment, she wolfs down the plate in minutes. When she looks up, Enid finds Wednesday watching her, an amused twinkle in her eyes as she quietly sips her tea.

Perhaps not.

“You didn’t poison this, did you?” Enid jests through a mouthful. “Cause if you did, what a way to go.”

The amused look is replaced by an eye roll.

“Okay, since you know so much about me already, can I ask you some more questions?” Enid ventures. Everything is a two-way street, right?

“Depends on what you ask, but go ahead,” Wednesday nods.

Not annoyed, always a good sign.

“What do you mean by keeping the city’s balance? Are there people who deserve to die more than others in your view?”

Hard-hitting questions right off the bat. Enid’s never been one to miss. She knows Wednesday can take them.

“It’s a family tradition. We protect the secrets of our world and punish those who break the rules. It’s complicated,” Wednesday explains, choosing her words carefully. “For example, if you had the Lykaios file and shared it with the world, more innocent lives will be lost rather than those who are guilty. It’s believed that the Lykaios family invests heavily in philanthropic work. If the file got out, imagine how many orphans would be killed as retaliation from rival families?”

Enid immediately thinks of the journalists who had been assassinated for doing just that. Sharing the truth with the world. She mumbles. “My God, all those journalists who perished because they exposed the rich and powerful.”

“I do not care for billionaires and warlords. And I hate politicians. If it eases your mind, I do take contracts on them more often than not,” Wednesday purses her lips. “It’s not about protecting specific individuals per se, but more so how can I prevent the unnecessary loss of life. A mean to an end.”

Enid squints. “Right, like a criminal version of vigilantism?”

The way Wednesday tilts her head and then bites her lips distracted Enid, making the next queued-up question momentarily slip off her mind. Enid shakes her head, focusing on the conversation at hand.

“That is applicable to me, but not to my family nor my ancestors.”

The question came back to Enid.

“Are you still in contact with your family?”

Wednesday’s face hardens at the question. Ouch. Tough topic. “Sometimes.”

This whole crime vigilante thing is difficult to comprehend, but Enid thinks she’s getting it. The final curt answer tells Enid this conversation is over. For now.

---

“Must you return to your apartment? If not torn apart by now, it would be under tight surveillance,” Wednesday puts the plates into the dishwasher. “Just tell me what you need, and I’ll get it for you.”

What does she need?

It is simple, really. Like that tango they had, Enid needs just the feel of Wednesday pressing against her, the tantalizing glide of her hand up Enid's thigh, the electrifying graze of her slender fingers, the possibility of a heated-

“I’ve hidden some documents in unlikely places. They should still be there,” Enid interrupts her own fanciful thoughts, determined with her decision. “If you couldn’t find them, I doubt anyone else could. Trust me, it’ll be quicker if I come with you.”

Wednesday puts down her now empty cup, eyes narrowed.

Enid can tell she’s considering the proposal, battling against her instincts. So, Enid results to the only move she knows has worked on Wednesday so far to tip the balance: pouting.

The hesitation in Wednesday's features melts away, replaced with a resigned nod. “Alright. But stay close and follow my instructions, understand?”

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

WEDNESDAY

The apartment is unrecognisable.

Ransacked. The place was made to look like an amateur robbery. Clothes flung around, drawers wrenched open, all valuables gone.

Enid seems unfazed by the chaos before her eyes. “As expected. Now if you would be so kind to lend me a hand here.”

She heads straight into the kitchen, nodding with a satisfied grin at the untouched dishwasher and proceeds to tug it out from its recess beneath the counter.

“As expected?” Wednesday asks, nudging Enid aside and effortlessly hauling the appliance out herself.

“Not the first time I’ve been burgled,” Enid confesses with nonchalance, retrieving a parcel taped to the rear of the dishwasher. “Why do you think I’m not surprised when you admitted to spying on me? Post-Arab Spring, I had the Mukhabarat tailing me for a year.”

A fact that did not show up in any of Eugene’s reports. This woman keeps getting more interesting by the minute.

Enid squats down, pointing at the wall behind where the dishwasher once was. “May I request those sturdy legs of yours to bust through this patch of wall? Don’t worry, it’s hollow inside. Sealed the thing up myself.”

“You’re full of surprises, Miss Sinclair.” Wednesday kneels and grips onto the counter above the empty space, testing to see if it can hold her weight. Bracing herself, Wednesday delivers one decisive kick through the drywall. The sound reverberates through the apartment as dust and debris fall on the floor.

Two more kicks widen the hole to a sizeable opening, through which Enid deftly retrieves a duffel bag.

“I can say the same about you, Miss Addams,” the blonde winks in return. Such an irritating propensity to ruffle Wednesday’s calm is unheard of, and yet, Wednesday finds herself unable to look away.

The damn knot tightens.

A series of knocks at the door startles them.

Gun in hand, silencer attached, Wednesday moves to cover the door, her senses heightened.

“Enid? I can hear you in there. Come on, we can talk this out!” A desperate plea.

Recognition crosses Enid's face, followed by a groan. “It’s Ajax. Let me deal with him. Just a minute.”

“Could be a ruse. I’ll answer it,” Wednesday holds Enid back by the hand. Soft and warm.

She conceals the gun behind her back and creaks open the door.

Ajax stands with a look of confusion on his face. “Uh…You’re not Enid?”

“Observant. She’s busy. Leave,” Wednesday slams the door, but Ajax’s foot stops it.

“Ouch!” he yelps, then cries through the pain. “I know she’s in there! Baby, we were so good together. Just give me another chance, I promise I’ll be better!” He cranes his neck to peer past Wednesday, his insistence grating on her patience.

“Mr. Petropolus, you’re causing a disturbance,” Wednesday coolly points out, contemplating whether shooting his foot would be too drastic a measure. They’ve been here too long and need to get out. “Enid is busy.”

“How do you know my name?! And how do I know you’re not some burglar and is holding her hostage?” Ajax demands. “Let me see her or I’m calling the cops!”

An arm snakes over Wednesday’s hip as the door opens just enough to keep the ransacked interior hidden from Ajax.

“Hi, Ajax. I didn’t want to make this awkward for you,” Enid offers him a tight-lipped smile, pressing herself close to Wednesday. “But I sincerely meant it when I said we're better off as friends, and I hope you respect my boundaries.”

Wednesday counts her breaths in her head. There are no masks to hide behind here, no dance floor for distraction, just the tangible tension lacing the air.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Her gun hand wraps around Enid, still concealed behind the door.

“All our time together and you’re moving on already?!” Ajax exclaims.

“We dated for three months, Ajax, not three years. I gave the whole dating thing a try because I didn’t want to hurt your feelings! And when I said we may not be the best fit after the first month, you insisted to keep trying for a little while longer. I stayed for the sake of our friendship, which was a mistake,” Enid exasperates.

Seeing how Ajax struggles through five stages of grief in the span of a few seconds is almost comical. Wednesday fires the final round.

“We’re in the middle of something if you don’t mind,” she says, co*cking her head.

Ajax is aghast, turning away in disbelief as Wednesday locks the door behind him. She gets the feeling this might not be the last of it. Tenacious exes are pestilent.

“I’m so glad you didn’t shoot him,” Enid turns to Wednesday, beaming. “We really sold it back there, didn’t we?”

“I have principles, Enid. I don’t just go around shooting random people. The real question here is have you motioned for anything to prevent him from bothering you again?”

The turtleneck feels tight around her neck. It’s too stuffy in here.

Enid’s expression turns sour, and Wednesday suddenly feels guilty for asking in the first place.

“You know how long Ajax has been my friend already. I thought it’d be a good idea to give it a go because he’s always been so sweet. Then turns out, he only liked the easy version of me, the easy part of me to love, you know? A restraining order would probably be the last straw, and knowing Ajax, he could never understand how I could do that to him.”

A blossom stepped on and clung to the sole of her shoe, Wednesday stopped to admire the inherent allure in accidents. Beauty doesn’t equate with a lack of damage. She asks herself what Enid’s story is?

No, she mustn’t. Such a train of thought will only lead to undesirable results, such as growing fondness for a certain nosy journalist that she now must keep safe.

---

Wednesday rings the one entity in the Network she knows she can bank on.

“I need to know who ordered this contract - the exact name.”

“Officially, it’s the Lykaios. But you've never been one for such formalities before,” the sultry voice flows through, like silk. “Someone’s making trouble for you, child?”

“Plenty,” Wednesday presses her gas. An unmarked sedan with tinted window trails behind them. A traffic-lit intersection looms ahead. “A name. Now.”

A brief silence.

“One moment.”

The chances of a gunfight ensuing in broad daylight are low. Not in a city teeming with prying eyes. This isn’t Chicago. But then, Wednesday doesn’t want to try her luck, better save it for another day.

The sedan lingers a few vehicles back. Ten seconds until the traffic light turns red. Wednesday revs her engine, waiting. Cars honk behind her.

One second.

The Aston Martin charges forth, leaving the stagnant sedan in its wake.

“Mr. Tyler Galpin of the Lykaios family is your person of interest,” the polished voice returns in her earpiece. “Try not to riddle our client with bullet holes, dear. It’s bad for business.”

“Will try,” Wednesday mumbles. “Thanks, Larissa.”

A quick shift to another contact on her phone.

“B-Boy, run this name for me. Tyler Galpin. G-A-L-P-I-N. Lykaios family. Make it quick. Ping me once you're done.”

The entire car ride, Enid has been sitting in silence, unaware of the chase, sifting through the documents they retrieved from her apartment.

“Is that the guy who ordered my hit?”

“Supposedly. Until Eugene gets back with more intel, it’s all conjecture,” Wednesday weaves through the city with practised ease, making sure they’ve lost the tail.

“So, how did you start working with Eugene? He doesn’t seem like the hitman type.”

“Long story.”

“I’ve got time. Or would you rather hear me compliment your chiselled features for the rest of the ride? Where are we going anyway?”

Journalists and their endless questions.

Wednesday realised this was the most conversation she had had in years, and as loathsome as she is to admit it, Wednesday finds these inane exchanges with Enid anything but tiresome.

Though she appreciates how her solitude sanctuary helps with the job, the silence sometimes gets too loud and gnaws at her. Such is an immutable part of her existence. So far, Wednesday could only drown it out with her cello, or by taking up high-stake contracts. Having a chatty companion was the last thing to cross her mind.

The woman sitting by Wednesday has crashed into her life like a comet. Burning and inexorable. Setting her world ablaze.

Wicked venom curses through her blood, intensifying the more time she spends with Enid, the longer this goes on, the less of a chance Wednesday has to return back to where she came from – her eternal pit of suffering. Has Enid stoked a strange ember that Wednesday had never thought could exist within her since she’s laid eyes on the blonde?

Perhaps.

Has Enid confounded Wednesday with an inequitable level of incongruity at the same time?

Absolutely.

Yet, it’s not as if Wednesday leads a typical life herself.

“You’ll like it. We’re going shopping.”

ENID

Situated at the tail end of a dilapidated alley on the fringes of the city, this friend of Wednesday’s residence is reminiscent of the dark, grimy corners of Gotham where Bruce Wayne's parents met their unfortunate end.

The entrance to the dingy building is a nondescript door with a small window covered in dust and grime.

“Your friend isn't going to, y'know...off me, right?” Enid ventures.

“Not if you behave,” Wednesday replies nonchalantly and looks around as she parks.

“You can tell me to how to behave any day, Miss Addams,” Enid winks.

The blonde has started a list of the things she does that draw out the faintest inkling of a smile or intrigue from Wednesday. Winking is quickly gaining traction, easily top three.

Enid isn't quite sure how to interpret the look Wednesday gifts her with in return though—threat or amusem*nt, it's anyone's guess.

Far from delusional, Enid knows a ‘moment’ when she experiences one. And last night in that dimly lit bedroom, they had a moment.

A moment that kindles to their masquerade.

If Wednesday isn’t that into her. Fine. Enid can deal with rejection well. But a bit of harmless flirting doesn’t kill anyone, especially when there is a very tangible threat over her head.

Let a girl live.

Not her fault that her assassin in shining armour was ridiculously attractive, even more so when she studied the dossier on Tyler Galpin that Eugene had sent earlier. Something about that focus, intense look. Sculpted by the gods themselves.

Tyler Galpin is but a greenhorn who desperately wants to impress the family by branching out to other ventures other than his club, the Hyde. Nestled within the city's bustling heart, Hyde's members-only policy attracts the crests of the wealthy and influential. Tyler oversees the club himself and is on-site most nights, forever flanked by his personal bodyguards and a bevvy of beautiful women.

Thorough as always, Eugene has forwarded a blueprint of the club as well.

Though Enid hasn’t asked, she can get a vague idea of what Wednesday meant by going shopping after reading the report.

“You can stay here if you want,” Wednesday offers.

“Oh no, absolutely not. I’ll be clinging to you like a koala thank you very much,” Enid shakes her head and follows Wednesday to the door.

---

A tall, Mexican man in his fifties with an impressive moustache greets the pair inside. His striking appearance startled Enid at first glance. The man looks like he has just been resurrected by Frankenstein, his body covered in scars and black stitches. And to top it all off, a gleaming hook in place of his right hand.

Despite the imposing look, his eyes hold a gentle warmth that puts Enid at ease.

“Thing, this is Enid Sinclair. Enid, meet Thing,” Wednesday introduces them.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Thing?” Enid greets, uncertain. An odd name for an odd man.

The tall man bows and signs. “Just Thing, please. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Sinclair. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? Explosives?”

“Thing is a curator of, well, things. He’s a family friend. You can’t find gears better elsewhere. State your need and he’ll most likely have it,” Wednesday explains as they make their way further into the shop.

Despite the dishevelled appearance, the shop looks well-maintained and operates on a system all its own. Oddities, from relics of antiquity to cutting-edge gadgets, crowd the shelves. The room is permeated by the scent of timeworn books, the air alive with the rhythmic ticking of countless clocks.

A peculiar shop, but no sign of anything remotely violent here. Wednesday surely won’t be bringing some dusty ass books to confront a mobster.

“Going clubbing. Any suggestions?” Wednesday asks.

If Enid didn’t know better, she’d think they were shopping for a night out. Though their definitions of parties might differ slightly.

Thing nods. He stops before a small shelf and presses on a brick next to it. The shelf clicks and slides slowly to the side, revealing a hidden lift.

He gestures for them to enter.

---

Down the lift is a macabre exhibition of mortality’s enemies. From sleek back pistols to rifles and all sorts of knives and blades, all manners of lethal implements are neatly arranged on display.

The total opposite of the cluttered store upstairs.

“I trust your Falcon is still serving you well, but a little extra fun can’t hurt,” Thing muses, lifting a gun from beneath the counter. “May I suggest the custom SIG Sauer P320? Comes with a recontoured grip and flared magwells. Compact and powerful.”

Wednesday lifts the gun, testing the weight and balance in her hand. Empty barrel, quick reload.

“And for backup,” Thing takes a blade from the rack of knives behind him. “Custom ceramic tanto, serrated for maximum penetration and tearing. Perfect for getting up close and… personal in the club. Freshly stoned.”

Fits well. Wednesday twirls the tanto in her hand before sheathing it. The fluid show of skill drives Enid with an urge. She abhors violence, but there’s something about the way Wednesday handles deadly weaponry. Beauty in death. How ironic.

“This will suffice for tonight,” Wednesday slides three gold coins across the counter for Thing and points towards Enid. “No partying for this one. Preventive measures are appreciated.”

Thing rolls his moustache. “Ah yes, I’ve got just the thing for Miss Sinclair. One moment.”

As Thing retreats into the backroom, Enid walks up to Wednesday. She has spent the last ten minutes checking out Thing’s arsenal. Bewilderment is an understatement.

“Big night out you got planned there.”

“If Mr. Galpin proves reasonable, there's no need for a bloodbath. The less attention we draw, the better,” Wednesday says as she browses the suppressor's section.

Wednesday only wants to find the file and the right target.

“And what if he refuses to see reason?” Enid picks up a random suppressor. She understands unnecessary feuds with entrenched families are unwise. No need to paint even a bigger target on their backs.

“SilencerCo. Omega model. Excellent choice, Miss Sinclair,” Wednesday relieves Enid of the suppressor. “He will. One way or another. I’ll make sure of it.”

Their hands touch. Briefly.

“I’m guessing the club doesn’t have a plus one policy.”

Their shoulders brush as Enid leans against the display case. Enid couldn’t help but gravitate toward Wednesday.

“No. I’ll drop you at hom- my place.” The slip hasn’t gone unnoticed, Enid likes the sound of that. “You can keep track of the situation and communicate with me via my earpiece. Shouldn’t take me too long.”

“I know you do this for a living but please be careful,” Enid smooths out the lapel of Wednesday’s blazer. “Might do a series on modern crime networks and you’re at the top of my interview list.”

A convenient armrest. Enid can smell the familiar cologne on Wednesday. How comforting. What she’d do to bury her face at the crook of Wednesday’s neck right now.

“Aside from the fact that you’ll probably be hunted the minute you pitch the project, what gives you the idea I’ll ever put my face on your documentary?” Wednesday swallows.

“Oh, I’m definitely not putting you on screen. Your pretty face is too distracting, the audience will forget what the plot is,” Enid gives her a sly smile, an eyebrow arched.

This cheap tactic cannot work on Wednesday, can it? Enid has always liked to try her luck.

“Flattery won’t work on my colleagues when they’re hunting you down, Miss Sinclair.”

The hand at her lapel is tugging at Wednesday.

A millimetre closer.

Then two.

And three.

“Does it mean it’s working on you, Miss Addams? Oh, and are your colleagues the only ones I should expect? Don’t I merit your attention?”

Enid knows too well what she’s doing. Her bratty self seems to have an extemporaneous effect on the stoic assassin.

Wednesday looks like she’s about to pass out.

The backroom door creaks. Thing is back with two form-fitting tank tops.

“Am I interrupting?” He signs, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Just checking out some gears,” Wednesday grabs two flash bangs and marches back to the glass counter, heart pounding. “What have you got?”

“Cutting-edge body armour for Miss Sinclair. Manufactured from the same material as the inner lining of your suit: silicon carbide discs, ceramic matrices, and accompanying laminates. Designed for maximum comfort and flexibility. Completely bullet proof.”

“Wickedd,” Enid marvels at the article. “You’re a wizard, Thing.”

Wednesday leans back and squints. How Enid goes from a brat asking to be disciplined to a wide-eyed, curious little thing is baffling.

“I’d advise against-”

“Getting shot in the face?” Enid finger guns.

Thing nods, grinning.

“And a complimentary gift for my newest customer,” he pulls out a sleek pen from a black velvet case. “You won’t find a second one anywhere else.”

“Ooh, is this one of those spy pens that can record video covertly?”

“Not just any spy pen,” Thing twists the cap, springing out a razor-sharp blade. “If you prefer a more discreet approach, press the side button for the poison dart. Black mamba venom, enough to take down a horse.”

A pained expression on Enid’s face as she sucks air through her teeth. “Yep, definitely a last resort for me.”

“For your investigative needs, press the top of the cap to trigger the video and audio recording function,” Thing withdraws the blade and hands the pen to Enid. “Last but not least, the ink flow is impeccable.”

Enid takes Thing by surprise as she lunges into a hug, her tiny frame wraps around the towering man. “Thank you, Thing. I don’t have anything on me now but promise I’ll get you something the next time we meet.”

Thing gives Wednesday a thumbs up and a wink, his hook patting Enid’s back.

“Ever the generous one, old friend,” Wednesday disregards the cheeky gesture and heads for the exit with Enid.

“Happy clubbing, Miss Addams,” Thing signs in goodbye.

---

Wednesday almost swerves into traffic as Enid takes off her top.

“Enid!”

“Wednesday!”

“What are you doing?!” Wednesday hisses.

“Putting on my bulletproof vest? I’d like to maximise my protection whenever I can, thank you very much.”

Enid makes an excellent point, and she knows it. She also makes an excellent observation at how red Wednesday is getting. The blonde was a cheerleader in high school, changing in front of others is not something she sweats over. It’s not like she’s naked or anything.

Besides, the windows are tinted.

The raven-haired woman only grunts in response.

Testing the water has never been more entertaining.

“Perfect fit,” Enid comments, stretching in the tank top.

She doesn’t miss the way Wednesday glances at her, lingering just a second too long.

“Sorry for distracting you, I’ll give you a warning next time,” Enid tries to sound apologetic.

She’s not sorry at all. Lady of Luck has befallen Wednesday, as Enid is getting more and more comfortable around her. Anything to get a similar reaction out of the stoic assassin again.

“I was avoiding a squirrel,” Wednesday mumbles.

“The road seemed clear to me.”

“How would you know if you were changing?”

“Why were your eyes not on the road then?”

“It’s called peripheral visions, Miss Sinclair.”

Enid bites back the urge to ask if Wednesday liked what she saw, given how her knuckles have gone white from gripping the steering wheel. Maybe later. One push at a time.

WEDNESDAY

The next few days dwindle away in Wednesday's office.

An antique haven with walls lined by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stuffed to bursting with old tomes, ledgers, and journals. Refined and polished. A separate world from the rest of the penthouse.

The duffle bag that they had retrieved from Enid’s apartment doesn't offer much assistance to their current predicament, all is intel about the mayor. The blonde has evidently been investigating him for some time, yet none of the documents support their current case. Just a whole lot of shady side dealings and questionable transactions.

“I’ve put your files in here,” Wednesday says, lifting a section of the Oriental rug to reveal a wooden floorboard. She pulls up the board, and a hidden compartment fits snugly underneath. A secret safe.

“Amazeballsss! Can you teach me how to make one?” Enid pleads. “Wouldn’t have to dig a hole out of my apartment anymore.”

Wednesday's stern demeanour softens a little, her lips twitching upward as she nods.

Does Wednesday dislike the fact that she is slowly yet awfully opening up to this incarnated cheerful ball of sunshine? Yes, she does.

But then again, when was the last time that Wednesday found herself growing soft on someone? Never. Not even Pugsley, and don’t even think about her parents.

“Do you like your life? Or your job?” Enid kneels beside Wednesday, wisping the thoughts away.

“I don’t recall agreeing to any further interview.”

“It’s not. I just want to get to know you,” Enid persists. “We’re partners now, aren’t we?”

Sealing the safe with a heavy click, Enid gives Wednesday an unreadable look. The same look in Enid’s eyes when they tango, when she’s tending to Enid wounds, or when they had breakfast together this morning.

“I do my job because it is a duty. A fealty. I am bounded to this life,” Wednesday says quietly.

Wednesday remembers the day she took up her first contract. Unlike her peers, she didn’t get an exhilarating sense of chill down her spines, much to her relief. Rather, it was much like grief. For every time Wednesday pulled the trigger, a little more of her humane side died away, while the beast grew and grew.

Rage. Caged away, barely confined within Wednesday. A part of her is terrified of what might happen if the beast is let loose. She always aims to grant whoever finds themselves at the end of her barrel a quick death. Living is suffering enough.

Perhaps sharing with an almost stranger might help with containing her own fiend. A stranger who makes the knots inside Wednesday tighten any time she looks at her. The candle burns and burns, and Wednesday wonders how long it can last.

“It’s an oath we take. I will serve, and I will be of service,” she pins Tyler’s photo on the evidence board. “Once you are in, the only way out is death. I chose this path willingly, knowing the consequences. I-”

Wednesday hesitates. How much is too much? She’s only known Enid for a few days, and Wednesday already wants her around. Maybe this is what people mean when they say puppies and kittens will grow on you, any kind of resistance is futile.

Enid follows, listening intently.

Wednesday draws strings across the board, arranging the collected intel.

“There are rules that I must follow, failing to do so will make me an excommunicado, an outcast. Hunted by all and sheltered by none. We abide by them, unquestioning since rules are the only thing that separates us from the animals.”

“Are you breaking any rules right now?” Enid asks, looking concerned. “Technically, you’re harbouring a target, right?”

“The High Table, each member represents one of the twelve biggest crime families in New York, make the rules. My ‘vigilantism’ may only stretch so far under them,” Wednesday replies matter-of-factly.

Larissa must know by now Wednesday is tipping the razor edge, one wrong move, and the entire city will be hunting for Wednesday. But it’s Larissa. She has always trusted Wednesday, no matter the odds. This time, it’s no different.

The board, though not exactly teeming with information, at least now has some structure. Tyler smirks at them from the centre.

“Why can’t you just report it to the High Table?” Enid looks at her photo.

“Without concrete proof, it’s unlikely they’ll heed my case. It’s your word against one of the oldest crime families in New York,” Wednesday leans back on her leather office chair.

“Why did you believe me then?” Enid perches on the desk, facing Wednesday. “If all you have are my words.”

“Intuition,” Wednesday knits her hands together as she looks at Enid.

She has already run through this scenario hundreds of times before. If one day, all the odds are turned against Wednesday, forcing her to be on the run, what would she do? What would she risk? What would she be?

This woman before Wednesday is possibly the closest that scenario has ever gotten to reality. And somehow, Wednesday gets a feeling she wouldn’t mind that at all. If all goes to hell, not that they are already halfway there, then the thought of Enid has her companion comforts Wednesday.

Her heart surges at the implication of the thought.

What is Wednesday doing? This is unlike her.

Wednesday works with what she has, not with the faint idea of possibilities and false promises. But Enid is here, and she’s real, and if Wednesday isn’t wrong-

“What else does your intuition tell you?” Enid crosses her legs, not missing how Wednesday’s eyes follow the movement of her calves.

A brief silence.

“That you enjoy this,” Wednesday says, an octave lower, locking her gaze on Enid. Her desire won.

Just one more time, Wednesday tells herself. Before this calamity ends.

“Enjoy what exactly?” Enid leans in, eyes a shade darker. The tank top she’s wearing suddenly feels too revealing.

The air is thick with wants. Whose? Wednesday is not sure. This suffocation feels good. Too good. Her pulse hammers.

“Playing with fire.”

“Told you I like taking risks,” Enid says, enunciating on the last word.

The way Enid licks her lips, taking in the sight before her, drives Wednesday one more step to just say f*ck it and dive in. A shaky breath escapes her.

Slender fingers find Enid’s chin, chill as marble, bringing the blonde closer to Wednesday. The way Enid’s breath hitches only floods Wednesday further with wants. Enid shivers as Wednesday whispers into her ear, warm breath tingling against the blonde.

“I warned you, don’t bite off more than you can chew, Miss Sinclair.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, Wednesday adds as she releases the hold, but not before grazing her lips past Enid’s cheeks. “Let me show you how to operate the earpiece.”

---

What happened in the office was not what Wednesday had intended at all.

She knows Enid has been pressing her buttons since they’ve met. Only naturally she wanted to give Enid a little taste of her own medicine. It is only by chance that Wednesday finds any semblance of entertainment within the act itself.

But the temptation to wipe away the smugness on the blonde’s face with her lips was too great. She realised the unnamed intuition is a kind of ravenous hunger that can only be satisfied by letting the primal side of her take over.

Though there lays the question of how far Wednesday is willing to let her beast sink its teeth into this banquet of enticement. She was more than ready to pin Enid down on the desk to show her what it meant to play with fire. Wednesday gets an inkling that Enid will be more than eager to find out.

Their lives are not supposed to overlap at any point. To be more precise, the only time Wednesday crosses somebody else’s life is when she snuffs it out of them. Wednesday never sees herself belonging to anywhere or anyone, only in death.

How sardonic that Wednesday now finds herself-

What would be the right word?

Charmed.

By someone she was supposed to kill. At least not anymore. Not at the moment.

Fates can be quaint. And rather cruel. Wednesday learned that at a young age.

It will pass. It must. For there is no future for her, or for them. She cannot let it go on any further. She chases the beast of desire away.

Her mind tells her to keep their distance, but her intuition is begging her to stay. All shall have to wait until after her meeting with Tyler.

ENID

The fridge is organised and well-stocked for someone who lives alone. Enid knows hers has a half-eaten cheese pack and two bottles of Corona. The bar is low.

Wednesday has asked to be left alone to concentrate on the preparation for the infiltration tonight with Eugene. So, Enid finds herself in the kitchen after submitting her paid-time-offs form and posting some fake travelling photos abroad just so her friends don’t get concerned.

Somewhere remote, which can explain her lack of communication with the outside world. Tahiti. Sounds convincing enough.

Enid needs some time for herself as well, to cool off. The way that Wednesday can effortlessly make Enid’s head dizzy with wants is utterly ridiculous. God knows it takes Enid at least three lame pick-up lines and one risqué move to even stir Wednesday in the slightest.

Whatever is going on between them, Enid likes it. She doubts Wednesday is serious about any of this, but a small side of her, how embarrassingly, wants to ask Wednesday out on a date.

Enid is cute, Wednesday is hot, the banters are great, and saying they have zero chemistry is like saying birds don’t fly. Well, some species don’t fly, but Enid can see the desire in their eyes in all those wildlife documentaries.

Anyway.

Is it even realistic?

It is a terrible, ridiculous, and absolutely appealing kind of idea. Enid chews on the thought, deliberating its wiseness. Maybe another time. For now, Enid needs to decide what to make tonight.

Cooking has never been Enid’s forte, but this is one of the simplest yet most effective methods to refocus oneself.

Pasta. Pasta is simple. Anyone can do it.

Google is a girl’s best friend, and the internet has suggested Aglio e Olio if you’re not confident in your culinary skills. Oil and garlic. She tosses the ingredients on the gleaming marble kitchen island.

Cannot be any simpler.

The burned garlic begs to differ. Enid thanks the heaven that the smoke alarm didn’t go off.

She looks at her phone, enough time for one last try.

---

“You didn’t have to cook,” Wednesday takes a bite of the pasta. “I was going to make something for you before I leave anyway.”

“Yeah, you can do that once you’re back in one piece tonight,” Enid holds her breath in anticipation. “How is it? Be honest.”

“Worried about me, Miss Sinclair?”

The tone is teasing. Enid knows Wednesday is a professional, and things should be fine. But she couldn’t help but worry for the petite woman before her, who had yet to voice her opinion about the pasta.

“Will you just answer my question already?”

“Only if you answer mine,” Wednesday swirls her glass. “Nice choice of drink, by the way.”

Wednesday’s wine collection is as impressive as her skill in taking people’s lives. Enid had picked a random white bottle off the shelf. Between setting up the table and getting the food right, Enid didn’t have time to Google the wine. She thought the horse on the bottle looked cute.

Didier Dagueneau 2017.

Enid is not going to be distracted from her goal by such a simple compliment. She just wants to know how Wednesday finds her food.

It shouldn’t matter to Enid at all. All her friends know she doesn’t cook. And if she does, it’s either instant cup noodles or tater tots. Enid has never put this much effort into cooking for anyone. Perhaps that’s why she desperately wants to know Wednesday’s opinion.

“Fine. But you go first.”

The suspense is killing Enid. Wednesday takes another bite. Slow and deliberate. She chews thoughtfully, looking pensive, the whole shebang.

“I like it,” Wednesday shrugs and finishes the rest of her portion in three forkfuls.

“Unbelievable. You’re lucky you’re hot,” Enid groans.

Wednesday only arches her eyebrow, waiting.

“Yes, of course, I worry. There, happy?”

“Happy is a subjective state of mind. I wouldn’t put it that way,” Wednesday looks out to the city below. She takes a sip of her wine and continues. “More so a sensation that resembles a privilege not all deserves.”

Enid has set up a table by the window, tablecloth and all. It’s not a dinner date or anything. The blonde just likes to put effort into whatever she does. Only sheer coincidence that she has a massive, growing crush on the person she’s cooking for today.

“Are all hitmen weird like this? Asking for a friend,” Enid jokes.

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t converse with my colleagues a lot. But if you’d like, I can ask for you.”

The way Wednesday takes her questions seriously tugs at Enid. It’s evident the woman enjoys her aloof lifestyle, and Enid is just glad Wednesday lets her in one step at a time.

“I take workplace socialisation is beyond your scope of interest?”

“Something like that.”

“What’s your scope of interest then?”

Enid genuinely wants to know.

She wants to know what gets Wednesday to wake up every morning, what she likes to listen to, what her favourite movie is, hell, even her favourite weapon of choice. Enid wants to know anything and everything about Wednesday.

This crush is getting out of hand.

Wednesday regards her. With woeful eyes. She opens then closes her mouth, the deliberation itches.

Alas, only a frown as Wednesday stands up abruptly. “Thank you for cooking. I’ll be home late, don’t wait up.”

What has just happened?

Everything that Wednesday does exudes a kind of intangible sadness. Enid wonders why. It’s evident Wednesday chose this life out of an obligation to something, given how dejected she looked when asked about her career.

Maybe it has been a long good while since Wednesday had actual company. A friend, even. Someone who would listen and not judge. And Enid hopes Wednesday will allow her in.

---

In the familiar black suit, Wednesday checks her gears once more before leaving. Enid follows her to the door.

“You’re cooking next, don’t forget,” Enid clasps her hands behind her back.

Suddenly too nervous to say anything comprehensive, the usual confidence energy escapes her. Enid can’t come up with any witty lines.

“You can talk to me anytime on the earpiece. If it gets late, just go to bed.”

They need to work on Wednesday’s method of assurance. But that’s not the focus right now.

“Right. Of course,” Enid bites her inner cheek.

Screw it.

“For good luck,” Enid leans forward and quickly pecks Wednesday on the cheek in one motion. “Okay, bye.”

Making a run straight back to her room, Enid doesn’t look back at the stunned assassin she has left behind.

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

Security is tighter than a drum. Guards are all over the place, and every single one of them is packing heat.

11 PM.

The custom holsters permitted Wednesday smooth passage through the metal detectors. Unnoticed and undisturbed.

The club pulses with life, the heavy beat vibrating the floor beneath her feet. Amidst the thrumming energy, bodies packed into the main dance floor and walkways, blending in with the music. The air a nauseating mix of sweat and alcohol.

Eugene has hacked into the club’s security main frame, every camera in the club is fed directly to Wednesday's comms device, a digital omnipresence.

Tyler has taken refuge in the private bathhouse area, the sole blind spot in their surveillance net. Her intel suggested ten to fifteen guards were in there. Guests should have minimal interference, as per the 'clothing optional' policy. The three guards Wednesday has put to sleep in the changing room would certainly lessen her trouble.

A straight shot from here. One way in, one way out.

“You alright?” Enid’s voice flows through her earpiece. “I heard some struggles.”

“Going in to see the big man now. All good so far,” Wednesday answers. “Don’t be startled if you hear any commotion later. I don’t want to be distracted in a gunfight.”

“I won’t. Be careful.”

A steamy cocoon, swathed in the sensual heat of the saunas. Intricate mosaics and marble carvings adorn the walls, columns of polished marble uphold the arched ceiling, and shimmering tiles line the pools, reflecting the neon lights that pulse to the beat of the music.

At the farthest end of the bath, Tyler revelled amidst his cronies, each boasting a girl on their arm. The moment he notices Wednesday approaching, his casual demeanour falters. At his signal, ten guns point her way.

“You got the wrong room, girl,” Tyler drawls, an oily grin sliding across his face. “Unless you’re here to join in the fun. In which case, feel free to lose a few layers.”

“I only need some answers from you, Mr. Galpin. Let's keep things civil, shall we?”

A placid start.

“What the fu-“” Tyler laughs, incredulous, turning to his men. “Y’all hearing this or am I losing it? This bitch thinks she can just walk in here and make demands. Listen, freak, either strip or scram.”

“I’m only asking nicely once, Mr. Galpin. Tell me why you offered a contract on Enid Sinclair based on false intel, and I might consider leaving you to your...bath time.”

The name stops Tyler’s laugh, as colour drains from his pale face. “Who sent you?! Answer now or you’re dead! Do you know who I am?!”

Unfazed, Wednesday merely tilted her head, her expression unreadable. This better end quickly, she’s already thinking about what to cook for Enid later tonight. Wednesday’s cheek is still warm from where the blonde has placed her lips. Her stomach drops just the slightest as Wednesday remembers the sensation.

Wednesday might not read emotions well, especially the more delicate ones, but she knows Enid does harbour a certain kind of feelings for her. Feelings Wednesday knows she doesn’t deserve.

Wait.

That’s a distraction. She can’t afford that while hunting. Not ever.

“Don’t just f*cking stand there! Get her! Alive!” Tyler stumbles out of the bath and shoves his guards forward.

Burly men come rushing at her.

The hubris of men, time and time again, has disappointed Wednesday, or more precisely, bored her out. Their egos demand and postulate, only to be aggrieved when receive a ‘no’ for an answer. Wednesday sighs. Time to test out Thing’s new toys.

Four dead men and a herd of screaming women fleeing toward the exit later, rounds of bullets chase Wednesday, pockmarking the opulent marble walls. There’s no talking out with this one.

“f*cking get her!” Tyler screams. “Why do I even pay for you useless pieces of sh*t?!”

Another wave of gunshots rings out, blasting the pillar.

Reloading.

Wednesday bolts from her cover, returning fire as she darts across the chamber. A seamless dance of death, cover to cover.

Heads.

Carotids.

Femoral arteries.

Guards drop like sacks of bricks, blood seeping on the white marble floor. Two left.

Tyler has nowhere to run. The ill-conceived layout of the bathhouse has turned it into a death trap.

Wednesday sneaks a peak from the cover, ready to tackle Tyler.

Debris explodes next to her head. Guards from the main dance floor flood into the chamber.

Fine.

Let’s dance.

The rushing-in guards clamber over each other, tripping over themselves as two flash bangs greet them.

Wednesday switches to her Falcon, unloading on them while dashing from pillar to pillar. Like shooting fish in a barrel.

A wretched day for those who couldn’t recover quickly enough from the blast. The remaining men shoot blindly in the air. A bullet grazes her cheek.

Wednesday kneels behind the oversized plant pot in the corner of the chamber. Dirt blasts above her.

Just a few more seconds.

The satisfying echo of empty gun chambers rings through the chamber. Leaping over the pot, Wednesday finishes off two more guards as air whooshes out of her lungs. She tumbles, landing with a thump on the cold marble floor.

Three shots hit her chest.

Interlude.

Bulletproof, not pain proof. This is going to bruise.

“Think she’s dead?”

“You check.”

“How about you go?!”

Five shots from Wednesday, still lying flat on her back, her Falcon gripped tight. She needs a quick breather.

The sound of feet pattering on the floor toward the exit, mixed with a string of curses.

Wednesday props herself up. “Careful, the floor is…”

Tyler yelps and trips on his guard’s blood.

---

“Good. You’re awake.”

“Where am I? Oh god,” Tyler wiggles, realising he’s been tied down onto a bench in the bathhouse. “Please, let me go. I’m sorry! Do you want money? Name it, I’ll pay you.”

Wednesday bents down to Tyler’s face, unfazed by his pleading.

“I’m not interested in your money. You do understand the Lykaios are still under the High Table, right, Mr. Galpin? Please enlighten me why you fed us false intel on Enid Sinclair.”

“I...I had to! I didn't have a choice. I'm sorry! Please, I beg you. Have mercy. I'll do anything.” The once co*cky mobster folds like a chair, now a pathetic whimpering mess.

“Rescind the contract,” Wednesday drops a water bucket down by the bench. If Tyler cooperates, she might not need it.

“I... I can't. If I do that, I'm as good as dead! You have to understand,” Tyler sobs. “She forced me to do it. I didn’t even know about the files until she showed up.

“Who is she? What does she have over you?”

“I don’t know anything about he-”

The words cut off as Wednesday pours the bucket down his face. The man thrashes in futile, held down by the heavy hemp road, chaffing through the pale skin.

“Come again?” Wednesday asks.

Tyler coughs, still choked up on water, his breathing laboured. “Stop… stop… I’ll tell you everything. Please just stop.”

Wednesday co*cks her head, signalling him to continue.

“I don't know her name. I swear I don't!” Tyler panics as Wednesday lifts the bucket. “One day, a file just appeared in my office. It had proof of my...my indiscretions against the Lykaios. If I didn't do as she said, she would have sent it to the family. I had no choice but to obey.”

“And yet you never investigated who was blackmailing you?”

This is more complicated than Wednesday has initially anticipated. She doesn’t like a convoluted plot. Go here, kill that. Simple.

“You don’t understand,” Tyler grits his teeth. “That insane bitch broke into my house that night, killed all my men, and beaten me within an inch of my life just so her message got through, okay? She knows everything I do. If I try anything… I’m a dead man!”

Eugene’s voice comes through the earpiece, interrupting. “Incoming hostiles. Seven converging on your location. Not the club’s security. Running facial recognition now but will take a while.”

Heavy footsteps closed in on the bathhouse. Orders barking out. Russian.

“Oh God, they’re here to kill me. Please, you have to save me. I...I'll help you find her. I’ll do anything!”

Tyler’s pleas are cut short as Wednesday flips his bench over, using the thick wooden bench as a makeshift barricade. She tosses an earpiece onto the floor next to him.

“Describe everything you remember about that woman,” Wednesday crouches behind a pillar, gun at the ready. “And don’t even think about lying.”

The air is thick with the acrid scent of gunpowder. Wednesday darts her eyes back and forth, scanning for the incoming wave of foes. More shouting. Three seconds.

Wednesday dives to the side, firing her gun, narrowly avoiding a hail of bullets as she rolls behind another pillar. She moves with fluid grace, ducking and weaving while firing off round after round, each shot finding its mark with ease.

Amidst the chaos, a deafening blast rings out, sending Wednesday hurtling backwards through the air.

Shotgun.

The crashing impact jars her body as Wednesday skids along the polished marble floor. Though the suit has protected Wednesday from the worst of the blast, hot pain sears through her chest.

The thick bathhouse steam gives Wednesday a second to regain her bearings.

Rolling into the nearest cover, Wednesday checks her gun chamber. Empty.

Shaky breaths echo in her earpiece.

“I’m okay,” Wednesday whispers. “Help Eugene find the woman. I’ll be home soon.”

Nachos sounds good. Just the way Gomez always did when she was little and feeling a bit peckish. Maybe a film to accompany them.

Only three left. Then it’s peace and quiet.

The ceramic blade plunges into the thigh of the first one to approach her position, sending him crashing to the ground in agony. In a braze, Wednesday darts around the remaining men. Blow after blow, she disarms one of them and uses his own gun to take out the one on the ground.

The last mobster charges on Wednesday, his fists raining down on her in a flurry of strikes, disregarding her shooting. Someone also got a bulletproof suit.

Wednesday meets him head-on, feigning a hook as she lands a swift kick to his knee. The man stumbles, enough for her to follow up with a heavy strike to the temple. His body goes limp, crumpling to the ground.

She makes her way over to Tyler, heaving. “Now, Mr. Galpin. You and I still have much to discuss.”

ENID

Excruciating.

Her nails are a mess, gnawed and jagged. If anything, Enid has been exceptional in heeding Wednesday’s instruction tonight. Not a word, no matter what. The gunfire and shoutings turned to white noise after a while, for all she could focus on was Wednesday’s breath.

Eugene did Enid a favour by lowering the volume on the earpiece as much as possible and stayed with her via video chat the entire time. His nonchalant manner told the blonde he was used to this by now.

To the violence and the chaos.

To Wednesday audibly getting injured.

To simply must believe Wednesday will make it out alive.

Enid knew this was what Wednesday probably did on the daily, but the fear chewed up her insides anyway.

It wasn’t until Wednesday whispered that she was okay did Enid let out a relieved sigh. Still, Enid had the first aid kit on hand as a precaution.

“Back in an hour.”

That was all Wednesday said before cutting communication.

The detailed description Tyler gave them is enough for Eugene to run his search and conclude the woman they are looking for is Marilyn Thornhill, heiress of the Voronov family.

“Why would they target me?” Enid frowns as she scrolls through Thornhill’s dossier on the laptop screen. “I’ve never written anything about either the Lykaios or the Voronov.”

Quite a nasty rap sheet this woman has racked up, it would be easier to list which crime she hadn’t committed than what she had.

“Beats me. Maybe we’re missing something. But right now, I’m betting my ass that this psycho got the Lykaios file,” Eugene shrugs, taking a big slurp out of his slushie. “How to get it is another matter.”

Enid slumps into the armchair, head thrown back. A bit of a thrill is always appreciated, but not when multiple criminal syndicates are hunting her. She needs to clear her head with something more light-hearted.

“How did you wind up working for Wednesday?” Enid glances at the clock, another half an hour before Wednesday’s back.

“She hasn’t told you?” Eugene doesn’t stop his typing. “Or you’ve asked her, and she gave you a cryptic answer?”

Enid only nods, impressed by how well Eugene knows Wednesday.

“As much as I adore her, she’s so dramatic sometimes,” Eugene laughs.

A much-needed distraction. And let’s be honest here, Enid jumps at the first chance to learn anything about the mysterious assassin who she somehow had wrung her life into. Enid looks at Eugene expectedly, egging him to continue.

“Don’t tell her I said that,” Eugene shushes. “Five years ago, I uh… got into some trouble with a Yakuza boss, and let’s just say their price for freedom was steep. Had me chained in a room and worked as a hacker for them for like a year.”

Enid’s eyes widen as the story unfolds. The fact that Eugene can talk about this so nonchalantly is… something.

“Thought I was going slave away til the day I die, but someone put a hit on the Yakuza boss, and Wednesday took it,” Eugene shrugs. “She could’ve killed me, given I was a part of the operation. But good thing she didn’t, because now she has the best tech support there is. So yeah, short story.”

Enid isn’t sure what to say in reply, her mouth agapes at how Eugene can drop trauma bombs just like that. Eugene doesn’t seem to notice her shock as he continues, his voice warm.

“She’s a softie on the inside, y’know? Always be checking up on me, in her own way, obviously. God forbids Wednesday from ever admitting she cares about another’s wellbeing. ‘Eat so you can keep up the productivity’; ‘Sleep or I’ll euthanise you’. Had I not had two mothers, I wouldn’t have been able to cope with that,” Eugene makes a face, entirely in jest.

Enid is right. Despite the hardened exterior, Wednesday cares for those around her, just not conventionally. Those woeful eyes during dinner reminded Enid. If Wednesday delegates herself to carry the burden of those around her, then who takes care of Wednesday?

Enid’s heart hardens at the thought. It must’ve been unbearable. Living all alone like that. It’s almost as if Wednesday is punishing herself.

The electronic device beeps as the door lock disengages. Enid is already rushing toward the entrance before the door swings open.

“Had it been another assassin sent after you, you’d be dead now, Sinclair.”

Exhausted, Wednesday closes the door behind her and leans against the wall. Her hand hovers over the side of her stomach, her breaths ragged and short.

“sh*t. Are you shot?!” Enid runs to the first-aid kit.

“Not my blood,” Wednesday waves and makes to leave. Perks of wearing all black. No stains. “Just need to rest for a bit and I’ll be fine.”

Something takes over Enid, whether it’s an overwhelming concern or an unnamed impulse, and she pulls Wednesday back by her arm. This move could get her stabbed, or worse, but Enid isn’t thinking right now.

“Wait, let me… let me take a look at this,” Enid tilts the side of Wednesday’s face, where a bullet had grazed the delicate skin.

Wednesday looks like she’s about to argue, but a resigned sigh comes out. Enid will take that.

They settle on the sofa.

It doesn’t take long. Just a graze, after all. Enid cleans up the wound in silence, listening to Wednesday’s breathing while her eyes search for any sign of discomfort as she applies the bandage. The stillness in the air is palpable, only interrupted by the soft hum of the city outside.

She can feel Wednesday’s gaze fixated on her.

“Ask.”

Barely above a whisper, Wednesday says. Neither a command nor a question. More of a nudge. An invitation.

“We can discuss it once you’ve had some rest. You’re spent, Wednesday.” Enid gives the woman a small smile. “I found some canned soups; do you want me to heat it up for you?”

Deflection.

Of course, Enid wants to know what Wednesday has learned, which is the entire point of why Wednesday had to risk her neck tonight. But that can wait for a bit. Until tomorrow, when they have had breakfast together. Or maybe after lunch. Or dinner. Just… later.

She isn’t sure where this apprehension is coming from. Enid has never shied away from the truth. Wednesday is a professional hitman, what difference does it make this time?

“I dropped him off at the Lykaios’ headquarters,” Wednesday says. “Always handy to have a family owe you something.”

Enid doesn’t want to imagine what will happen to Tyler afterwards. Wednesday takes another long look at Enid, hesitant and… is that nervousness?

“What is it?” Enid asks, her mind racing with possible scenarios, many of which glow grimly.

Another pause. Enid’s heart races faster with each passing second. Unlike their dinner, this was serious, and Wednesday wasn’t in the mood to jest.

“They rescinded the contract on you,” Wednesday says finally.

Enid yelps in joy. This is fantastic! No more cooping up inside the house, no more hiding, no more running for her life. A huge weight lifted from her chest; the seemingly Sisyphean task was achieved. Freedom at long last, all thanks to Wednesday.

But Wednesday doesn’t look relieved. That same intangible sadness soaks the air once more.

“This is good… right?” Enid asks, uncertain.

As quickly as it came, the sorrow dissipated from Wednesday, her voice again crisp. “Yes, it is. It means you are free to leave this place, no need to worry about any further attempt on your life. The Lykaios have set out a new bounty on the file only. Since you no longer require my protection, I’ll drop you at home at your earliest convenience.”

It dawned on Enid.

Why Wednesday looks like she almost ground her own teeth to dust, despite the grand great wonderful good news. Wednesday thinks Enid doesn’t need her anymore. She must think Enid is ready to leave Wednesday at the drop of a hat.

Had Enid’s attachment anxiety not been as bad, she would have thought Wednesday’s behaviour as unbecoming. Should Enid be flattered that she has made such an impression on Wednesday that the assassin struggles with the idea of letting Enid go? Or should Enid simply leave? Her Lady of Fortune must’ve emptied her bag to get the bounty off Enid’s head. Opportunities like that do not come twice.

But you also don’t come across someone like Wednesday twice in life.

The decision to leave also means leaving Wednesday behind, like that one fever dream you aren’t quite sure if it was real or not. And Enid just knew if she left, there was no way in hell she’d ever see Wednesday ever again. Because Wednesday will make sure of that.

“We had a deal, didn’t we? You give me the proof to the mayor’s indiscretion, and I help you find the Lykaios file,” Enid shuts the first aid kit. The words come out easily, as if Enid is only stating a fact and her heart isn’t beating at a hundred miles a minute as she proposes this absolute batsh*t insane idea. “And I just submitted my PTO earlier tonight, you know how difficult it is to have them approved?”

Wednesday looks pleasantly surprised, but only for a second. A frown forms on her forehead instead, and Enid wants to smooth it out with her fingers. Maybe with a tiny little kiss, too.

About that – Enid did give Wednesday a peck on the cheek before she went off to shoot up a club. Not the best story to tell your children.

Children?!

Enid sprays the thought like a bad cat. She hasn’t even asked Wednesday out yet.

“You don’t have to. It’s my job to find it,” Wednesday says finally.

Enid holds up her finger. “Nuh-uh. I am a woman of my word. And you’re not the only one who’s trying to keep the balance of this world, ma’am. I also would not prefer if something with such magnitude like the Lykaios file got into the wrong hands.”

“You’re consciously choosing to be hunted?” Wednesday arches her eyebrow, the slightest amusem*nt hints in her voice, though the frown remains. “Because refusing the easiest way out is the choice you made?”

Enid takes in the words, stirs them around in her head, then leans in with a wink. “Told you I like taking risks. Especially those that are worth it.”

“You have a terrible wink, Miss Sinclair,” Wednesday says, inching closer as if examining the decorations of the interior of a resin cast.

Since when did their face get so close to each other?

Under any other circ*mstances, Enid would be so grossed out by now. Someone covered in blood within inches of her face. But this someone is Wednesday. And thus, Enid doesn’t mind it at all.

“Kiss me if I’m wrong but I think you meant terrific, Miss Addams,” Enid can smell the alcohol from the anti-bacterial wipes on Wednesday’s cheek. Her head feels light.

Wednesday narrows her eyes, a smirk skirting her lips, inching ever closer. Warm breath tingles Enid’s cheek. A chill runs down her spine.

“Perhaps… you are correct, Miss Sinclair. It was indeed such a terrific wink-”

Of course, Wednesday wouldn’t have fallen for such a cheap trick.

Mildly frustrated, but not disappointed, it takes two to dance, after all. Just as Enid moves to pull away, Wednesday presses her lips to Enid’s cheek. Chapped and rough, yet so tender.

“But my humble opinion thinks otherwise,” Wednesday finishes her sentence.

All the alarms go off. Cheeks burning, brain short-circuited, thoughts malfunctioned. Enid was taken off-guard by Wednesday’s game. It was just a peck on the cheek. God, she is down bad.

Wednesday has already pulled back, resting comfortably on the sofa’s armrest. Amusem*nt twinkles in her eyes. How Enid wants to dive in and show Wednesday-

Show her what, exactly?

How much Enid wants Wednesday? How much she wants to tear into those bloody clothes and say damn it all to hell? How much she wants Wednesday to just ask Enid to stay, and she shall stay?

Enid doesn’t just want Wednesday in a carnal way, but intimately as well. And Enid isn’t sure how to get that point across yet. Going against her screaming desires, Enid takes a deep breath.

Keep cool, be cool.

“I’ll have to crash at your place until all is set and done, are you okay with that?” Enid clears not only her throat but her thoughts as well.

“I don’t see why not. It’d help keep you alive much easier,” Wednesday shrugs. “Wouldn’t help if my partner perished at the hands of my competitors.”

The word ‘partner’ sparks Enid’s heart with a certain kind of joy that a child gets when they receive a new toy. It’s silly, she knows, but Enid couldn’t help it.

She kicks Wednesday’s thigh with her foot. “Alrighty. Now please go shower, you stink, partner.”

WEDNESDAY

Enid has run a hot bath for Wednesday and tumbled the towels. Soft and warm.

Wednesday doesn’t deserve such kindness. She knows that.

At the end of the day, Wednesday is a murderer, simple and true. This dalliance will soon fade, and Enid will realise the monster that Wednesday truly is. When that happens, Wednesday shall once again return to the very reason that sent her down this path of blood and suffering.

Wednesday closes her eyes as she submerges underneath the water.

---

Wednesday was choking.

On the smoke and ash of her own home. The Addams Manor.

The roaring fire, with its maw wide open, devoured the building with a violent hunger. Twisting and turning, the flames meld together like some grotesque dance of destruction. Each lick of flame seemed to reach out towards her, as if they wanted to consume Wednesday as well.

It was not just the stench of burning wood or the sickly-sweet tang of smouldering fabrics, it was the scent of her life, her past, turning to smoke.

Everything.

Father’s loathful affections and his annoying fencing lessons, Mother’s vexing advice and her deadly garden, Pugsley’s ceaseless pranks and attempts on her life – all swallowed up in the inferno.

Tears stung her eyes, but Wednesday was an Addams.

She could feel the raw heat scorching her skin as she ran headfirst toward the ablaze manor. They were alive. Wednesday only needed to get to them. And everything would be fine. This was just one of her nightmares that came a little too close to reality.

Strong arms yanked Wednesday back, pulling her away from the heat, away from the house, away from her family. Wednesday wrestled against the tight grip, her small figure writhing in defiance.

She wasn’t going down without a fight.

Something wet touched her head. Wednesday looked up to see Thing, his face taut, the lines of his age deepened as he fought to restrain the child in his arms. Not a word, but the tears streaming from his eyes said it all.

Guilt drowned Wednesday. She could have been there, should have been there. Had she not been upset at Gomez for not allowing her to attend his meeting earlier today and stormed off to Larissa’s place, her world might not be collapsing around Wednesday at this very moment.

“Let me go, Thing! They’re in there! We must get to them!” Wednesday struggled to escape Thing’s arms to no avail.

She remembered screaming and yelling and crying until exhaustion and sleep took her.

Hushed voices seeping through the closed bedroom door woke Wednesday. Neither her parents’ nor Pugleys’. The smell of smoke still clung to her hair and clothes. Last night wasn’t a nightmare at all.

The wooden floor was cool beneath her feet as she tiptoed to the door and pressed her ear against it.

"No, the Network has ruled it an accident," Larissa was speaking, her voice strained. “Gomez and Morticia were cautious. They would never- this is not adding up. It feels like a setup.”

A long silence ensued, only to be broken by the soft rustling of papers and the clink of a glass placed on a table. "I don’t trust this. They were Adjudicators. Maintaining the balance of our world meant they had enemies, Thing, powerful ones.”

Wednesday's heart pounded in her chest – her fear and confusion grew as each word came out of Larissa. She opened the door just a sliver, enough to see Thing's silent nod and the worried crease in his brow.

"What do we tell Wednesday?" Thing signed, his hook gleaming in the morning light.

"Nothing. We can’t burden her with this," Larissa said, her tone final. But a sigh escaped her lips. "She’s already lost so much."

But Wednesday was already burdened, the words echoing in her ears, a dark promise in her heart. The door creaked open further, and she stepped into the room, her face pale but resolute.

“Who did it?” the tiny frame was shaking, neither with fear nor grief, but wrath - her voice a shrill, unwavering. “Who killed them?!”

Thing's hook clinked against the side of his whiskey glass as he exchanged a look with Larissa.

“Wednesday,” Larissa began, her voice trembling as she kneeled to face Wednesday. “You cannot-”

“I will!” Wednesday yelled, flinching both adults. “I will find out who did this. And when I do, they will pay!” Her small hands curled into fists, knuckles white with rage.

Thing and Larissa tried and tried. For years. Unable to change Wednesday’s mind. Such was her fate, to be on the path of vengeance and death, no matter the cost.

ENID

Sleep is a phantom that refuses to appear. Enid glances at the clock – 3 AM.

Wednesday should be asleep by now; the woman was barely standing after their talk.

Her stomach rumbles. Enid remembers seeing some Doritos in the pantry earlier today. Might as well get a snack and go through the Mayor’s USB in further detail.

Who does Wednesday want to deliver justice to, or upon? The ingrained journalistic instincts wouldn’t leave Enid alone. Maybe a late-night snack could help ease her racing thoughts.

Tiptoeing into the kitchen, Enid stops half-track, surprised. Under the low, warm light, Wednesday stands, humming a soft tune Enid couldn’t quite recognise. The assassin seems oddly… normal.

How comforting.

“Can’t sleep?” Wednesday asks, not turning from the counter where she’s spreading a layer of cheese on a pile of tortilla chips. Her voice is soft, devoid of its usual stoic edge.

“Yeah,” Enid answers, finding a stool on the island. “Didn’t want to disturb you.”

“You wouldn’t have. Want some snacks?”

Enid chuckles at the absurdity of it all. Still, it’s a welcome reprieve from the chaos of the past week. “Nachos?”

“My father used to make them whenever I couldn’t sleep,” Wednesday begins, eyes still trained on the task at hand. “I’d feign annoyance as he snuck me out of bed, and we’d make nachos. He had a way of making them… perfectly.”

A pang of nostalgia laces her voice, it feels more like Wednesday is honouring a beloved tradition than simply making nachos. Enid wonders if Wednesday still sees her family, but Eugene never mentions anything about them.

“What about you?”

The question caught Enid off-guard. The blonde doesn’t like to think about it too much since she is more of a present person. She’d rather learn about Wednesday’s past. But Enid knows everything is a two-way street.

“Wouldn’t your research file tell you everything already?” A joke for a start.

“Not your favourite childhood memory, no,” Wednesday shrugs. “But I understand if you don’t want to talk about it. Family can be complicated.”

“No, no, it’s not that. I mean, to me, Yoko is the closest thing to family I got. Let’s just say I wasn’t the best fit for my foster family. The system kinda sucked,” Enid says, a tinge of bitterness in her voice. Like a bile on her tongue, Enid wants to wash it all away at the mention of her foster ‘family’.

Wednesday has stopped working on her nachos and fully turned to Enid to listen. An understanding look on her face. Not pity. Relief washes over Enid.

“Mrs. Athanasia was our neighbour. Her family runs an antique bookshop downtown, the one where you saved my ass from, and she would lend me these really cool books.” A soft smile blooms on her lips as Enid recalls the fond memories. “Adventures, fairy tales, heroes and dragons, you know, things that keep an eight-year-old dreaming. Matilda was my favourite.”

“Reminds you you’re not alone,” Wednesday says, placing the nachos bowl between them.

Enid lets out a small ha. “A Dahl fan as well, I see.”

“I admit his works uphold certain lessons that are beneficial to children,” Wednesday shrugs.

“Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,” Enid winks (terribly) as she continues. “Every Sunday, Mrs. Athanasia would invite me over for lunch, despite my foster mother’s disapproval. And I’m telling you, I don’t know what that old lady put in her food, but it was divine.”

“Your foster mother was a vindictive schoolteacher with a tendency towards manipulative and controlling behaviour. Child Protective Service received two anonymous reports for potential child neglect during the time you lived with them,” Wednesday grips the tissue in her hand. Anger flashes on her face, then something kindles to compassion washes over as she looks at Enid.

Enid captures the look and marks it in her ever-growing list of things she likes about Wednesday.

“Your research really is something there, Miss Addams,” Enid whistles, impressed. “But yeah, it was Mrs. Athanasia who taught me to find joy in the little things, for life is hard and cruel enough. I guess she was the closest person I could ever get to learn about the Greek side of me. I don’t think I’ll be the person I am today without her.”

“Sounds like a wise woman,” Wednesday says, voice soft. “Thank you for telling me.”

Enid doesn’t hate the fact that her chest tightens in a pleasant manner whenever Wednesday looks at her like that.

“I guess your dad is someone like that to you, then?” Enid treads. The last time she mentioned Wednesday’s family, it didn’t go too well. But since they’re on the topic, might as well.

The woman before her suddenly looks years older. Her shoulders sink, like a branch laden with heavy snow. “You could say so.”

Enid isn’t sure if she should ask further, e.g. the obvious question if Wednesday’s father was still alive.

“When I said I entered this path willingly, I never told you why,” Wednesday speaks up after a brief silence. The nacho pieces brittle under her fingers. “I have certain debts to settle. Old debts. Ones that I’ve been chasing my whole life.”

The tinge of sadness blends together with enmity. A creature lurks just underneath the surface, waiting for a chance at retribution. The usual insouciant manner retreats, letting ruins emerge from the depth of darkness. Enid is quite sure Wednesday isn’t talking about money here.

“They were taken from me. In a house fire. I was seven,” Wednesday grits out the word. “The Manager of the Continental, Larissa, and Thing raised me since.”

“It wasn’t an accident, was it?” Enid asks.

Wednesday nods, then tells Enid the full story. The story that made Wednesday the woman she is today. Not a single tear dropped.

Enid cannot imagine how it must’ve been for Wednesday. So young, so small, yet all alone. Left behind. The guilt she must have felt, being the sole survivor. Enid’s heart breaks. Hope had withered within Wednesday, perished along with her family. The woman before her perseveres with the sole promise of vengeance.

So, this is why.

Why Wednesday chose a destructive life, by herself, to seek vengeance for her family. Why Wednesday is terrified of Enid choosing to pack up and leave at any moment. Why Wednesday continues her family’s legacy, as a way to remember them.

“It wasn’t. My father was supposed to meet someone that day, but all the records were lost in the fire,” Wednesday says, gazing toward the city. “That cello and I were one of the few things that survived.”

She points toward the charred cello by the window. “Sometimes I wish I died with them all that day. But here I am, still.”

A constant reminder of loss and death.

Enid does not know if she could stray Wednesday from this path. She has no place nor right to.

“Revenge can’t bring you peace, Wednesday,” Enid gently touches Wednesday’s forearm, trying to bring the woman back to the present. No resistance.

“It is not peace that I seek, Enid. That desire is… long gone,” Wednesday rasps out the last two words. “But I can still deliver justice to those who deserve it. I-”

Harrowing. What else can Enid do? Besides coming up with hallow and cliché advice. Grief has overtaken Wednesday’s life, and Enid has merely peeked at her heart. And thus, what can Enid do, besides being there for Wednesday, truly be there for her, as Wednesday’s partner first and foremost?

“I know it’s not much, but I’ll help you find justice for your family, it’s the least I can do. If you’ll have me, of course.”

The words struck Wednesday. “Shouldn’t you be telling me this path will only lead to death and will not help me heal or something?” she asks, confused. “Hell knows that’s all Larissa and Thing ever go on about.”

And they are not wrong, Enid agrees. But what use is another person preaching the holier than thou approach to someone who lost everything she had ever known in one night?

“Well, I’m your partner, am I not?” Enid playfully nudges Wednesday.

Like a paper flower, thriving only on harsh and unforgiving soil, Wednesday has grown on Enid, her evergreen. Climbing and rising, the thick, thorny stems of the flower have engulfed Enid, revealing to the blonde despite the damage, Wednesday is still brilliant in her own way.

The corner of Wednesday’s mouth twitches. It’s small, but it’s there. A smile. Private and soft, tinted with a kind of sorrow that reminds you of a forgotten heirloom passed down for generations.

---

They settle on opposite ends of the sofa, munching on the food. The distance is far too great for Enid’s liking. Come to think of it, whenever they were… closer to each other, it was always due to the circ*mstances, not on purpose, not just because.

In an alternate universe, would they have ever met?

Maybe Wednesday would be that reclusive, gothic tattooist who lives across the road, and Enid would be that jovial florist who drops by the parlour every day because she has a hopeless crush on her.

Enid waves away the thoughts. Rather than daydreaming, she should focus on whatever’s in front of her instead.

Right now, there’s no crime lord, no contracts, just two women sharing a late-night snack. It’s nice. Comfortable. Realistic.

“Wanna watch something?” Enid breaks the silence.

There’s no TV in the apartment, and thus, they settle on Wednesday’s laptop, which means the distance on the sofa disappears.

Fine, maybe Enid wants to inch just a bit closer to Wednesday, it’s been a long day, okay?

The blonde is used to having people around her, and a shoulder to cry on whenever it gets overwhelming. But she can’t allow herself a mental breakdown when it’s Wednesday who has been doing all the heavy lifting. If anyone deserves a shoulder to lean on, it’s Wednesday.

“I’ve been meaning to watch that.”

The pointer hoovering over the 10 Things I Hate About You film tile stops dead in its tracks.

“You,” Enid looks back and forth between Wednesday and the screen, gasping. “Watch cheesy rom-coms?”

Wednesday tilts her head, a confused frown between her brows. “What’s so odd about it? It’s research for whenever I need to charm my way through a crowd.”

Enid stifles a laugh. “You charm people?”

“A necessary skill set in my line of work,” Wednesday coolly replies, hitting play for Enid. "One can't always resort to intimidation.”

“I’m not seeing it,” Enid says, shaking her head as she imagines Wednesday flirting her way out of a situation. The idea is hilarious and a little bit unnerving.

“Really?” Wednesday asks, her gaze sliding towards Enid. “I charmed you, didn’t I?”

Enid chokes on her nacho, coughing and laughing at the same time. Blood rushes to her ears, flustered and bashful.

“You? Charmed me? Is that what you’re calling it?”

“Semantics,” Wednesday dismisses with a shrug, returning her attention to the film.

Twenty minutes in and Enid finds herself unable to stop glancing at Wednesday. The soft glow from the laptop screen highlights her sharp features in a gentle light.

Wednesday looks different. Sure, it’s the same focused look on her face, the slight furrow in her brow when she tries to understand a joke, but Wednesday doesn’t look so untouchable anymore.

In fact, Wednesday is so close to her, that Enid can smell the fresh shampoo, mixed with the now-familiar scent of gun oil that refuses to part with Wednesday.

To be a part of Wednesday. Unfathomable.

And yet less than an hour ago, Enid was fantasising about sharing somewhat of a life with the brooding assassin in an alternate universe. The thought warms her.

Their shoulders brush.

So close.

Enid’s attempts at looking away from Wednesday are futile.

Wednesday catches her staring.

And everything fades into the background, again. Heat rises on her cheeks, heart on her sleeve.

Have Wednesday’s eyes always been so brown, so soft? Her parted lips, so inviting?

It beckons her. Beckons Enid to lean in and say damn the consequences. Beckons Enid to relent her feeble self-control. She leans in.

“Catching feelings for Heath Ledger, aren’t you?”

The last morsel of the so-called feeble self-control won, once more.

Wednesday gives her a dry look. “Hardly.”

Enid misses how tender those brown eyes were.

WEDNESDAY

Insolent sunlight wakes Wednesday.

She blinks a few times, annoyed. Less at the burning ball of plasma, more so at herself for falling asleep without realising.

Careless.

A weight rests on her chest and warmth envelopes her side. Wednesday looks down to find Enid nestled comfortably against her shoulder, arm drapes across her waist.

She forgets how to breathe for a second.

Even breathing tickles her neck, and against Wednesday’s better judgment, she doesn’t kick Enid off the sofa.

Chalking it up to a good night's sleep, it must be, for Wednesday to wake up in such a tolerable mood. It has been a long time since she has slept through a night without waking up even once.

A long time since she has let her guard down enough to fall asleep next to someone.

Wednesday takes in the sight before her – the exuberant, over-the-top journalist that has somehow crashed into her life like a comet – a sight that Wednesday has not expected, though she doesn’t even know what exactly she expects. No witty remarks, no audacious one-liners, no bratty hot-takes.

Indeed, Wednesday finds it incomprehensible how Enid managed to drool that much and not drown herself in her sleep.

If anything, the small curve at the corner of her lips is the only saving grace here. And maybe that loose hair strand. And how soft her features are. And how Wednesday gets an inkling she could get used to this.

Her chest tightens.

It’s just business, Wednesday reminds herself. She’s not allowed. A taste of this – whatever this is, is undeserving. Dragging an innocent into this mess was way over the line in the first place, let alone tricking herself into thoughts of an untroubled life with the blonde before her.

Don’t be ridiculous.

They barely know each other.

And yet, the last time she felt something similar to this was too long ago.

No, it’s not just infatuation. It’s something else. It’s a sense of belonging. A sense of trust. A sense of acceptance.

Last night felt like a fever dream. Wednesday has never told another soul of her past, saved for Larissa and Thing, who are the only living witnesses to her spiral down the vengeance path. So much for avenging your dead family as Wednesday is still unable to find out who Gomez had his last meeting with. Her father was always excellent at keeping his business private.

For someone with such a strong moral stance like Enid, Wednesday had expected the blonde to be vehemently against her effete quest of twisted justice, rather than simply offering to help.

The waves inside Wednesday lap. Before meeting Enid, she was sure this was it, and her will was waning, dying by the day. The last Kaua'i 'o'o bird, calling out in vain to a mate who would never come, only to hear a response in its last wake. Hope has reignited within Wednesday once more, blighting her mind, her heart, her soul.

Hope for a home.

But the beast inside Wednesday knows only death awaits her on this path. Still, hope desperately yearns for something that might never come. She takes in the woman lying underneath her and does her best to memorise every feature of Enid’s face.

This is an uncomfortable position, Wednesday realises.

But the view is adequate. And Wednesday doesn’t want to move any more than she has to, not disturbing Enid’s slumber and all that.

Has Enid always had such kissable lips?

Wednesday finds herself leaning down, a breath away from all that her heart has been craving since they’ve met. She realises Enid snores lightly in her sleep, and it’s oddly endearing. Time flows differently just now, a stream of mercury floats and drips, against the unstoppable force of fate and duty.

Wednesday’s phone buzzes.

“Huh?” Enid startles, arms throwing around as if to turn off an alarm.

“Good morning,” Wednesday gently stops Enid’s floundering and leans over the blonde to reach for the phone on the coffee table. “It’s Eugene. Go back to sleep.”

Incoherent mumbles greet Wednesday in return as Enid turns to her side and clings on Wednesday’s support arm. They barely know each other, Wednesday reminds herself. She cannot get used to this. Eugene has sent over new intel regarding Thornhill. Wednesday decided she would check it later, if it were urgent, Eugene would’ve called. She wants to savour this moment just a little while longer, while she still can.

---

It's not a date.

Just two partners in crime, at a local bowling alley, playing their third game already.

“Remind me why we’re here again?” Wednesday readies her ball, takes aim, and then throws.

A strike.

Dressed in the most hideous leopard pattern shorts with a hot pink tank top and matching bandana, Enid must’ve aimed to give Wednesday an aneurysm (though she does not mind that at all).

“Because according to Eugene’s intel yesterday,” Enid looks up as she finishes tying her customed sparkling bowling shoes. “One of Thornhill’s guests at her private auction ball next month is a regular here. And today is the venue’s annual tournament, which means there is a high possibility of him being here.”

Wednesday didn’t forget the reason they had to stake out at the Ballsy Alley today. Eugene had briefed them of Thornhill’s invite-only private auction ball next month, and each guest has a unique token as a ticket. Thus, the only reasonable option is to steal the token from one of the guests, by any means. The Lykaios file might be up for auction. Wednesday just didn’t understand why they had to dress up and actually play bowling while waiting for their mark to show up.

Enid was dead serious about choosing the right outfit to blend in. Since when was leopard-pattern considered inconspicuous? Despite her distaste for such a frivolous choice of clothing, Wednesday couldn’t help but say yes to Enid. It is nearly impossible to say no to the blonde. The way Enid nearly jumped into her arms when Wednesday reluctantly agreed was endearing.

Wednesday wanted it.

She allowed herself just one more time to give in to her heart, knowing full well she didn’t deserve it.

And so here Wednesday stands, in a ripped black tank top, with a menacing skull blasted on the back, paired with black denim shorts and a black bandana on her wrist. Enid was adamant about maintaining the 80’s vibe. The lack of layers means the inability to pack heavy fire, but that has never stopped Wednesday from taking lives or winning fights before.

“Your 3 o’clock, Enid,” Wednesday says, voice low.

A rowdy group, two lanes away on their right, has just entered. Their target, no other than the Mayor’s assistant, Noble Walker. And to their surprise, Ajax is in tow. This is going to be good.

Wednesday isn’t a vindictive person, but the thought of beating Ajax, whether via bowling or physically, fills her dead heart with something akin to joy, simply because he has been a nuisance to Enid. After seeing them at Enid’s apartment, Ajax had taken it upon himself to create a dozen more accounts to message Enid, to the point that that blonde had to deactivate all her social media. But she can only block so many emails.

Ajax spots them and immediately makes his way over. A great start.

“Promise me you won’t kill him,” Enid pleads from her seat. “God, since when did Ajax work for the Mayor’s office?”

“I’ll do my best,” Wednesday sets down her bowling ball and picks up a pencil, writing down their scores instead. “We’re only here to steal Mr. Walker’s auction token. No violence today, if we’re lucky.”

Enid’s ex-boyfriend scowls at the sight of Wednesday, understandably.

“Hey, fancy meeting you here, Enid,” he waves at the blonde, ignoring Wednesday.

“Ajax, what are you doing with the Mayor’s assistant?” Enid hisses.

“Why are you saying that like it’s a bad thing? I just landed a gig there; the pay is pretty sweet and the perks are sick. I think I’m becoming Mr. Walker’s favourite. He takes me to all his social events and outings.” Ajax arches his eyebrow. “Speaking of, are you here for the tournament? Wanna join my team? And maybe dinner afterwards? I got so much to talk to you about.”

“Yes, we are here for the tournament,” Wednesday answers, not looking up from her score sheet, like Ajax is but a fly, asking to be swatted away. “As always, you’re bothering us.”

“I’m not talking to you, you-” Ajax raises his voice.

“Addams. Wednesday Addams, girlfriend of Enid Sinclair,” Wednesday draws a dramatic tick on her paper. “Feel free to use that information however you like.”

From the corner of her eye, heat has already rushed to Enid’s face. Maybe she’s taking the cover too far. Her heart disagrees as it hastens as the word ‘girlfriend’ came out of her mouth.

“Let’s keep things civil, shall we, boy and girl?” Enid stands between them, trying to de-escalate. “Ajax, I think your team needs you.”

Wednesday looks up to see Walker’s team staring at the trio, curious to see how the situation unfolds. Other teams have started to fill up the remaining lanes. It’s unwise to attract any further attention to them.

“I’m watching you, Addams,” Ajax throws them one last look before storming back to his team.

---

Cover-up or not, Wednesday likes to win. And turns out, she’s excellent at bowling. Strike after strike. The same cannot be said about Enid. They came in third, by some miracle.

A flower caught blooming in the dead of winter, Wednesday is surprised by how much she is enjoying this silly tournament, much of it is attributed to the overjoyed blonde next to her.

“Yes!!! I can’t believe we won, Wednesday! I’ve never won bowling before. There really isn’t anything that you aren’t good at, is there?” Enid is squealing, holding Wednesday by the shoulders.

“We came in third, Enid,” Wednesday deadpans, allowing herself to be shaken like a tree. Her mind is drunk on the proximity between them, how Enid’s joy is so infectious, and how baffling that Wednesday likes it. And as much as Wednesday hates it, they have a job to do today. The mission awaits.

“Walker’s team is celebrating at the bar on premise, we should-” Wednesday stops mid-sentence as she sees Ajax begin to approach them again from behind Enid. “Think you can break into his car and search for our item? I’ve got some business to take care of here.”

“You’re letting me do it by myself?” Enid asks, surprised.

Only seconds before Ajax arrives, she looks into Enid’s eyes before ushering the blonde toward the exit behind Wednesday. “I trust you, go.”

As Ajax moves to follow a hurried Enid, Wednesday blocks him. The game lanes are empty, good.

“Get out of my way, man,” Ajax pushes Wednesday, but she remains unmoved. After observing him throughout the game, Wednesday has concluded Ajax’s strength lies not in his physics.

“Enid doesn’t want to hurt you, though you have been rather obtuse about that fact, and keep on pestering Enid,” Wednesday says. She’ll give him one chance, out of respect for her Enid.

Her Enid. Wednesday shall dissect that abominable thought later.

“Uh huh, listen, whatever you think you have with her, it’s just a phase, dude,” Ajax crosses his arms. “I’ve known her since college, I know her better than anyone else. So, do us all a favour and back off.”

Wednesday loathes to admit it, but what if whatever is happening between her and Enid is merely a fleeting dalliance to the blonde? It sure isn’t so for Wednesday, and yet she is terrified of saying it out loud.

Grief is a door. As long as it’s closed, it is the barrier between knowing and not knowing. Walk away from it and it stays closed forever. Open and walk through it, and pain becomes the truth. Wednesday swallows the rising doubt, careening it with all her will.

Wednesday’s phone buzzes. She glances at the screen.

Found it! Skedaddle?

Wednesday puts her phone away and looks up. “If Enid wanted to contact you, then she shall do so by her own will, not due to your incessant pestering. If I caught you sending even a letter to Enid again, know there are things worse than deaths out there.”

She catches three of Ajax’s team members joining their conversation. They must’ve been looking for him. Upon closer inspection, they don’t really look like office workers, the tattoos on their skin are coincidently Russian mobsters’ favourite.

Ajax scoffs, boldened by the fact that his team is here. “Think you can scare me with empty threats?”

Wednesday shrugs. “Try me.”

“We got problem here?” One of the teammates asks in a thick Russian accent. Perhaps the tattoos are not so much a coincidence.

“No, but your little assistant is about to cause one,” Wednesday points her pencil at Ajax.

“Who are you calling little?!” Ajax yells, throwing a punch at Wednesday.

Sloppy.

Wednesday dodges and pulls Ajax by the collar, throwing him over her shoulder and slamming him into the ground. All before any of the men registered what was happening.

“Such a gentleman. Anyone else?” Wednesday sounds bored. She wants to take Enid to one of her favourite Japanese diners downtown to celebrate their victory. This is taking too long.

The rest of them lunge at Wednesday.

Several broken bones and rolling bowling balls later, with a bonus of a pencil jutting out from one of the men’s ear canals, Wednesday dusts her hand. Ajax has crawled into a corner behind the seating rows. True to her words, Wednesday did not touch a single hair on Ajax.

“You-you killed them! You’re a monster!” he stammers. “Don’t touch me!”

Wednesday squats down to his eye level, wiping a blood splatter from her cheek. “They’re alive, don’t worry. But as I was saying, if you continue to bother Enid, you’d wish for death after I’m done with you.”

Ajax gulps and nods repeatedly.

“You’re free to go. And remember, not a word of this to anyone,” Wednesday warns. “I know where to find you.”

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

ENID

Enid knows she’ll sleep better if she doesn’t ask why Wednesday has blood specks on her arms after coming out from Ballsy Alley, but she can’t ignore the bruises on Wednesday’s knuckles.

The token sits between them on the dining bar.

Wednesday’s favourite Japanese izakaya is tucked away on a small street, nestled between tall, modern buildings. A traditional Japanese noren curtain hangs over the five seats in front of the simple sushi bar, as the pair sits with their back to the pavement.

“What happened?” Enid asks finally, her curiosity and an overwhelming sense of worry won.

Wednesday shrugs. “Bonus rounds. I didn’t start it.”

As if sensing her anxiety, Wednesday adds. “Ajax is fine, can’t say the same for his buddies though.”

Enid reaches for Wednesday’s hands, and much to her relief, Wednesday lets her. “I know, I trust you.”

Trust.

A hard-earned currency that was freely exchanged by them right from the first day. Ironic. It’s easy, Enid couldn’t help it. She had blindly dived in of her own will, a sparrow from its nest at the top of the cliff. Fear whipped at her like the wind as Enid plummeted, and long before letting her crash into the water below, Wednesday caught Enid.

Enid presses the cold towel to Wednesday’s knuckles, the skin red and angry. “Did you ask me to break into Walker’s car by myself because you trusted me or because you didn’t want me to see what was going to happen next?”

Wednesday hums. “Both.”

Another tug at Enid’s heart.

Wednesday is damaged, but there is a brilliance to it. An overwhelming cataclysmic force, all living beings that stand in her way simply succumb to the call of death and destruction. And yet, Wednesday doesn’t want Enid to have to witness it. It is a kind of tenderness that only lovers in movies and novels experience.

The sushi chef places a plate of sashimi before them, breaking Enid’s trail of thoughts. Tuna, salmon, yellowtail, and scallops. Classic.

“What do we do with this token?” Enid pours the soy sauce.

“Per the auction’s policy, each guest must bring a plus one. Insurance policy, keeping everyone on their toes. You must look out for your partner’s wellbeing,” Wednesday picks up a piece of tuna, its colour deep and red, gleaming under the soft glowing lantern light.

Enid follows suit, adding some fresh wasabi on top of a scallop piece before picking it up. Sweet and silky, with a touch of yuzu zest. Fresh and oceanic. It’s the best sashimi she has ever had her entire time in New York.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Enid groans in contentment as she picks another piece.

Wednesday rests her chin on her hand and turns to look at Enid, feigning exasperation. “I’m not a psychic, Enid.”

“Firstly, the food here is to die for,” Enid sips her tea. “Secondly, I get to do undercover work with you again!”

The thought excites Enid. Journalism research into the criminal underworld aside, they can pretend to be a couple once again, to find the Lykaios file, of course. Their bowling tournament victory adrenaline has yet to recede, and Enid wants nothing more than to experience it again and again.

Even just as a cover-up.

They were on a date, and it was a great time. A brief relief from the constant intel gathering and violence. The tournament did end in slight violence, but for better or worse, Wednesday didn’t start it.

Wednesday doesn’t look as thrilled.

The sushi rolls arrive. A feast of colour and culinary delight. Assortments of tuna, salmon, and avocado on top of the California rolls; and the creamy avocado and sweet eel sauce blend perfectly with the crispy cucumber and tender eel for the Dragon rolls. Two pieces each.

“It’s not going to be like at the Ballsy Alley,” Wednesday says the puerile name with utter distaste. “This is an exclusive event with real hardcore criminals. If anything happens, I’m not sure if I can-”

Enid listens intently. Wednesday is concerned for her safety, as always, and Enid is touched. Despite their trust in each other, Wednesday needs to have a little more confidence in Enid, whether in not screwing up things or simply staying alive. Is she getting too far ahead of herself?

“You can’t always take all the risk, Wednesday,” Enid starts, trying to find the right words. “I’m your partner, am I not? Risk comes with the job when I say I want to help you.”

“Intents matter not if you die, Enid,” Wednesday grips her chopsticks, looking down at her plate. “It’s not that I don’t think you can handle yourself, it’s just-”

The ghosts of Wednesday’s past garrotte her, reminding the assassin every day of her falsely placed guilt and refusal to let go. And now they tell Wednesday she is responsible for Enid’s life.

The Wagyu beef slices come last. Topped with a touch of truffle salt, the beef is an indulgence, the rich, buttery meat inviting the mouth, enhanced by the earthy notes of truffle.

“I still think you should stay home, for the best,” Wednesday says quietly.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Wednesday,” Enid replies quickly. “I promise I can be useful to your mission!”

The last sentence surprised even Enid. She didn’t mean to say that out loud.

Until now, Enid has always had to prove her worth to do anything. Her foster family made sure Enid understood that one’s worth is measured by their usefulness. And part of Enid couldn’t help but fearing that she only matters to Wednesday for as long as the assassin deems so.

Her therapist has been wonderful in helping Enid view herself in a kinder light. But sometimes, old demons are far too irresistible to fall back onto.

Wednesday looks like she’s just been slapped.

“I wasn’t talking about that, Enid,” Wednesday says. “But if you think that’s how I view you, then I won’t stop you.”

---

Enid spends half an hour staring at her laptop screen.

Torn between anger and regret, Enid didn’t mean the momentary bitterness that crept into her last few words, not really. Wednesday means well, as always, or at least she believes so. After returning from dinner, Wednesday has locked herself in the study, and not a word said since.

She runs a shaky hand through her hair. “Damn it, Sinclair.”

What’s going to happen once they’ve found the file? Or in the event by some miracle, they found the one responsible for Wednesday’s family deaths?

Does Wednesday simply drop Enid outside her flat, and then it’s sayonara? Never see you again sort of thing.

Enid throws her head back and closes her eyes. Deep breaths.

---

The sun filtered softly through the window of the old orphanage, casting a warm glow across the room. Today was supposed to be her special day.

Another family had shown interest in adopting little Enid. The third time was the charm, right?

“Aren’t you the cutest thing?” A grey-haired woman in her early forties bent down and extended her hand to Enid. “My name is Esther, and I will be your mother.”

“Hi, I’m Enid,” she replied, voice filled with hope. Her tummy felt funny, her heart was a racehorse.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” Esther said. “Mrs. Marsh tells me you’re quite the little helper around here. Is that quite true?”

Enid nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, ma'am. I like to help.”

Esther chuckled. “That's good to hear. I have four boys at home, you see. It's always so busy, and I could use an extra pair of hands. And of course, we have a lovely spacious backyard, perfect for inviting over the friends you’ll make at your new school.”

Clutching closer to her worn-out stuffed puppy, Enid took a sharp breath. Brothers? A real backyard? A loving family? This didn’t feel real, and here was Esther, offering her all of that and more.

As Esther signed the paperwork and exchanged pleasantries with Mrs. Marsh, Enid could barely contain her excitement. The other children cheered for her, and for the first time in the longest time, Enid felt like her dreams were coming true. She was going to have a family. She was going to belong.

---

A modest two-story dwelling in a sea of identical houses. It wasn’t luxurious, but it was lively. And even though the backyard was mostly used as an extended warehouse, Enid still thought it was the best thing ever.

The chores were plenty, but Enid was a big girl. She was eight years old, after all. She could handle it.

Between school and housework, Enid found herself little time to have any friends over. Didn’t help that Esther needed her quiet time after work. Every single day. And Enid didn’t want to appear ungrateful.

Hanging out with friends at school was enough, she thought. No need to trouble her mom any further than she needed to, especially when Esther had to correct almost every single thing that Enid did. And she learned quickly, of course, since each misstep meant no dinner that day.

It was out of love; Enid had believed so.

At least Enid had her brothers. She was always happy to take responsibility for any of the pranks that’d gone wrong because that was what any good sister would do as her eldest brother had told her.

Enid was grateful, and she always said so whenever the very nice lady from CPS visited.

---

Months turned into years.

And Enid still couldn’t possibly do anything right, according to Esther.

Her life had turned into a never-ending to-do-list: dust the living room, prepare the vegetables, help the younger boys with their homework, laundry, iron the clothes. On and on.

Every so often, Enid would overhear hushed conversations between Esther and her neighbours. "She's a blessing, really, helps around so much," Esther would say, pride evident in her voice. But the pride wasn't for Enid; it was for the flawless image of the perfect household that Esther projected.

But Enid had a sanctuary. She was the editor of her school’s paper. And she was damn good at it.

One of her pieces won her an invitation to the National Paper School Conference. Not that Esther cared, it was nothing but a ‘trivial’ and ‘juvenile’ event hardly worth mentioning.

This time, Esther was wrong. It meant everything.

Because Enid met Yoko Tanaka, a representative from a sister school in Japan, there as part of an exchange program. Yoko was smart and funny and adventurous. And she listened to Enid. Actually listened to Enid.

For once, Enid didn’t feel so alone anymore.

“Listen, my family has a prestige scholarship for outstanding foreign students who want to pursue journalism. Why don’t you apply?”

The idea was tempting. It was an opportunity Enid had been waiting for.

But she also knew what Esther would say. The thoughts of rejection and disdain echoed in her mind, but this time, they were drowned out by hope.

---

Enid sits up at the sound of the door clicking shut. She turns to find Wednesday standing in front of her, looking somewhat hesitant.

Shifting the weight from one leg to the other, Wednesday says. “I acted offended when I should’ve realised you only wanted to be recognised.”

A short pause.

“You’re my partner.”

Enid blinks, taken back. Shouldn’t she be the one apologising to Wednesday?

“I’m sorry, too. I didn’t put myself in your shoes. My excitement got ahead of me and, well,” Enid says. Her vocabulary is uncharacteristically vacant. “I just want to be a part of this and help you, rather than sitting on my thumbs while you have to risk your life out there, you know?”

Wednesday frowns. Not grating, but concerned.

“I don’t want you anywhere closer to that world than you already are, Enid. Again, not because I doubt your capability, but-” Wednesday says, pausing.

“You worry about me,” Enid finishes the sentence for her. A smile threatens to creep on her lips.

Wednesday only shrugs.

Enid will get Wednesday to confirm it, verbally, at some point. For now, she’ll take what she can get.

“Soooo am I still-”

“We’ll go together,” Wednesday rolls her eyes.

“Yesss!” Enid punches the air. “Why am I sensing a but here?”

“Stay close. Never let me out of your sight. And if I say we leave, no ifs, no buts. Capisce?”

Enid fingerguns. “You got it, Vito.”

“You know 'The Godfather' is hardly an accurate portrayal of the mafia, right?” Wednesday raises an eyebrow.

“Of course, the one movie reference I make, and you turned into a film critic,” Enid says as she makes a face.

Just to see how those brown eyes soften.

WEDNESDAY

Two weeks meld seamlessly into each other, every day an oscillation between dedicated research and stolen glances.

When Enid is not building her case against the mayor and Wednesday isn’t doing recon, the pair finds themselves in shared silence, sometimes breaking it with soft conversations or the hum of the old record playing in the background.

The growing comforting routine dreads Wednesday.

She hates that she likes it.

When Enid is around, the dead no longer clings at the back of Wednesday’s mind, vengeance almost a bygone driving force of her existence. Each day starts to blur into the next, a haze of companionship as a sapling of trust and fondness grows between them. Wednesday has never been too thrilled about gardening; she merely helped her mother whenever she was tired of attempting to murder her own brother. The budless roses were her favourite.

The rhythmic routine lulls Wednesday into a state of calm she’s unfamiliar with. It’s unsettling, yet Wednesday finds herself looking forward to those moments, treasuring them in a way she never thought she would.

“Is this your family?” Enid asks.

The blonde has been rummaging through a box of old vinyl discs, looking for something to play tonight. It’s pouring outside, thunders dance across the sky. The photo must have slipped there when Wednesday moved.

Wednesday walks over and takes the picture from Enid.

Gomez had bought Wednesday her first hunting knife. A grouchy-looking six-year-old Wednesday had intended to test the blade on her brother in the photo, while her parents held each other on the sofa in the background.

It no longer hurts. Not since vengeance took over her life. It shouldn’t hurt anymore. Yet, the long-forgotten familiar ache returns, unwelcomed. Rain patters on the window, unrelenting, washing clean the guilt in vain. She traces the edges of the photograph, memories flooding back with each touch. The photo, yellowed at the edges and worn from countless handlings, feels heavy in her hand, like a relic of a life that was violently snatched away.

“Yes. Once cherished, and now perished,” Wednesday’s eyes linger on the photo.

Catching a flicker of uncertainty as the blonde tries to process the grim joke, Wednesday returns the photo to Enid. “You can laugh, it was a long time ago.”

“You are so goddamn weird, Wednesday Addams,” Enid says, breaking into a hesitant smile. “But, seriously, I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for you.”

Wednesday kneels down by the box and aimlessly flicks through the discs. “One can only play the hand life dealt them, can’t they? Though sometimes, people cheat.”

They’ve already played John Coltrane last night.

“And when people do, I make them pay.”

Etta James? Maybe.

“With the utmost respect possible, that kinda sounds like a cop job you got there,” Enid sucks air through her teeth.

“An Adjudicator, unofficially,” Wednesday corrects Enid. That last thing Wednesday wants to be associated with is the police force, utterly revolting. “My parents were not assassins. For generations, the Addams have been the rulekeepers of this netherworld. The Untouchables, we were called, until we weren’t.”

Her hand hovers over Nat King Cole for a second then continues flicking. The vinyl records offer no comfort tonight, something churns within Wednesday, preventing her from choosing the right disc.

Wednesday half expects Enid to come up with twenty questions by now, but the blonde remains seated, patiently listening. How the unnamed intuition keeps tugging at Wednesday.

“The Network deemed it an accident, but that’s nothing but lies. Once I find those responsible, I will take away everything and everyone that is dear to them,” Wednesday dares not look at Enid, for fear of what the blonde would think, seeing Wednesday like this.

A monster. Driven by nothing but bloodlust and a thirst for vengeance.

A merciless downpour washed away the city’s filth. Lights from skyscrapers and office buildings blend into blurry yellow spots.

A gentle tug at Wednesday’s sleeve. And another when Wednesday refuses to turn around. The third tug is more insistent, a reminder that Wednesday needs to face reality. Something she’s supposed to be the best at.

Wednesday turns to face Enid, the silence stretches between them, punctuated only by the rhythmic tap of rain on the windows. Enid’s eyes are soft, filled with an understanding that makes Wednesday’s chest tighten. She feels exposed, and vulnerable in a way she hasn’t felt in years. She should despise it. She really should. But Wednesday can’t.

“You know, they say every family has its skeletons. Yours are just… a tad more literal.”

Not what Wednesday was expecting. Pity was her top guess, but macabre humour? That’s new. Someone is learning the ropes too quickly.

“Is that supposed to be funny?” Wednesday arches her eyebrow, trying to sound unimpressed.

“Wasn’t aware you were the only one allowed to make dark jokes,” Enid shrugs, a hint of nervousness in her posture. “I was just lightening the mood. It’s… a lot, you know?”

Enid reaches for Wednesday’s forearm. It’s subtle and warm. “Thank you for letting me in.”

Wednesday falters for a second, she can’t say she dislikes this. Maybe it’s Enid.

“You deserve to know who you’re working with.”

The words feel inadequate, a mere shadow of what Wednesday truly feels. How does one put into words the grief and desperation to be understood that has piled up for years for someone you just met? And yet whether by sheer miracle or luck, they soak you in such understanding and trust so easily.

The implications are there, and Enid shall be her judge. She searches Enid’s eyes, almost desperate to find rejection and appal. None whatsoever. It’s a lifeline, one that Wednesday finds herself clinging to, despite her better judgment.

“I know I said vengeance can’t bring you peace before, and though I stand by that still,” Enid starts slow. “I understand why you must do it. There’s no one else to bring justice to your family. Not in this world. Which is why I said I’ll help you on this path, lest you lose yourself.”

“It blurs, sometimes. The line between justice and vengeance. It shall consume me, that I’m sure of, but without it, what is left of me? What have I in this life?” Her voice trembles as Wednesday looks down at her arm, where Enid’s gentle hand lays. Warmth seeps through the fabric. The touch grounds her.

A confession.

A sinner, on the verge of begging for absolution.

A fiend, never to be released from its chains.

And Enid pulls her into a hug.

The scent of rain permeates the air.

And Wednesday sinks into it, burying her face into Enid’s shoulder, desperate to hold on. If she lets go, it might just all be a dream. Wednesday doesn’t dream. Hasn’t for a long time. Dreams don’t have smell. And Enid smells like cotton and lavender. The embrace is warm, and unyielding, unlike the cold that has settled in Wednesday’s bones.

“Me. You’ll have me,” Enid whispers.

The words wash over Wednesday, cleansing, pardoning Wednesday of the damning sins that she bears her entire life, just like that. Perhaps this is some kind of punishment that fate has condemned her to, another kind of suffering that she has yet to comprehend. Penance, an idea that Wednesday has grown all too family with. She wonders if she deserves this if she has the right to grasp at this lifeline offered to her.

Enid Sinclair is not just her judge, but she might just be Wednesday’s saviour.

ENID

Enid has a feeling Wednesday would approve her choice of attire for the auction party tonight.

“What do you think?” Enid pulls back the curtain of the dressing room at Thing’s shop.

The dress is a reminiscence of old Hollywood allure – a sleek midnight blue satin number that hugs every curve with a finesse that begs the eyes. The open back plunges dramatically, leaving a trail of tantalising skin exposed.

In all honesty, Enid was nervous. Their dynamic has shifted dramatically since their first tango at the mayor’s ball. It was the adrenaline rush of the unknown, of two mysterious strangers who met by chance (not really), of a daring risk.

This time is different.

Enid doesn’t miss the way Wednesday’s eyes not so subtly follow the movement of her calves. Wednesday licks her lips, an unmistakable shift in her eyes. A raw kind of hunger, thinly veiled, simmering just beneath the surface.

After a few seconds of staring, she steps closer, until they’re a mere breath apart. The confined space isn’t helping.

Wednesday traces the cool satin with the back of her fingers, barely skimming Enid’s side, gliding along the curve of her exposed back. Heart thundering against her ribs, Enid swallows. Goosebumps follow the trail of touch.

“Impeccable taste, Miss Sinclair,” Wednesday murmurs. “Careful, you might just attract the wrong kind of attention.”

“And what kind is it? May I ask?”

Wednesday doesn’t answer right away, instead lingers her fingers at the nape of Enid’s neck. “The kind that can’t resist getting too close, even when they should know better.”

Enid finds herself leaning into the touch, yearning for more. The delectable tension begs her. This little game between them is going to drive Enid off the edge one day, but she’s not one to lose.

“And do you always know better, Miss Addams?”

The fingers slip away.

“Always. But sometimes,” Wednesday says, leaning in closer, her breath warm against Enid’s ear. “It’s tempting not to.”

The cold mirror presses into Enid’s back, but it’s the heat from their proximity that is sending shivers down her spine. She can smell Wednesday’s perfume – something oaky, which only makes Enid want to plunge her lips into that delicious neck.

Enid tilts her head, lips barely grazing Wednesday’s cheek, blood thumping in her ears.

“Wouldn’t you like to find out the consequences of taking such risks?”

As quickly as she’d invaded Enid’s space, Wednesday stepped back, her gaze unbreaking. “Enticing, but we have an auction to attend. Such consequences are not on tonight’s agenda, to my utmost lamentation.”

---

The auction is being held at an abandoned underground station, an hour away from Thing’s shop.

“Thornhill really doesn’t like to leave things to chance, does she?” Enid examines the token, which had flashed the coordinates of the venue in Morse code three times, then turned off completely.

“How do you think she survived this long? Rumour has it, Thornhill poisoned her stepmother because she saw her as a threat to her inheritance,” Wednesday says. “Never proven though.”

Enid gulps.

“Can I have a gun?”

“Can you shoot with the intenT to kill?” Wednesday replies casually as if she has been waiting for Enid to ask this question.

“Well… not really. But I have a deterrence intention, though. Does that not count?” Enid knows she’s fighting a losing battle here. She’s never been a gun person, no. A pacifist, most of the time. But something tells Enid that being a pacifist in this world is like going to Italy and asking for pineapple pizza.

“And where would you shoot at if you want to ‘deter’ someone?” Wednesday is not outright declining the request, which is already a good sign.

“The brachial nerve. Incapacitate the target without killing them,” Enid answers. She knows this one, from-

“Did you get that from Copycat?”

Enid looks over to the driver seat, and she probably needs an eye check because Wednesday looks like she’s trying to hold back a laugh.

“Look, I tuned in for Sigourney Weaver at first, and if the movie taught me some good shooting lessons and how to analyse serial killers, then it’s a bonus, okay?”

“I’m not saying it is incorrect. But you did see how shooting someone’s brachial nerve backfired the pacifist cop near the end, right?” Wednesday says. “It’s not a guaranteed. And you need to be an excellent shot if you want to hit that nerve, otherwise you might as well just kill the target or the hostage they’re holding. So, the questions have become, how good of a shot are you, Miss Sinclair? And is your conscience ready for taking someone’s life, intentionally or not?”

Enid purses her lips, then blows a defeated raspberry. “Fine, you’ve made your point, I don’t need a gun. I’ll pepper spray the hell out of whoever tries to kill me instead.”

Wednesday shrugs. “I never said you can’t have one.”

“Yeah well, my conscience won’t leave me alone now that you’ve mentioned it,” Enid mumbles, pouting.

The plan is simple. Infiltrate the auction, bid for the file, no matter the cost, and then get the hell out of there. Wednesday didn’t say it, but Enid knows the only reason why she refuses to take out Thornhill at the party after they retrieved the file is because of Enid’s safety. Enid appreciates it, she really does, and she also didn’t mean to be such a baby about an inane matter like whether she could have a gun or not.

Enid knows Wednesday will keep her safe, but she also doesn’t want to be a liability. The thousand what-ifs scenarios have been racing through her mind ever since they learned about this auction party.

“Do you mind opening the glove box?” Wednesday asks, pulling Enid out of her thoughts.

“Sure, what do you need in-” Enid replies as she opens the compartment. “Oh, don’t you have enough guns already?”

A sleek black, miniature odd-looking gun sits neatly inside.

“It’s a heavy tranquiliser. Should fit on your thigh strap,” Wednesday answers the question on the tip of Enid’s tongue. “Didn’t want you to feel left out.”

“Awww, if you weren’t driving, I’d be giving you a hug right now,” Enid coos.

Wednesday is always thoughtful. At least her observations told Enid so from the short time they’ve known each other. And yet, the blonde is still taken by surprise every time Wednesday pulls something like this.

“Don’t push it.”

“You do like my hugs though.”

“We hugged once.”

It’s asinine, what they’re bickering about. Less than an hour ago, Enid was convinced they were going to tear into each other’s clothes had it not been for the party. Perhaps Wednesday sensed it, too. Or not.

“Are you saying you don’t like my hugs?”

Wednesday grumbles something under her voice in reply.

“You’d never ever hug me again even if I am in desperate need of my partner’s support after a traumatic event?” Enid continues. “Is that what you said? Cause I didn’t quite catch it.”

She likes pressing Wednesday’s buttons when it comes to this. It’s fun, and the way Wednesday reacts is endearing, to say the least.

“I said the hug was tolerable,” Wednesday huffs out, her grip on the steering wheel tightens. “And should you require one, I will oblige if it alleviates your sullen moods.”

“I like hugging you, too,” Enid grins.

---

The unremarkable entry hides away from most passers-by – a lone black steel door amidst half-ruined building blocks.

Enid goes over her inventory one last time. Tranquiliser. Checked. Spy pen. Checked. Partner by your side. Checked.

“Can the voice modulator change my voice into Minion’s?” Enid adjusts the wolf mask on her face. “I like Bob.”

The raven mask turns to face Enid. “Are you certain you want to do this? It’s okay if you want to go back. We’ll find another way to get the file. And Thornhill.”

“I know you got my back,” Enid touches Wednesday’s arm, easing the woman before her. “And I got yours.”

Wednesday nods once. It’s hard to read the face under the mask, but those soft brown eyes told Enid everything she needed to know.

“I see. Well then, would you do me the honour of accompanying me to this auction?” Wednesday holds out her hand as they stand before the steel door.

“Why, I thought you’d never ask,” Enid takes the hand, almost too eagerly, knowing all too well she is doomed for the assassin by her side.

---

The seemingly endless stairway leading underground finally ends, as they enter a grandiose entrance hall. It reminds Enid of those extravagant subways in Moscow, how odd to see this in New York.

Only Wednesday had to be patted down, given the lack of threads on Enid indicated she had little to nothing to hide. No one dared reach for the slits.

“I think I recognise some politicians,” Enid whispers, arm looped over Wednesday’s. “Is that-”

“No one is supposed to recognise anyone in these types of functions, mon amour,” Wednesday gently reminds her. “But yes, that is the newest member of the city council. Supposedly, of course.”

The term of endearment caught Enid off-guard. Guess they’re really going for the couple cover tonight. Enid knows it’s merely a façade, but she couldn’t help but feel a drop in her stomach as those words left Wednesday. She wants to hear them again.

As they enter the main hall, an expansive space, a cavernous room that feels both ancient and opulent, Enid finds herself inching closer to Wednesday. Some of these attendants are well-respected members of society, and yet, here they are, mingling among crime lords and killers, some even look like old friends.

The high vaulted ceilings of the subway station are supported by ornate columns, reminiscent of the grand architecture of forgotten times. A mélange of exposed brick and murals line the walls, lit by the warm glow of chandeliers and candles. Murmurs and laughter of the guests buzz the air, underscored by the subtle notes of a live jazz band tucked into a corner, their music a silky thread weaving through the conversations.

Each section of the hall is designated for different activities. Near the entrance, clusters of velvet settees and mahogany tables offer a space for guests to converse and negotiate. Further in, the hall opens to a dance floor, where couples glide in a slow waltz, their movements a silent, rhythmic language of their own. Beyond the dancers, heavy velvet curtains partition off the auction area, a hushed, secretive place where fortunes and fates are bartered.

Corruption runs deep, Enid knows that, but this deep? Feels like she just touched the bottom of the Marina trenches.

“Lovely evening, don’t you think?”

Enid turns around. A tall, slender man in a velvet black tux regards them. The voice underneath his well-worn wolf mask and the aged hand holding his whiskey tell Enid the man is at least in his fifties.

“Yes, it is, indeed,” Enid gives a curt answer. Something about this man puts all her senses on edge, her fight or flight response in full gear.

“Any item, in particular, you’re looking forward to bidding for tonight?” the old wolf has no intention of dropping the conversation. His voice is calm, unrippled.

“Whichever catches the eyes of my beloved, of course.”

Wednesday snakes her arm around Enid’s hips, an unspoken assurance.

The old wolf tilts his head as if he’s sizing up Wednesday, deciding whether she’s a threat or not. “There is no ecstasy like pleasing your lover, I must agree,” he says finally. “Enjoy it while you can, such bliss in life is rare and can fade away in the blink of an eye.”

Just as suddenly as he came, the man disappeared into the crowd.

“Well, that was fudging weird,” Enid leans on Wednesday, her heart still reeling from the encounter.

Wednesday’s eyes are glued to the spot from whence the old wolf retreated to. “Keep your guard up, he bears the signet ring of the Lykaios family.”

---

Enid didn’t know what she was expecting. Contracts, killers for hire, did she just hear someone bidding for both the supposedly long-lost Irish Crown Jewel and the Florentine Diamond? The filthy rich truly are something else.

No sign of the Lykaios file, though.

“What should we do now?” Enid tugs on Wednesday’s arm. She enjoys having Wednesday so close to her. it feels safe, soothing her mind.

“Dance.”

“Excuse me?”

“We dance,” Wednesday says, a hint of playfulness in her voice as she turns to take Enid’s hand, and thus, take Enid’s heart by surprise.

As if on cue, the music swells, flooding the hall with a waltz.

This feels all too familiar, but with a different kind of rush. It isn’t the rush of thrill, no, but rather a rush of sweet anticipation. An anticipation that Enid doesn’t know has existed since when.

Wednesday’s hand is firm, but gentle, on the back of Enid, guiding the blonde across the dance floor. Just like their first tango, and just like all those nights they spent waltzing in Wednesday’s apartment, the act itself feels all too natural, like their hands were made to fit into one another so perfectly.

“I still don’t understand-” Enid begins, her neck itching to look around. Does she want this to end? No. But they have a job to do.

“Just keep your eyes on me,” Wednesday whispers, pulling Enid closer. “And worry not a thing.”

Enid is more than content to oblige. What has become of her?

They’re altogether too different. Two opposite ends of a spectrum. This would never lead anywhere. Wednesday is an assassin, and most likely will be, until the day she draws her last breath. Enid hopes there is a way for Wednesday to get out. She doesn’t know how, but Enid must figure it out if she wants this whole thing to go anywhere further than sheer flirtation and sexual tension.

You only live once, right?

“Do you want to go on a date with me?” Enid asks, almost too quickly. The question flew out before she had the chance to collar it. “A real one. After all of this is over, of course. And I know this might not be the best time to ask but I realised I really want to take you out. Not in your assassin way but…”

The ramble trails off. The music goes on.

Their waltz nearly missed a beat. But Wednesday recovers quickly, guiding Enid back to the dance. In silence, though.

Enid really screws it up this time. She successfully made an already-odd partnership awkward. How delusional. This is worse than dying, it must be. If only the ground could swallow her up and erase her existence from this timeline right bloody now.

“Let’s focus on the task at hand first, shall we?”

Something inside Enid cracks. The air feels too thick to breathe.

It must be the mask. Thank goodness for the mask.

WEDNESDAY

“I’m going to use the bathroom, or as the elite would say, powder my nose,” Enid tries to crack a joke, hurt evident in her voice. “You keep out for that item; I’ll be back in a minute.”

The auction has resumed, and the pair sits at one of the tables in the corner, keeping a low profile while observing the event in full. The party shows no sign of slowing down, even more rousing if anything.

A date.

Of all the normal, wonderfully normal people in her life, Enid asked Wednesday out. And Wednesday rejected her. She rejected what her desire commands. She’d rather let it consume her whole and spend the rest of her life wallowing over it.

But ever since Wednesday’s met Enid, the prospect of her being dead in a ditch, all alone now seems a bit further away, a bit blurrier. The vision is there. She knows it. It’s always there, waiting for Wednesday.

But Enid made her dead heart warm and alive, made her feel seen, and made her want to live. Forget a date, forget a crush, forget an infatuation. Wednesday’s heart has been seized by the sun long ago, her Enid.

Wednesday has been thinking about an early retirement. The burning manor remerges from the depth of agony. Who is she kidding?

Wednesday has accepted that the ghosts won’t ever rest, and thus, she shan’t ever stop looking for her family’s killer, but she won’t take on new contracts anymore. Give it all up, for a shot at the other side, the kind of life people would kill for.

A date is a good start. And an apology for acting like the world’s biggest imbecile. For making Enid doubts her intentions.

Perhaps it will be different this time. If Wednesday can leave it all behind.

---

Enid hasn’t come back.

Something nags at Wednesday. Her intuition is rarely ever wrong. She begs it to be wrong this time.

The tracker that Wednesday hid in Enid’s heels indicates the blonde is still in the ladies’ room.

The bathroom is empty, save for the pair of heels in a stall. Wednesday curses under her breath.

“Wolves don’t usually hide in toilets, you know.”

Wednesday whips around.

A slim figure donning a siren mask is looking at herself in the mirror, applying lipstick while speaking.

“Where is she?” Wednesday grits her teeth.

“I never took you for the sentiment type, getting involved with your partner and all that. Makes me wonder why you never agreed to go out with me all those years ago,” the siren smacks her lips dramatically.

Wednesday marches up to the woman, ready for a fight. “I won’t ask again, Barclay. Where is she?”

Bianca turns around and leans on the counter, unfazed by Wednesday’s threat. “What’s the magic word?”

To hell with her ego, Wednesday clenches her jaw. “Please.”

“I heard the Maestro is hosting a private concert at his home tonight. Odd, given how little Xavvy would rather die than miss out on one of these auctions.”

Wednesday is already out of the door before Bianca finishes her sentence.

“Nice chat, El Cuervo.”

---

The ghosts whisper to Wednesday, sneering at her. Her mistake will cost her beloved’s life. Another ghost that will haunt her for the rest of time.

Wednesday has never been religious, but right now, she’s begging any entity that is out there to keep Enid safe. Whatever the cost, Wednesday will pay it. For Enid’s sake, Wednesday shall fain relinquish all that she has, all that she is. So please, just this once, don’t take it away from her.

Wednesday chastises herself while exerting the car’s engine.

“f*ck,” Wednesday’s grip tightens on the wheel and steels her mind. Focus.

Xavier’s home is in the outskirts on the other side of the city. She’s been there once, for a Network formal dinner, not expecting the grotesque performance later that night. Wednesday never accepts any invitation there again.

She must make it in time. She simply must.

Stretching into the night, the road climbs, it narrows, hugging the contours of the rugged hillside. Pine trees line the lightless path, and only the intermittent glow of the moon pierces through the canopy above, casting shadows across the asphalt. The villa awaits at the summit, silhouetted against the dark horizon, isolated from the fading city light.

The car comes to a halt at the tall steel gate, the gravel crunching under the tyres in the silent night. A guard in a black suit approaches Wednesday’s car, motioning her to lower the window.

“The Maestro has been expecting you, madame.”

A flash from the driver seat and a thud. The guard was dead before he dropped to the ground.

Slamming her foot on the accelerator, Wednesday rams through the gate. The floodlights snap on, as dozens of guards pour out to the front yard.

Bullets rain on her.

Shifting her gear, the car drifts around the ostentatious water fountain, now pockmarked with gunshots. Shells ejected from her pistol with rhythmic clinks, clattering against the car’s interior and the ground outside.

A guard slams on the windshield as the car turns, smashing the glass.

Wednesday swerves, the vehicle’s rear swinging out in a wide arc. The car’s open door catches another guard off-guard, slamming into him and sprawling to the ground with him with a loud clank. There goes another door.

More men come running at Wednesday, now that her side is exposed.

With a flick of her wrist, Wednesday executes a handbrake turn. Leaning out of the spinning car, Wednesday fires rapidly, cutting them down, their bodies thudding against the manicured grass and decorative statues.

The last of the guards charge at Wednesday, unyielding. Two shots ring out from the Falcon. The men stumble back, crashing against the fountain’s edge, their bodies sliding down into the clear, cold water.

Efficient.

Wednesday looks down at her suit, the once pristine black fabric is marred with scruffs and tears. Her ribs sting. A bullet has grazed her ribcage, revealing a seeping, shallow wound. A splinter of glass from the windshield has embedded itself on her forearm, the skin around it angry and red.

With a grim set to her jaw, Wednesday pulls out the shard and presses a piece of cloth against the wound on her rib. Enid is waiting, no time to waste.

A static crackle from a walkie-talkie on the ground.

“Is it done?”

Wednesday crushes the radio under her foot and steadfast herself to enter the devils's den.

A stark contrast to the violence it houses, the villa flaunts lavish décor and priceless art pieces. Golden walls, golden pillars, golden stairs. Pompous and arrogant, just like its owner.

Wednesday navigates through the eerily quiet den, her steps barely making a sound on the marble floors. She knows exactly where to head – the auditorium, a room custom-built by the Maestro to resemble a grand concert hall, where he indulges his twisted performances. A place of beauty twisted into a stage for cruelty.

The heavy double doors to the auditorium loom before Wednesday, left slightly ajar. An invitation. The room is drenched in rich shades of red velvet, the seats plush and inviting, yet empty.

Wednesday immediately makes for the stage, where bathed in a harsh spotlight, is Enid. Still clad in the gown from the auction, the blonde’s posture is unnaturally stiff, as if marionette strings hold her upright. Her eyes flutter, confusion and drowsiness mingling in her gaze.

“Wednesday?”

Before Wednesday could approach, a voice booms through the speakers, deep and resonant, echoing off the high ceilings.

“Why don’t you take a seat, mademoiselle Addams? The show is about to start.”

Every instinct is telling her to rush the stage, but Wednesday knows better. This is one of Xavier’s iconic performances. Marionette on the Strings. As the name suggests, the victim is the marionette, and the strings are razor-sharp wires. One wrong movement, or with a flick of the Maestro’s fingers, death awaits the victim.

“Why not just kill her already?” Wednesday refuses to sit, taking the opportunity to scan the room, doing her best to figure out where Xavier is.

The strings are odd. Razor sharp, sure. But they are doubled compared to the last time Wednesday was here. She needs to test this theory.

Going to hurt you again tonight, Enid. Sorry.

“You know art is everything to me, mademoiselle Addams. What would art be without its beholders? Come, take your seat, for you are my esteemed guest for this evening.”

“You’re just making excuses for your sad*stic, narcissistic self,” Wednesday takes several steps toward the stage.

“It’s called beauty! And maybe, if you weren’t such an insufferable twat, I might have spared your little toy!” Xavier hisses through the speaker.

Two string flicks simultaneously, yet only one limb moves. And bleeds.

Enid screams. The cut slapped her awake. Wednesday feels as though she has been stabbed herself.

But Wednesday is right. Unlike the standard overhead rig used in traditional marionette plays, this setup is controlled with the aid of a truckle mechanism, a series of pulleys and cables routed through the under-stage area. The bastard is hiding right underneath Enid.

“It’ll be okay, Enid. You’re going to be fine,” Wednesday moves to the closest seat.

“That’s a good dog,” the voice booms again. “Now, allow me to introduce you to my performance today.”

Ignoring the madman’s rambling, Wednesday knows she must disrupt this sick performance to draw Xavier out, and more importantly, to save Enid. Her fingers brush against the cold metal of her gun, and slowly, she stands, aiming at the stage. Xavier is too caught up in his monologue to notice Wednesday. From the camera, it must’ve looked as if Wednesday is still at her seat.

Fear flashes Enid’s face, shocked to see Wednesday pointing the gun at her.

Not at Enid, just right underneath her.

“Trust me,” Wednesday mouths back and raises a finger to her lips, shushing Enid.

The gunshot echoes through the auditorium. A sharp, discordant note in Xavier’s twisted symphony. The bullet strikes true, shattering one of the pulleys, and the strings now slacken. Enid stumbles, losing her balance, her neck dangerously close to one of the loose strings.

A screech from below the stage.

Wednesday rushes ahead, catching Enid. Her hands bleed from cutting and untangling the entrapment, but that might as well be the last thing Wednesday cares about right now.

“I got you,” Wednesday whispers as Enid clings on to her.

A loud thud sends Wednesday tumbling. Something just hit her head. Hard.

“You wretched goddamn orphan. Do you know what you’ve done?!” Xavier screams, swinging his cane relentlessly at Wednesday. “My masterpiece! You f*cking-”

Head. Torso. Arms.

She’s going to wake up with some nasty bruises. If internal bleeding and head trauma don’t get to her first.

The screaming stops.

Wednesday spits out a mouthful of blood and rolls over.

“You stupid f*cking- ugh. What is this?” Xavier seethes, yanking out a pen from his neck, while a still staggering Enid is slowly stepping back in the background. “I was going to make you art. Now you’ll pay for-”

He stammers and reaches for Enid, words slurring together as his face turns purple, struggling to catch air before slumping to the wooden floor.

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

ENID

“I think he’s dead,” Enid limps toward Wednesday and sits down next to her and tears off a strip of her dress to wrap around her bleeding arm, hand still trembling lightly. “Are you okay?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Wednesday wipes the blood off her face with a handkerchief then bandages her hands.

Enid only shrugs as she leans on Wednesday’s shoulder. No objection.

The shared silence is heavy yet liberating at the same time.

Wednesday finally turns to Enid, her voice hoarse. “Look, I’m… sorry. I shouldn’t have let you go to the bathroom alone. Actually, I shouldn’t even have let you come to the auction in the first place,” a moment of hesitation before she adds. “And now you’ve killed someone because of me.”

Enid shakes her head, dismissing the apology with a half-smile. Beaten to a pulp and still her assassin in shining armour.

“It was bound to happen at some point, me being a valuable target,” Enid says. “But tonight was avoidable. I was… I didn’t think straight. Must’ve been the champagne. Not happening again.”

They both know Enid wasn’t talking about getting kidnapped or almost dying. But Wednesday’s rejection was clear. The palpable tension Enid felt must have been a smoke mirror, lying to the blonde, mocking her.

“About that…” Wednesday says, hesitating.

“No, no, I get it. We’re cool, I was reading too much into it. Let’s just drop it,” Enid waves her hand. This is getting embarrassing, and she gets a feeling Wednesday wants to get to the bottom of things, and might as well finish off her dignity in the process. If only Enid had injected herself with the venom by mistake.

“No,” Wednesday frowns, her voice clear.

“What do you mean no, Weds?” Enid asks, baffled.

“Because,” Wednesday swallows, struggles to find the words before giving up and reaches out to Enid, cupping her face with both hands and leanS in.

She can smell the gunpowder on Wednesday and taste the sharp, metallic tang on her lips, only intensified by the adrenaline that has yet to come down. Enid is kissing the goddess of death and destruction and oh how she loves it so.

It takes Enid but a moment to reciprocate her, meeting Wednesday with equal eagerness, if not more. The underlying tenderness is something that Enid did not expect. Wednesday kisses her with the intensity of a raging storm, yet so gentle, cradling her face like Enid is made of glass.

Not exactly how Enid has envisioned their first kiss though, or any kiss ever. But it’s Wednesday. And Enid has wanted to do this ever since she’s laid eyes on her.

Enid begrudgingly pulls away alas, chuckling as Wednesday chases after her lips for one more kiss.

It’s cute.

“I didn’t think the stage where I almost died would be the most appropriate place for this, but I just couldn’t help it,” Wednesday says. “I’ve wanted to do that for a good while now.”

If you ignore the macabre nature of the situation they’re in at the moment, the dazed look on Wednesday’s face is something Enid wants to memorise for as long as she breathes.

---

Giddy like a child who received all the presents that she wished for on Christmas day, Enid can’t stop smiling like an idiot the whole ride back. She glances at the woman driving beside her, exhausted, but felicity twinkles in her eyes. Wednesday almost looks like a normal girl who just kissed the girl that she likes, sans the bloody wounds and tattered clothing.

Enid discerns the events that had transpired this evening, more like yesterday, now that the sun is coming up. Let’s see, the weirdest auction Enid has ever been to in her life, checked; almost got murdered (again), checked; kissed by the woman she is so down bad for, checked.

Frankly, quite a productive day.

She also killed a man today.

Enid killed someone for the first time, hopefully, the last, and she isn’t sure why she doesn’t feel the way someone who just took a life should.

Guilt. Disgust. Regret.

Enid feels numb, even a sense of relief instead. That maniac was going to kill Wednesday, blow after blow. A few more hits and… Enid shudders at the thought.

She didn’t even think, just acted.

The spy pen hidden in her bra saved them both.

Still, a life was taken.

“You’re not going to ask me what happened to the tranquiliser that you gave me?” Enid looks out the window, catching the first glimpse of sunlight.

“Of all things you want me to ask, that’s what you settle on?” Wednesday sounds flabbergasted.

“The heels were killing me, so I had to take them off. Then someone knocked at my stall. His name was Xavier, right?” Enid begins. “Obviously, I was like excuse me, this is the ladies’ room, sir, get the hell out. Then he showed a picture of Ajax and said if I want him in one piece, I’d better do as he said. So, I did the sensible thing by pulling the tranquiliser out on him, but he was quicker than me, of course, he was. And while struggling with him I shot myself with the tranquiliser.”

“You shot yourself with the tranquiliser?” Wednesday makes an audible gasp; the most surprised Enid has ever heard from her. “Remind me to never-” she trails off. “It’s not your fault.”

Enid stifles a laugh. “Yeah, on the foot as well, can you believe the irony? I’m never asking for a gun again, promise,” she turns to look at Wednesday. “I knew you would come for me. Well, you were already there when I woke up anyway. I did the heavy lifting for Xavier, didn’t I? Slept through the whole kidnap.”

They’re almost home, just a few more blocks.

“Ajax is fine, I asked Eugene to keep tabs on all your personal interests. Xavier was bluffing, probably wouldn’t even deem Ajax was worthy of his art,” Wednesday says. “And he had it coming. Xavier. You saved a lot of lives by ending his.”

“I know, I know, it’s just… I should feel awful. But I’m not. Does that make me a bad person?”

Wednesday glances at Enid before answering. “No.”

Simple and frank.

“And of course, I’d come,” Wednesday clears her throat. “You’re important.”

Wednesday has her own world, her own concerns, her own grief. It was by sheer luck that Wednesday allowed Enid in, and now that she’s here, Enid is not letting the opportunity pass by.

The hellscape that Wednesday is trapped in is unending, inescapable, soaked in perpetual darkness. Enid cannot imagine living like that for 20 years or so. A python that constricts tighter and tighter as time pass, until Wednesday suffocates and succumbs to the anguish. Not while Enid is here and can do anything about it.

“Not just because of the case,” Wednesday’s voice calls her back. “To me. You’re important to me.”

The last part comes out quick and quiet, and if Enid wasn’t paying attention, she would’ve missed it. She could never miss it.

---

The apartment is just how they left it. Pristine and somehow homey.

Perhaps it is due to the plushies collection that Enid asks Wednesday to bring back from her place; or the few miniature cacti from the local flower shop that Enid thought suit Wednesday well; or the coral and deep green throw pillows that now live on the sofa.

They’re subtle, but palpable. Enid’s presence is melding, soaking, taking up the space in this apartment. And the funny thing is, Wednesday doesn’t seem to mind, at all.

---

“What about this one?”

Enid pointed to a monstera in the back, its leaves lush and green, shining under the fluorescent light. She’s always wanted one, but her apartment didn’t have the space, and Wednesday’s place could use some colour.

“Who’s going to take care of it when we’re out?” Wednesday examined the leaves closely, checking for any sign of pest or rotting, as if she had experience in gardening.

“According to Google, it’s one of the easier ones to care for, both for newbie and experienced plant enthusiast alike,” Enid read from her phone.

“Monstera plants prefer a humid environment, we might need to get a humidifier as well, if we’re not home to mist it regularly. We’ll need water-soluble fertilizer as well, but not too much, feed it every 4-6 weeks and it should be good. I saw some moss poles back there; it’ll need the support as it grows. And neem oil as well, for pest.”

Wednesday listed out what they needed as she lifted the monstera into their cart.

“How do you know all this? Do you just read Home & Garden in your spare time as a hobby?” Enid asked while typing up the shopping checklist.

“We had a garden and a greenhouse. My mother liked taking care of them,” Wednesday replied, pushing the cart ahead.

Oh.

Enid trailed behind, deliberating whether she should say it. Would she be overstepping her boundaries? Enid bit her lower lip.

“Do you wanna, um, have a mini garden at home?” Enid asked quickly. “Just some small ones, I’ll do my best to take care of them.”

The cart stopped.

Maybe she did overstep.

Wednesday turned around with an unreadable expression on her face.

“I’d like that.”

---

The monstera greets the tattered pair. Unbothered, moisturised, flourishing.

The ridiculously massive first-aid kit is already on the kitchen counter. Exhausted and bloody, they take one look at each other, and then wordlessly make their way towards the island.

“Let me look at your arm,” Wednesday offers.

“Ma’am, have you seen your own hands? They’re sorta, how do I say, effed up,” Enid opens the lid, pulls out three bottles of antiseptic then gently pushes Wednesday towards the kitchen chair. Wednesday has done more than enough tonight. “This is going to hurt, yeah?”

“Better than dead,” Wednesday says as she peels off her jacket, revealing the dark stains beneath.

Cuts crisscrossing her hands, from untangling the marionette strings; the grazed ribs red and angry, a mere whisper away from a lethal wound; and a hasty, now badly stained bandage on her forearm.

Enid isn’t going to try to count the endless bruises and small cuts.

Her stomach churns. This is all because of her. Because Enid couldn’t have kept her thoughts to herself. Always had to get things off her chest. Her little series of coquetry finally made things unbearably worse for them.

But Enid couldn’t help herself, it’s Wednesday after all. She has grown attached to the broody assassin, despite all logic and reason. Perhaps more than attached. When Wednesday kissed her, she opened a Pandora's box for Enid. All that escaped were her fear and doubts, only hope remains. Hope for something akin to a future with Wednesday. Enid knows she’s holding a lantern, running ahead of a car, asking it to run her over. Maybe once this is over, she can ask Wednesday on another date. That’d be a good start.

Enid begins with the cuts on Wednesday’s hands, cleaning them with antiseptic that makes Wednesday’s jaw clench. Ever gentle and careful, Enid’s touch is feather-light, her fingers trace around the injuries, ensuring they’re clean and covered.

Their eyes meet occasionally, a mix of gratitude, and something else. Enid is too weary tonight to analyse it in full.

As Enid wipes the last of the blood from Wednesday’s face with a damp cloth, her hands pause on Wednesday’s cheeks, thumbs brushing lightly over the bruises. “There,” she whispers. “All patched up.”

It’s her turn to sit, and Enid does so with a faint wince, the adrenaline is finally wearing off and the gash on her arm begins to ache. Wednesday cleans the wound wordlessly, methodically and practised – yet the tenderness is there as always.

“Thank you,” Enid says when Wednesday is finished, putting the remaining supplies away. She hesitates, then leans in, pressing a kiss to Wednesday's cheek. It feels appropriate.

Only an hour ago, Wednesday’s tongue was ravaging Enid’s mouth, and now a peck on the cheek makes Wednesday redder than a tomato? Enid laughs.

“What?” Wednesday grumbles, all too aware, hand touching the kissed spot on her cheek.

“Nothing, I think you’re cute,” Enid says, endearment in her voice. She’s about to pull Wednesday in to kiss that grumble away, but her stomach rumbles, breaking the moment.

Instant noodles art thy Holy Grail.

WEDNESDAY

By the time they’ve both showered and changed into comfortable bed attires, the sun is already high up. Wednesday is a night owl anyway, but she knows Enid hates messing up her sleep schedule.

“I’m going to head to bed. You should get some rest, too,” Wednesday stands at her bedroom door. Sleep calls for her, and she shan’t resist.

“Yeah, yeah. Nighty night, Wednesday,” Enid waves from the hallway, a sheepish smile on her face. “Or morning, if that matters.”

Enid took someone’s life today, for her. To save Wednesday. Because she was slow and weak. Because she should have crippled that son of a bitch on the metro that day. Her unwarranted mercy claimed its debt today.

Frankly, Xavier deserved it. Wednesday’s only regret is she wasn’t the one to end that scumbag’s miserable life. He hurt Enid. And that somehow, was his worst capital offence.

All the guidance Wednesday had growing up was about the art of taking a life, not how to talk to someone who makes your stomach knots in the most pleasant way; or better yet, how to maintain healthy relationships.

Actions speak louder than words. Wednesday acted on her impulse today, claiming what her heart desires most and was thoroughly rewarded. Though they have yet to talk about it, part of Wednesday burns with anticipation. The early retirement idea consolidates itself further by the minute ever since Enid kissed her back.

A semi-clean slate, if Enid would have her.

“Let me know if you need anything,” Wednesday nods.

She dares not think of, lest suggest the idea of them sharing the same bed. Intentionally. Not simply falling asleep next to each other like that time on the sofa. Wednesday doesn’t want Enid to think she only wants the blonde physically. Much more than that. Would that scare Enid away altogether?

Maybe, Wednesday thinks as she sinks into blissful slumber.

---

The scream pierces through the night, jolting Wednesday awake.

Grabbing the gun on the bedside table, she dashes toward the source of the disturbance: Enid’s room.

Her heart pounds, terrified of what she might find. Careless once again. But the security system remains silent, with no sign of intrusion.

Wednesday bursts through the door, gun poised and ready. Instead, she finds only Enid tangled in her sheets, out of breath, caught in the throes of a nightmare.

Sighing in relief, Wednesday kneels by the bed and holds Enid’s hand. “Enid, wake up, it’s me. You’re safe.”

Enid’s breaths are shaky, her other hand fists at the bed sheet and cold sweat drips from her forehead. Wednesday squeezes her hand in reassurance. “Bad dream?”

Wordlessly nodding as an answer, Enid pinches her nose bridge and swallows. She’s about to say something but decides against it, and slumps back down to the bed. Wednesday waits until her breathing evens out to let go of Enid’s hand to stand up, only to be pulled back by the wrist.

“Where are you going?” Enid sounds almost desperate, but above all, she sounds scared.

“I’m getting you a towel and some water. It’s just on the other side of the room. I won’t go anywhere,” Wednesday gestures to the bathroom. “I promise.”

Enid reluctantly let go. “Sorry, I’m just…”

“Don’t be, I get what it feels like,” Wednesday says as she soaks the towel in the wash basin and wrings out the water. She grabs a glass of water on her way back and hands it to Enid, who gladly takes a few small sips before setting it down on the floor beside the bed.

“Here, let me,” Wednesday kneels by the bed and starts dabbing the sweat on Enid’s face and neck. When the towel reaches the sternum and her fingers graze at Enid’s skin, Wednesday hears a small, choked noise. She instantly withdraws her hands and stands up.

“I apologise. Did I-”

“No, no… thank you, actually, for checking in on me,” Enid swallows. “Sorry for ruining your sleep.”

The usual venereal teasing between them is long gone, whatever lay before them now is raw and sincere, like when Enid hugged Wednesday and told her if Wednesday had nothing left, she’d have Enid still. Being there for Enid is the least Wednesday could do right now.

“I thought someone broke in,” Wednesday sets aside the towel and shrugs. “It’s my job to keep you safe.”

Enid winces at the word ‘job’. Wednesday says the first thing that came to her mind, doing her best to salvage the situation. “Do you want me to stay?”

Enid lights up at the offer but hesitates. “That’s very kind of you. You don’t have to though.”

“As long as you’re comfortable, I have no objection.”

“Well then, come on in,” Enid scoots over and pats the other side of her bed. Already back to being a ball of sunshine. Wednesday somehow no longer finds that annoying, but unfortunately, endearing now.

The bed is warm. It smells like Enid. How comforting. An oasis in her desert of loss and grief.

Wednesday stares at the ceiling and dares not move an inch. They have fallen asleep by each other before, by accident. This time, by deliberation. And once again, Wednesday doesn’t know how to handle it. Enid’s breath has evened out, and Wednesday sneaks a glance at the woman beside her.

Peaceful.

Loose strands of hair fall on Enid’s face. It takes every ounce of self-control within Wednesday to not tuck them away.

Wednesday has lived in darkness for a long time. Over the years, her eyes adjusted until the dark became her world and she could see. But then Enid turned on the light, flooding her memory and now Wednesday’s blind.

The beast nags at her. She’s never had much use for the concept of hell but if it’s real, Wednesday is in it every day. Not so much anymore, not since Enid.

“I don’t think I’ve ever fallen for anyone before,” Wednesday whispers. “But I think I know why I feel the way I do about you now.”

No response. Good.

“You’re smart and capable. You are compassionate and honest. You are everything that I am not and… I thought, well, a part of me still does, whatever I feel for you will either end in either heartbreak or death, but you made the pain of existence worthwhile. You ruined me, Enid. I was at peace with the fact that I’d die chasing vengeance, consumed by it. And yet when my lips met yours today, I wanted to be able to do so for as long as I breathe.”

She used to await death with open arms, it’s in her job description. There’s no other ending for someone like her. Wednesday knows that. There might not be a tomorrow for them, no. But when was the last time Wednesday allowed herself something she truly wanted?

Her mind is made up, Wednesday shall offer Enid her heart, with a faint hope of the sun finally bestowed upon her, submitting to this eternal damnation in

“And, if you haven’t changed your mind, I’d really like to go on a date with you,” barely a whisper, Wednesday trails off.

ENID

“Do you always sleep like a corpse?” Enid stirs.

She heard everything, pretending to be asleep is one of the skills Enid prizes the most. Deflecting is not her favourite tactic, but a girl needs to find a way to calm down when the gods just answered all her prays. Her heart hammers against her ribcage. Enid feels a reckoning build.

Kissing Enid is one thing, but to hear Wednesday admits her feelings out loud, now that warrants a whole research.

“If you haven’t noticed, I’m covered in bandages, hence my peculiar sleeping position tonight,” Wednesday mumbles back, not turning toward Enid.

Two can play at this game. Once more. It’s always a dance between them, and not once, ever, does Enid want it to end.

“Just kidding, silly. I know,” Enid laughs. “And for the record, zero regrets.”

“With the way our lives are going, you’re going to have to be more specific than that,” Wednesday replies, still staring at the ceiling.

“Being your partner. Being here,” Enid begins, “Being with you.”

Wednesday turns around at the words. “You know I’m a monster, right?”

“You are so self-destructive, Wednesday Addams, and I doubt no one has ever said that to you point-blank,” Enid frowns.

To Wednesday, it’s always about whether she deserves it or not, never if she wants it. Cut from the cloth of God, then forced into the drench of hell, Wednesday can say the sweetest thing one second then the most self-loathing statement the next. The audible choked noise coming out of Wednesday’s mouth confirms Enid’s observation.

“And no, I haven’t changed my mind. I would also really like to go out on a date with you,” Enid props herself up to get a closer look at Wednesday. The heavy curtains do a wonderful job at blocking out the sun. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep but Enid is convinced Wednesday’s face is a few deeper shades of red now.

Especially when Wednesday is this close to her. Smells like antiseptic and something woody. Similar and hot.

“You’re sure about that?” Wednesday asks. She looks calm, but Enid can tell her heart is about to beat right out of her chest.

“Yes, as sure as I am about this, too,” Enid leans in.

She had been dying to taste Wednesday again, so when Wednesday walked back toward her own bedroom, Enid’s heart dropped just the slightest. She wanted her goodnight kiss.

Her lips are rough, bruised from the violence of the night, from risking her own life to save Enid’s. Softer lips have graced Enid’s own before, but somehow, these taste the most heavenly.

It takes only but a moment for Wednesday to respond. Eagerly, yet tenderly.

The dance between them since they’ve met has ended. A reprieve, reciprocated. Now that she has a taste, all she wants is more. Greed is never a virtue, but for Wednesday, Enid is willing to commit all that is unholy if she could have her.

The kiss deepens, and the warmth in their mouths melds together. Enid can smell the residual gunpowder and taste the faint metallic tang in her lips.

Divine. Luscious. Seraphic.

“Ouch,” Wednesday winces from underneath Enid, yet still chasing her lips.

Enid has pressed a tad too hard on Wednesday’s ribs. The sensation blurs her mind.

“Sorry, I got carried away. You okay?” Enid pulls back, an apologetic look on her face, and tucks strands of hair behind Wednesday’s ears.

“Never been better.”

Even in the dark, Enid sees how Wednesday’s eyes soften as she leans up to press a kiss to Enid’s forehead. Ever so gentle. “Have wanted to do that for a while as well.”

“What, kissing my forehead?” Enid laughs. Ridiculous. She had half expected Wednesday’s desire to be something more, to put it lightly, carnal.

“Yeah,” Wednesday answers matter-of-factly.

Enid drops down to the bed, still facing Wednesday. The adrenaline has yet to come down. She needs to breathe.

“Cool, cause I like it,” Enid beams. “And I like you as well.”

Like is an understatement. A heavy one. But Enid doesn’t want to scare Wednesday away. God forbids the broody assassin to open up and talk about her feelings. Enid will take what she can get.

“Oh,” Wednesday says, still lying on her back, unable to turn on her right side.

It’s distracting how Wednesday’s lips look so well-kissed and are still so inviting.

“Is it inappropriate that I want to kiss you again?”

“No, I don’t think so. In fact, I think it is exceptionally appropriate that we do it again. For scien-“”

Enid is already leaning in again, mindful of the ribs this time. “You’re so goddamn weird, Wednesday Addams.”

By god, what Enid would do just to have Wednesday smiling into their kiss every time.

---

Enid doesn’t know how long they’ve been out for. She only remembers kissing Wednesday until sleep took over them both. What a way to go out. Enid mentally notes that to herself as one of her deathbed wishes.

Great, she’s been frequenting more macabre thoughts recently, Wednesday has rubbed off on her more than she had thought. In more than one way.

Enid nuzzles further into the warmth beside her, namely, Wednesday. They had switched places in bed last night, just so Enid could cling onto Wednesday like a koala. Shame and dignity have gone out the window the moment Enid asked Wednesday out on a date, albeit unsuccessfully at first.

“Good morning,” Wednesday is already awake. Of course, she is.

“Five more minutes,” Enid presses a kiss at the crook of Wednesday’s neck. Goosebumps follow. Enid learned a thing or two last night.

“Sure.”

A steady hand caresses Enid’s jaws, for Enid is already using Wednesday’s other arm as her pillow. If this is just a fever dream, then Enid would like to draw it out for as long as possible. And if she’s already dead, then this must be heaven.

---

They prepare breakfast together. Or early dinner. Semantics.

Enid’s shoulder brushes lightly against Wednesday’s as they sit side by side at the kitchen counter. It feels mundane, yet exciting.

In a world without assassins and contracts, could this be their reality?

Wednesday’s phone rings. No more daydreaming.

“Hey Eugene, yeah. Rough night again. No, we’re in one piece, more or less so. How are you? Uh-huh. Got anything for us?”

Us. That’s new. Wednesday has never referred to any task with ‘us’ before, nor in any type of communication. Enid decided she liked the sound of that.

“I see. We’ll need a couple of days off to recover anyway. Keep up the good work. Appreciate it, B-Boy. Take care.”

A message pops up on Enid’s screen. From Eugene. He hasn’t even hung up the phone with Wednesday yet.

Did Wednesday get a concussion? Since when does she talk pleasantries?

Enid stifles a laugh and texts back. Probably, think we can get her to go to a hospital?

Over her dead body. Followed by a series of skull emojis.

“What’s so funny?” Wednesday asks, sipping her coffee. Her spidey, no, assassin-sense must have told her Enid is up to some sort of mischief again.

“Nothing, just Eugene checking up on us,” Enid replies.

“Hmm, sure,” Wednesday sounds totally unconvinced. “Bet he didn’t tell you why you were kidnapped.”

“Cause Xavier was a total homicidal maniac and wanted to use me to get to you?” Enid states the obvious, reaching for Wednesday’s hand. “Can we sit on the sofa? My back is killing me.”

Wednesday wordlessly takes her hand and presses a kiss to it before helping Enid down the high stool. Enid’s heart needs a cardiologist soon at this rate of Wednesday making her heart leap out of her chest.

Resting comfortably on the uninjured side of Wednesday, Enid is all ears. Hell, she’s fine with sitting like this for eternity.

“The auction was a ruse to get us out in the open. Eugene found a transaction to Xavier’s offshore account a day before the event from yours truly, Lady Thornhill. I should’ve thought of that,” Wednesday clicks her tongue.

“Hey, stop blaming yourself. That’s not very sexy of you,” Enid pokes Wednesday’s cheek. She wouldn’t have dared to even think of doing that just a few days ago. “Their plan was foiled. And you can’t just go about murdering all your colleagues, that’s against your code, right?”

Enid doesn’t like how Wednesday purses her lips as if she’s already thought about that. “Just not on neutral grounds.”

“You know I can’t kiss you if you’re dead, right?” Enid does her best to pry the idea out of Wednesday’s head. “Let’s not wage war on the entire criminal underworld. We find the files, then it’ll be over.”

Wednesday looks at Enid for a long minute, before swallowing hard. “Then what happens after that?”

Enid shrugs. “Then you’ll take me on a super awesome date.”

To Enid, things could be as simple as that. She can’t force Wednesday to abandon her current way of life, only hope. A sliver chance of going on more than just one date with Wednesday, to celebrate holidays with her, to take Wednesday to see Enid’s found family.

It sounds ridiculous, but Enid wants to take care of Wednesday.

Her ascetic life has confined Wednesday to less than a handful of people that she could trust, and without someone there to remind Wednesday how much more she deserves, the darkness will swallow her whole one day.

“Just like that?” Wednesday asks.

“Just like that,” Enid reassures her.

Wednesday looks stump, as if she’s unable to process the idea that Enid accepts Wednesday for what she is, and welcomes the prospect of who Wednesday could be so easily. How does someone who has lived their entire life believing there is nothing left for them take that idea?

Enid holds her gaze on Wednesday.

Something fills the air. The flicker between them has erupted into a wildfire, sealed by their kiss already. Then what is this that Enid is feeling, sensing, tasting? They remain like that, for a heartbeat, the air charged and anticipating.

A reckoning builds.

Enid holds her breathe, she gets a feeling she doesn’t want to miss a single second of what’s about to happen.

“I love you,” Wednesday says quietly.

A truck hit Enid in the chest. The synapse in her brain zaps, sending signals to all her senses, nuclear going off in her ears. And yet, everything is muffled and distant, as if Enid is underwater. Despite how her heart threatens to leap out of her chest, Enid isn’t drowning. Her goddess has answered, bestowed upon Enid the preeminent blessing, to offer her heart and all being to Wednesday, willingly.

Maybe Enid is drowning.

Going under then resurfacing, gasping for air, asking herself if this is really happening, if Wednesday is real, if any of this is real. If so, then why such blithe, which ought to be so impalpable, tastes like ecstasy on her tongue, drunken her mind, soaking her soul with mirth.

“Just like that?” Enid asks, swallowing hard.

“Just like that,” Wednesday reassures her.

WEDNESDAY

Wednesday has made up her mind. The Lykaios file will be her last contract.

Maybe Larissa and Thing were right, her vengeance would not take her anywhere but closer to a hole in the ground. She’s not afraid of death, but confessing to Enid meant cloaking herself with a new responsibility. Keeping Enid safe for as long as she exists on this scorched earth.

Just days ago, Wednesday had believed a brief of solace will be all she ever gets. The curse on the Addams bloodline holds true, Wednesday shan’t escape her lone sword dance, until she has cut down all those who took away her life all those years ago.

But her usual self has wandered somewhere far away since she’s met Enid. No more contracts, no more blood, no more deaths. The ghosts will cling on her still. But Enid will be there. Her saviour, her salvation, her heart. Wednesday realised when she had Enid by her side that night, safe and sound, was the first time that Wednesday truly slept soundly. It felt like when she was still at the manor.

Home.

Keeping Enid safe means keeping her away from this world.

Wednesday begins by archiving all her old contract files.

“Hey good looking, what are you up to?” Enid leans against the doorway to her study.

They have been resting at home while waiting for Eugene to find out where Thornhill has disappeared to since Enid’s kidnapping. No one has seen or heard of her for nearly two weeks. But Eugene is a genius, and he was close to locating Thornhill’s secret safehouse last night, he promises the details will be gift-wrapped on Wednesday’s phone soon.

“Sorting through old records. I’m sending them to the Continental’s archive,” Wednesday stacks up a file. She hasn’t told Enid about her retirement plan yet, premature announcement may be considered bad omens.

“No, I’m actually thinking of early retirement,” Wednesday presses a kiss to her cheek.

The act itself feels natural, like taking a life or reloading a gun. How ironic, since Enid makes Wednesday feel more than just sheer existing. She makes Wednesday want to live.

“For real?” Enid jumps into Wednesday’s arms, her laugh boisterous. “Like for real, for real, no cap?”

Wednesday doesn’t quite understand what no cap means, but she can guess.
“For real.”

Enid kisses her deeply. It truly only took one taste of the forbidden fruit to drive Wednesday to the verge of insanity. She wants more, craves more, desires more. But their wounds had prevented things from escalating any further.

However, since their wounds are now healed up, someone is getting bolder.

Enid pressed herself close to Wednesday, the layers are in their way. She kisses with the intensity of the sun, hot and focused, and Wednesday melts under the attention. Wednesday captures Enid’s lip between her teeth and cataloguing the frantic sound that results as she presses harder.

Their kisses turn messy and frantic. Enid pressed against the desk, groaned into her mouth, low and deep, and dug blunt nails into the base of her neck. Wants gnaw at Wednesday, the beast unchained.

A floodgate released. Of needs and desires.

With Enid’s tongue hot in her mouth and her teeth digging into her lip with the exact right amount of pressure, Wednesday can’t think straight any longer.

Heat pools between her legs.

“I need you,” Enid breathes against Wednesday’s lips, allowing herself to be pressed on top of the table. Praise be what good money can buy, as the spacious oaken desk, though littered with paperwork, still has enough space for Wednesday to straddle on top of Enid. The old records can be sorted out later.

“Bed?” Wednesday whispers against Enid’s lips. “I don’t want to hurt your back.”

“Always such a gentlewoman,” Enid kisses her back, almost desperately.

They barely make it through the door before Wednesday rips off Enid’s top.

“I’ll get you a new one,” Wednesday mumbles as she trails kisses down Enid’s neck, pushing the blonde into the bed.

Enid laughs from above her. “I’m half naked in your bed and that’s what's on your mind?”

“Not the only thing, miss. Sinclair,” Wednesday surges up to kiss her. “Want to hear what else I got on my mind?”

“I’m more of a believe-it-when-I-see-it kind of girl,” Enid replies, arching her back into Wednesday.

“Figured,” Wednesday’s hands find their way down Enid’s side and slide off the shorts in one motion.

Teasing lips find their way down Enid’s stomach, grazing the quivering muscles of her abdomen, the string of kisses melts into her skin. Enid groans, hands clutching at the sheets. She tosses her head back against the pillows as Wednesday’s mouth dips lower and lower.

Wednesday nibbles at the inner thighs, gratified at how Enid’s breaths hitch the closer she gets to the centre.

The instant her tongue touches, Enid whimpers.

Delectable

It’s addicting. The sensation, the taste, the predilection.

She runs her tongue up and down, slowly at first. Wednesday takes her time, leisuring at the entrance, until Enid grabs her hair, voice but a mew. “Please.”

Her tongue snakes its way inside. Hot and needy. Begging for her. Enid’s hips cant forward.

Oh, to worship her until the end of time, Wednesday shall gladly oblige. This is her end, at the mercy of Enid, her goddess.

Wasn’t long until Wednesday’s fingers join in, her other hand finds its place on Enid’s breast, pressing and massaging the soft nip. Wednesday picks up the pace, as the blonde above her moans and gasps, drowned in pleasure.

The cries climb in volume and intensity until strong thighs squeeze at Wednesday and Enid tightens around her fingers and finally peaks with a long, satisfied noise.

Enid shivers as Wednesday slowly withdraws, trailing kisses along her legs. She comes up to embrace Enid a second later, pupils blown, eyes dazed.

“f*ck, Wednesday,” Enid breathes out.

“That we did,” Wednesday traces Enid’s back in circular motions. “You okay?”

“You really have to ask?” Enid pulls Wednesday by the chin and kisses her. Deeply.

They lie still for a moment, regaining their senses. Still too surreal for Wednesday to wrap her mind around it.

“You’re going to be the death of me, Enid Sinclair,” Wednesday hugs Enid tightly.

“Wanna test that theory out?” Enid says as she trails more kisses down Wednesday’s neck.

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

ENID

Eugene is a man of his word. Among dozens of possible locations, Eugene has pinpointed on suspicious scrap yard that belongs to the Voronov, one that received plenty of security upgrades recently, overkill for a simple scrap yard. And the city CCTVs have spotted Thornhill frequenting the area.

He also sent over some interesting details regarding the Mayor and Thornhill’s relationship. Graphic details.

Wednesday is going to the warehouse to find the file tomorrow, based on Eugene’s intel.

“Sure you’re all healed up?” Enid asks from the bathtub.

They had spent the rest of the day in bed, indulging in one another. It wasn’t until Eugene called to go through the plan that Wednesday reluctantly picked up the phone.

“I think so, the extra cardio sessions helped,” Wednesday answers while drying her hair.

Enid rolls her eyes. “I thought I was supposed to be the one with a juvenile sense of humour.”

“I’ll be okay. This is going to be over soon,” Wednesday kneels by the bathtub to give Enid a kiss.

She doesn’t like the implication of that. The question lodges at her throat. Enid dismisses her own concerns, there are more pressing matters at hand. They can talk about that after the file is recovered.

---

Eugene rings them again as Wednesday is preparing dinner. Duck confit. Enid doesn’t realise how hungry she is after their strenuous activities.

“Hey B-Boy,” Wednesday greets from the kitchen.

Rather than the usual jovial manner, Eugene has an apprehensive look on his face. “Incoming call for you, boss. Don’t worry, I’ve blocked your side of the camera.”

The screen switches to a video call. Thornhill.

Wednesday rushes to the laptop by Enid.

“Hello, this is for you, El Cuervo. You might be on your way to one of my favourite offices now, but I suggest you turn back and bring along a guest. That’s correct, take miss Enid Sinclair with you. Why, you may ask. I’m not stupid, you might say. But this might make you consider your next course of action carefully.”

The camera moves to show two figures chained to plush armchairs. Larissa and Thing. Thornhill is making a mockery of them.

“I’m going to be very generous here since there have been slight disruptions to my plans. I’m offering the lives of your, how do I say, parental figures, in return for miss Enid Sinclair’s. Oh, and of course, to sweeten the deal, I’ll add the Lykaios file as well. How does that sound? Remember, nothing foolish or mummy dearest eats the bullet first. You have an hour.”

The screen goes black.

Enid swallows hard.

“Don’t even think about it,” Wednesday says, already knowing what Enid was going to say.

“They’re your family, Wednesday!” Enid exclaims.

“And you’re not?!” Wednesday clenches her jaw.

Under different circ*mstances, Enid would’ve swooned at the statement. Now is not the time to argue. They need to come up with a plan. Fast.

---

The car brakes at the flimsy steel fences, already opened for them.

A fortress of decay.

Mountains of crushed and rusting vehicles stack on each other, forming a jagged skyline against the dreary backdrop. The air is thick with the scent of oil and metal, mingling with a faint acridity of burnt rubber. Makeshift pathways snake through the labyrinth of scrapped cars, leading to a central area where heavier machinery grinds ceaselessly, masking any sounds of the outside world.

“It’ll be okay,” Enid gives Wednesday a reassuring squeeze on her hand.

Wednesday only nods and revs the engine, making her way to the main building. Floodlights illuminate the compound; the fluorescent lights blind them.

“Step outside, nothing hasty. Lady Thornhill awaits inside,” a burly Russian man calls from outside the car, with ten more others, guns trained on them. Someone learned a lesson from Xavier.

The rough pat down elicits annoyed grunts from Wednesday, but nothing further.

Squeaky clean. Both of them.

The entrance locks behind the pair the moment they enter the main hall. The ceiling looms high above, with exposed concrete and sharp geometrical lines. Enid has never been a big fan of brutalism. Too cold. Too harsh.

A lone concrete slab stands in the middle of the room, scarred and marred. Enid can only guess what has happened here. Not the only hideous thing here, there’s also Thornhill, standing right behind the slab, along with Thing and Larissa, both chained to the ridiculously plush armchairs.

“Welcome,” Thornhill clasps her hands together and speaks in Russian. “I’d have offered you seats, but we’re out of chairs for the time being.”

Refined cruelty. Cold, calculating blue eyes. Upright and confident posture. Red hair up in a tight bun, with a matching silk scarf on her neck. Thornhill walks straight out of Villain Playbook 101.

Enid quietly thanks Duolingo and the dreadful translation exercises at her job. She must have been fired by now. No paid leave is ever this long. Enid mentally groans at the prospect of having to find a new job now. Maybe it’s a sign from the universe that Enid needed a holiday. Twice a year. Six months each.

“Where is my file?” Wednesday replies in Russian.

Oh, okay so that’s how this is going. Establishing dominance and all that. Enid mentally notes all the interactions as materials for her future crime documentary.

“So eager to give away your little toy?” Thornhill laughs, almost like a shrill. “I’m a woman of my word, here,” she sets a briefcase on the table and clicks it open.

Wednesday clenches her jaws, not saying anything, and approaches the concrete slab.

“Ah ah, not so fast,” Thornhill tuts, whipping out her pistol and pointing at Enid. “My deal, first.”

“If you kill me, everything about Crackstones will be sent to all news outlets in this city,” Enid says quickly. She must have pressed the right buttons given how Thornhill’s face twitches at the mention of the mayor’s name.

“Yeah, we know, Thornhill. You wanted to frame me for stealing the file to stop me from investigating Crackstones, your lover. Two birds one stone, isn’t it? Protect your lover and bid the file to the highest buyer after I’m dead,” Enid says, hands trembling. “You won’t get away with thi-”

Her speech was cut short by two loud gunshots. Enid only remembers herself flying back, head hitting the floor, and a scream Wednesday let out.

---

Hard and cold.

Did she die?

Heaven, or whatever awaits after death, doesn’t feel too good.

“Don’t make a sound. You’re supposed to be dead,” a voice whispers from above.

No noise is allowed in heaven. Got it.

“Neat trick you kids pulled back there. Too long in this line of work, and you forget sometimes, the most effective methods are the simplest ones,” the voice continues.

“Wait, I’m not dead?” Enid whispers back, voice croaking. “Where am I?”

“In a cage, unfortunately, excuse the poor furnishings,” a hand now strokes Enid’s hair. Gentle. Like how a mother would comfort her children. “She’s gone for now, but best if you stay put.”

Enid flutters her eyes open. A tall woman with white hair and soft eyes looks back at her. It’s Larissa. “You’re alive.”

“Yes, all thanks to you and Wednesday’s little show,” Larissa continues stroking Enid’s hair, her voice tender, as if none of these bothers her at all. “We all know Thornhill was never going to hold up her side of the deal. I had half expected her to give us a mass execution the second you showed up. Your threat seems to have worked on her. It was chaos after you went down.”

Enid’s chest hurts. The gunshots busted not only the 2 gallons of fake blood attached to her chest but also dented the bulletproof tank top Thing gave her. She owes him big time, which reminds Enid. “Where is Thing?”

Larissa only sighs, staring into the darkness outside.

Enid scans the cage, a literal rusty steel cage, that they’re held in. It looks like something used to traffic dangerous, wild animals rather than for humans. Stacked around the warehouse are crates and pallets, some open to reveal glimpses of firearms, bundles of narcotics, and obscure mechanical parts for vehicles. The smell of metal and something mouldy.

Gross.

A lone lightbulb shines above them, flickering, creating more shadows than it dispels. At least the scattered guards around them won’t see her light movements so easily.

“What happened?”

“I’ve never pegged Wednesday as an actress, it was pretty convincing how she ran to you and screamed hells,” Larissa chuckles.

“I think I blacked out for real, though,” Enid mumbles, embarrassed.

“It was for the better, seeing how you were ‘dead’. Because someone was wreaking havoc outside, you kids didn’t come alone, did you? I must commend Thornhill for her quick reflex since her men still manage to grab all of us away from Wednesday. Thing was shot during the struggles,” Larissa sighed. “They dragged him away. Knowing him, he should be okay, but still…”

“So, why are we still not dead?” Enid ponders. Wouldn’t it be more beneficial to just kill us all?

“Let me tell you something about Thornhill, child. Marilyn managed to be in power for so long because she knew how to drill fear en mass. Not individually. It’s always about making an example to her, and that twisted save-the-best-for-last mentality. That’s why she tossed me in here with your ‘corpse’. She’ll make Wednesday look as she tortures whatever is left of us, then finish off Wednesday last.”

“Wait, are you saying being dead is not a way out?” Enid yelps, mouth immediately pressed closed by Larissa, shushing her.

“Unfortunately, no. Mutilation and display is one of her favourites,” Larissa shakes her head, yet she looks almost unbothered by their dire prospects.

“How are you not panicking?” Enid is seconds away from hyperventilation.

“I have my reasons. One of them being you, child,” Larissa chuckles quietly. “Wednesday is a woman of focus, commitment, and sheer damn will. If she wanted, even the gods must bend to her will.”

“What do you mean?” Enid asks.

Before she could have her answer, Larissa shushes her once more. “She’s back. Play dead well now, child.”

Enid shuts her eyes, only her ears can tell what’s happening. Hurried footsteps approach the cage.

“What’s taking them so long?!” Thornhill barks out.

“She’s coming,” Larissa laughs, like a nightingale singing. “El Cuervo is coming. And she’s going to kill you all. Should have killed us when you had the chance.”

Enid’s heart hammers against her chest. What is Larissa doing? Shouldn’t pissing Thornhill off be the last thing they should do?

Something slams the cage, hard, sending the steels ringing. “Shut up. You’ll regret that when I gouge your eyes out in front of your little birdie.”

“We got a problem,” a man’s voice, probably one of the guards.

“What?!” Thornhill snaps.

“They’re all dead. At the main hall. But…” he hesitates, looking visibly disturbed.

“Spit it out before I tear it out from your mouth.”

A rustle of paper?

Breaths grow shorter, and heavier, seething with anger as she makes her way through the note. Then it peaks. Thornhill screams, flinging something at the guard. A loud shatter.

“You f*cking useless pieces of sh*t. It’s one f*cking woman! Why can’t you subdue her?! Do I have to do everything myself?!”

Larissa is buying them time.

Enid shouldn’t have doubted the Manager of the New York Continental Hotel. Wednesday has told her briefly about the hotel’s operation and Larissa before when they were doing research last month. That felt like a lifetime ago.

Enid only prays Wednesday make it in time before Thornhill lost all patience and changed her mind.

WEDNESDAY

The commotion outside the main hall saved them, just in time.

“If it isn’t my favourite assassin, finally changed your mind about going out with me?” the familiar sultry voice echoed through the phone speaker.

“No, Bianca. But I can offer you a partnership this evening, how does that sound?” Wednesday sighed as she taped the fake blood bags on Enid’s torso. Snug and inconspicuous.

“70-30, final offer,” Bianca replied without missing a beat.

“You can have the whole bounty, I don’t care,” she helped Enid get in her black hoodie. Anything to thicken up and lessen the damage for her beloved. “Just show up and shoot anyone who isn’t me and the journalist.”

“I knew it! You are sleeping with her,” Bianca let out a victorious ha. “The bounty on her is rescinded anyway, and delivering a file to the Lykaios sounds easy enough.”

“Yeah, will have to shoot up some Russian mobsters first, though. You’re up for that?”

Time to check her inventory. They would pat her down for sure.

“Oh, you’re hitting the Voronov? Say less. Thornhill has been a huge pain in my ass for a while now. It’s gonna be Christmas,” Bianca sounded excited. Wednesday wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not.

“Eugene will send you the details. Bring your best guns,” Wednesday advised.

“Oh, baby, I always dress to kill. You have nothing to worry about.”

The line went dead.

Wednesday made sure her knives were well hidden and strapped tight to the inner linings of her suit before turning to Enid.

“You’re absolutely sure you want to do it?” Wednesday cupped Enid’s face in her hands, eyes searching. No uncertainty, only determination.

“She’s gonna shoot them dead if only you show up,” Enid turned to kiss the palm of Wednesday’s hand. “This is the only way to buy us more time.”

Time, right. A luxury Wednesday doubted she ever had. No, not now. Focus. The only people left who she considered family needed her now more than ever.

“D’accord, mon amour,” Wednesday inhaled deeply. “We’ll get out of this, I promise.”

---

Wednesday refuses to break any promise she makes to Enid, especially the one she made just hours ago.

Bianca never fails to live up to her moniker, the Siren, luring men to their deaths, at their own will. Sniping from her makeshift sanctuary on top of the water tower, Bianca made short work of the guards in the courtyard before shooting a few explosive rounds at the entrance.

Bona fide.

“It’s an underground facility. Take your next left,” Eugene’s voice echoes in Wednesday’s ear.

Her ceramic knives had danced their way through the guards in the main halls. Her family awaits.

A pair of guards at the corner turn. One strike at the wrist, sending his gun clattering to the ground. An elbow to the other’s throat. And a chop to the first one’s neck. Out in a light.

They were guarding Thing in the room behind them.

“Hey mustacho, hang in there,” Wednesday assesses the gunshot wound on his stomach. Missed the vitals. “Bianca will be here soon. She’ll take you to the Continental, yeah?”

Thing gives her a thumb up, grinning through the pain. “Go get them, tiger.”

The hallway widens as Wednesday makes her way further in. Gunfire erupts from multiple directions. Diving behind a steel crate, Wednesday assesses her surroundings. Three guards are advancing on her. Waiting for the right moment, Wednesday rolls out from her cover and sprints towards the nearest assailant. Before he can react, she slides on the ground, sweeping his legs out from under him. Grabbing his dropped gun, she sends the other two flying back with a burst of precise shots.

“The entrance should be right ahead of you now,” Eugene directs.

Peaking from the corridor, Wednesday spots group of guards blocks her entry. Not wasting any time, Wednesday steps out and fires two quick shots. The first guard drops instantly, a clean hit. The second shot clips another’s shoulder, breaking their formation.

Her gun clicks. Out of ammo.

Wednesday dashes forward, slamming the butt of the rifle against the nearest guard’s head. She pivots, using his own gun to discharge bullets into the third one.

A whoosh of air blown out of Wednesday as the biggest guard charges her, slamming Wednesday to the ground. Two quick chops at the neck and a kick to the groin, Wednesday breaks free from the chokehold. Using his own tie, she rolls on his back and strangles the burly man. Flailing to no avail, he grabs and claws blindly at Wednesday. Her knee presses hard at his back, and with one final decisive pull, Wednesday twists the tie, breaking his neck.

She wipes the blood from mouth and grabs his pistol, ejecting the magazine and quickly counts the rounds, then co*cks the gun.

The doors fly open as Wednesday kicks them down.

She barely steps through before feeling a sharp prick at the base of her neck. Her vision blurs, limbs grow heavy.

---

Wednesday's eyes flutter open, the gritty taste of sedative still thick on her tongue, and her hands are cuffed. Firm hands hold her down in place. Still the same warehouse. Dark and stale.

Across from her, Enid and Larissa are bound to chairs, gagged. Thornhill must have picked up on their ‘death act’.Thornhill stands between them, a syringe in one hand, a knife in the other, her smile chilling. She circles them, like a predator stalking prey.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Ms. Addams,” Thornhill toys with Wednesday’s earpiece before crushing it beneath her foot. “You see, in our world, every action must be taught as a lesson. And sometimes, those lessons are taught through pain.”

She whips around, slashing Enid’s face. Three times. The blonde screams in pain. Wednesday writhes and struggles against the guards’ holds. Her blood boils. A gun strains at the back of her head. The cold steel reminds Wednesday to keep her calm.

Wednesday grits her teeth, refusing to give Thornhill the satisfaction of seeing Wednesday losing her head. Literally.

Larissa looks at Wednesday, knowingly. One of her hands has loosened from the ropes binding her.

With a sudden jerk, Wednesday twisted her body against the grip of the guards. The motion was unexpected, and her strength caught them off guard. At the same time, Larissa bolts up, the chair still bound to her, and rushes at Thornhill, knocking her down.

Wednesday swings her bound arms, striking the nearest guard across the face with the metal cuff, sharp and disorienting. As the first guard stumbled backwards, Wednesday ducks low, evading a clumsy punch from another. She pivots, using her momentum to deliver a brutal elbow to his stomach, then pulls him forward to use as a human shield against the incoming gunfire.

The room erupted with the sounds of gunshots, muffled grunts, and the metallic clatter of spent casings.

Using the chain of the handcuff, Wednesday wraps it around another incoming guard's neck, pulling it taut. With a harsh twist, she brings him down, using his falling body as a step to launch herself up and kick another guard in the chest.

As she lands, Wednesday rolls towards a fallen guard, her fingers closing around the grip of his pistol. She yanks open the chamber, and ensures it is loaded before snapping the chamber up and firing at two guards who are rushing towards her, dropping them mid-stride.

Wednesday stands up, stepping over a groaning man. She dashes toward the last of her assailants. Feinting with her cuffed hand, Wednesday spins, delivering a knockout blow with the butt of the pistol. As he falls, she fires the gun to snap the chain of her handcuff against a sharp edge of metal, freeing her other hand.

Turning around, the other three women are all on the ground. Thornhill seems to have suffered a concussion. Wednesday runs to Enid, freeing her.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Wednesday apologised over and over again, pressing her handkerchief to Enid’s cheek, desperate to stop the blood.

Enid grabs Wednesday’s hand. “We’ll both live. Go finish what we came for, Wednesday.”

Nodding wordlessly, Wednesday helps Enid up before advancing on Thornhill.

A groan from Larissa stops her. The syringe peeks out from her stomach. Her breathing is laboured, eyes widening in alarm as the familiar symptoms of poisoning take hold. Larissa gasps for air, her skin paling as the poison courses through her veins.

Nightshade poisoning—a rapid onset of paralysis, respiratory failure, and an agonising tightening of the chest. One of Thornhill’s favourites.

“It seems my time has come, child,” Larissa wheezes. “I’m glad you finally found someone to behold your heart.”

“You’re not dying on me, old woman,” Wednesday rolls her eyes. “Stop being so dramatic.”

Wednesday has guessed Thornhill would play dirty, and thus, has come prepared. An antidote. She stands up and clicks her shoes together, a blade springs out.

“Sorry about this, Larissa,” Wednesday says as she kicks the blade at Larissa’s thigh. Non-lethally, of course. “It’s nightshade antidote. Take a breather, should kick in any minute.”

“Glad to see some sense of joviality has rubbed off on you,” Larissa coughs as Wednesday is already walking away toward Thornhill.

Two quick shots at both of her knees send Thornhill screaming for hell.

“That was for Enid,” Wednesday kneels beside the redhead. She presses her gun at Thornhill’s spine and fires. Another howl of pain. “This is for Thing and Larissa.”

The gun hovers at Thornhill’s head.

“You think killing me is the end?” Thornhill laughs, spitting out blood. “Go ahead, I’ve had my fill. Have fun reading the file, orphan. See if a woman like you can ever know peace. You’re addicted to the violence, the chaos. You’ll never-”

Wednesday pulls the trigger.

“Shut the f*ck up.”

ENID

To hear about Wednesday’s skills is one thing, but to witness them is another.

It should scare her. How Wednesday killed seven people in minutes. Just like that.

She understands Larissa’s words now, why El Cuervo is the wrath of god, why just the mentioning of her name makes even hardened criminals shiver.

But she isn’t scared, because Wednesday is here, for her family. And that includes Enid. The thought makes her heart skip a beat. Talk about rocket speed.

Thornhill is dead. And that means. The file.

Like Bianca, Thornhill had a penchant to underestimate her enemies. She didn’t bother to hide the briefcase that contained the file, rather had it on her at all times.

They gather around the blood-spattered suitcase on a makeshift table. Moment of truth.

Enid clicks the locks open.

Oh yeah, it is a thick ass file. Why can’t criminals digitalise like normal people? Right, internet footprint or whatnot.

Wednesday rummages through the stacks of paper, frantically searching for something. She flips through the activity ledger. Far, far back.

“Wednesday,” Larissa cautions. The older woman knows where this is heading. An omen, an invitation from the devil. “There are things that should stay buried forever.”

“No!” Wednesday spits out. “Don’t I deserve it, Larissa? Am I not owed the truth about who killed my own parents?”

The relentless obsession, the chase, the thirst for vengeance. Years in the making, and it’s here, the answer to Wednesday’s ghosts. Yet somehow, Enid had hoped this day wouldn’t come, for it could mean the end of everything. Of them.

The past is a powerful thing. It haunts you, nags you, and begs you. For any kind of closure.

The second Wednesday finds so much as a sliver of a lead, that Enid knows she will not stop until all debts are paid, or she’s dead. And Enid doesn’t think she can take it. To lose Wednesday, it’s like dying itself. But Enid knows, she has no right to ask the woman she loves to stop at this point. If it were her, Enid would’ve wanted to know, too.

Wednesday must have found it, given how she stares at a page, long enough to bore holes in it. The veins on her forehead twitch.

Enid comes to her side, peeking at the ledger. Her eyes skim the page, finding the line where Wednesday stopped at.

Murray Sinclair – The Addams Mansion. Task completed. Promotion earned.

Funny, same last name as hers.

Good thing her parents are dead, and Enid is an orphan. Never in her life did Enid think that would turn out to be a good thing. Is it? Because Wednesday is looking at her with an inexplicable gaze. Not hate, no.

Uncertainty? Confusion? Guilt?

She reaches for Wednesday’s hand on the ledger. “Hey, what’s up? It doesn’t hurt anymore."

Enid presses the handkerchief on her cheek harder. This is going to scar. A worry for another day. But she gets a feeling that’s not why Wednesday is looking at her like that.

Larissa is standing on the other side of Wednesday, her voice gentle, as if trying not to spook the raven-haired woman. “Walk away, Wednesday. Walk away, now.”

“Tell me what I’m thinking is wrong, Larissa. Tell me,” Wednesday struggles to get the words out, eyes still trained on Enid. “Don’t. Lie. To. Me.”

“What is it?” Enid asks, and she gets the feeling she’s not going to like the answer.

Larissa sighs. “A long time ago, there was an up-and-coming hitman. A prodigal son, they called him. But unnoticed, much to his dismay. Then out of the blue, in a few short years, for whatever reason, he rose to become the patriarch of the Lykaios family. His name was Murray Sinclair. Now, Murray Lykaios.”

“The one who issued the bounty on this file is the one who murdered your family,” Enid quietly concludes. She still doesn’t understand why Wednesday is still staring at her like that.

“After I lost my family,” Wednesday finally speaks up. “Larissa raised me at the Continental, where I met Murray. I tolerated him, for he seemed reasonable, and not a total creep. He kept- how the hell did I not realise this before?”

Wednesday shakes her head, as if unsure whether to keep talking. Enid squeezes her hand, encouraging her, she thinks she needs to hear this as well. Maybe it’s a sign from the universe that sh*t is doomed. But Enid is stubborn.

“He kept talking about how I remind him of his daughter, but I never saw her. Murray Lykaios has no children, as far as records show. I once asked him point-blank about it, he only said she was stolen from him. Common for criminals, really. Your children are either kidnapped or dead, or both. I never gave it much thought, but now…”

“Wednesday, are you saying I’m a mob boss’s long-lost daughter? You know what the odds for that are?” Enid laughs, humourlessly. This is not funny. Not at all. “I’m a conspiracy lover myself and I hate to break it to you, but my parents are dead, Wednesday.”

“That’s what they told you,” Wednesday refuses to let go, like a dog clinging onto its bone. “The orphanage director’s diary said you were dropped off by a Greek man with blonde hair, blue eyes, six foot five, along with fifty thousand dollars. Murray Lykaios has blond hair, and blue eyes, and also six foot five. And surprise, he’s Greek.”

“Just because we share the same last name and ethnicity, it doesn’t mean he is my father,” Enid looks at Wednesday in disbelief. “You know what? Fine. Let’s roll up to this Murray’s mansion to return this file. And since we’re also there, might as well ask him if he remembers dropping his child off at an orphanage almost three decades ago and forgot to pick her up so she had to find her way home herself to her criminal dad. How does that sound?”

“I can’t kill your dad, Enid,” Wednesday speaks after a brief silence, totally not getting Enid’s sarcasm.

“He’s not my dad, Wednesday. You can kill him and avenge your family at last,” Enid exasperates, throwing one hand up, the other still holding the handkerchief.

Larissa opens her mouth to object, but Enid has already beaten her to that.

“However, personally, I don’t think that’s the best idea, because have you ever considered how you might die in the process?”

The bloody handkerchief seems to have reminded Wednesday about where they are. “Should we fight about this after I’ve looked at your wounds?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Enid grabs Wednesday’s hand again and drags her toward the exit.

---

They arrive at the Continental. Enid has always thought this is an ultra-luxury hotel, never a safe haven for criminals and professional hitmen in all of New York, she thinks as they step through its polished brass doors.

Marble floors gleam under the warm glow of crystal chandeliers, their light reflecting off the dark wood panelling that lines the walls. Lush velvet drapes frame tall windows and classical art adorns the hall. A large, ornate desk stands at the centre, manned by staff whose demeanour is as impeccable as their tailored suits. Turns out, crime does pay.

Thing welcomes them at the reception with his familiar cheerful manner. Wasn’t he shot earlier? Bianca waves from behind, as if she knew they would be coming back from Thornhill. Just another day on the job.

Wednesday nods and makes a beeline to the lift, everyone in tow.

The lift is cramped.

“Souvenirs?” Bianca asks Enid. The lift rumbles as it moves.

“Yeah,” Enid gives her a tight-lipped smile. The cuts on her face sting.

“She was always one crazy bitch. You’re lucky that’s all she gave you.”

The lift dings, they’ve arrived.

The door swings open to reveal a spacious room, a large desk and bookshelves carved from dark mahogany. The room is dimly lit, with soft lamps casting a gentle glow on the various artefacts and books that line the shelves, each item meticulously placed. A large, comfortable-looking sofa sits in one corner.

“I need a drink,” Larissa sighs in relief and gestures at the sofa. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Enid sinks into the plush sofa, the leather cool against her skin.

A whiskey, neat, for Wednesday. Gin for Bianca. And rum for Thing. Enid only asks for water.

Thing helps Enid with her wounds. Expertly, not a spare stitch. Enid can guess who Wednesday goes to whenever she needs patching up. Wednesday holds her hand the entire time. Before Enid realised, Thing had finished already.

He gives her a thumbs up and winks.

“Thank you, Thing. Owe you once again,” Enid smiles.

“I’m going to scan the file, then you can have it, Miss Barclay. I believe that was your deal with Wednesday?” Larissa sips her bourbon.

“Correct, ma’am. Glad to be of service,” Bianca answers nonchalantly like this was just another day in the office.

“The file will be sent to your room. The concierge will hand you the key, whenever you are ready, Miss Barclay,” Larissa says, her voice hinting.

Never one to miss social cues, Bianca finishes her drink and then makes her way to the door. “Thank you for the drink, ma’am. Good day, Addams. And good luck, Sinclair.”

Enid suddenly wants to scrub off her name the way Bianca said it.

WEDNESDAY

Her head is swimming. Part of Wednesday doesn’t want to believe this, whatever this is.

Her killer, finally, so close within her grasp. But if it were true, and her intuition tells her it is, then her past is catching up to Wednesday, reminding her that one simply does not escape this life, for all her sins are to be paid with the ultimate price.

Murray took her innocence, stole it from her, and killed it from her.

It is only appropriate that Wednesday burns down his empire, for the bodies she buried that day were what made him the man he is today.

“Why don’t we do the reasonable thing? A DNA test, for example, rather than speculating,” Enid suggests.

Sure, the final nail to Wednesday’s coffin.

“And what makes you think we conveniently have Murray Lykaios’ blood just lying about?” Larissa arches an eyebrow at Enid.

Wednesday rolls her eyes. “Come on, Larissa. A man like Murray and without a marker? Don’t make me laugh.”

Larissa is already on her way to the shelf behind the desk and pulls out a thick, leather-bound record book. Larissa shrugs as she’s flipping through the pages. “Just testing the water. Let’s see, ah, locker 105. Thing, if you would be so kind?”

Thing nods and twists the brass ornament on a shelf at the other end of the room. It clicks open, revealing a hidden vault. The man disappears inside and comes back out a few minutes later, carrying a shiny wooden box. The number 105 is engraved in gold on the mahogany.

A small, circular disc crafted from polished obsidian, edged with intricate gold filigree that catches the light with a subtle gleam. The phrase Quod Debitum Sanguine is carved among the swirling engravings along the edges. Larissa clicks open the disc, the centre splits open along its equator to reveal two halves, each side consists of a bloody thumbprint, one of which ought to be Murray’s.

“What is that?” Enid leans over to ask Wednesday.

“A marker. A blood oath between two individuals, formally recognised by the High Table. One does not simply agree to be a marker-holder or ask to bear one. For a man to grant a marker to another, is to bind a soul to a blood oath,” Wednesday replies.

She knows the full weight of a marker, and so far has successfully avoided being bounded into one.

“What happens if either of the parties refuses to uphold the marker?” Enid examines the disc with a frown, almost afraid to touch it.

“You dishonour the marker, you die. You kill the holder of the marker, you die. You run, you die”, Wednesday shrugs.

The ultimate last resort for any favours; markers and their extreme regulations are registered and tracked by the Continental, under the supervision of Larissa Weems. Wednesday already had enough debts to settle on her own, a marker is among the last things she needs on top.

“This is rather unorthodox, but I guess this should be enough to run a DNA test. Confidentially, of course,” Larissa takes out her knife and carefully scrapes some of the dried blood off.

“We should have the result by tomorrow. For now, I suggest you kids go rest,” Larissa says. Her tone indicates there will be no further debate today.

---

They lay in bed together, in silence a blanket draping over them. Wednesday dislikes sleeping away from her home, but the Continental is the one place that can guarantee their security, most of the time. No business allowed on consecrated grounds.

Wednesday can feel questions burning off Enid, her relentless pursuit of the truth knows no bounds. She runs her hand up and down the blonde’s back, a soothing gesture she’s come to adopt so naturally.

It terrifies Wednesday how quickly she got comfortable with Enid. How well they fit against one another when Enid cuddles up to her. How her heart tastes a semblance of hope for the first time in years. The sensation is foreign, unsettling, yet fervently welcomed.

If razing the world to ashes means another minute with Enid, Wednesday would gladly light the torch. To feel something so deeply for someone else is a vulnerability she never anticipated. She closes her eyes, allowing herself to savour the moment, knowing it’s fleeting, like all things in her life.

“There has to be a way,” Enid says from the crook of Wednesday’s neck, her voice a soft whisper against the darkness. “I’m not asking you to stop because he might be my father, trust me, he isn’t. But because you might die during this pursuit. Then what am I to do?”

Her voice cracks at the last question.

A pang of guilt hits Wednesday.

Enid might have found her birth father, and she’s willing to place Wednesday, someone the blonde just met months ago, above him. She feels the weight of Enid’s emotions, a burden she’s never had to carry before, her Atlas, carrying the world on her shoulder.

“Even if he were my biologically, he abandoned me. I have my own family now. I have you,” Enid continues. “And I can’t lose you, Wednesday.” Her words are a plea, a desperate attempt to anchor Wednesday to the present, to their shared reality.

Something wet touches Wednesday’s neck. Enid is crying because of her. The realization is a knife to her heart, twisting deeper with each tear. Wednesday knows they cannot be together as long as she is in this life. They got the file, and now her family killer. Everything can end. But on what note?

Fate is quaint and cruel, Wednesday reminds herself.

Her parents loved each other. So much. That they died together. Bounded to this life until death. Such were her grandparents and great-grandparents. This life was all that they knew. All that they had. All that defined them. The legacy, or curse to be more aptly put, of the Addams family, a cycle of love and loss, duty and sacrifice.

Enid showed Wednesday a glimpse of the other side. And it felt good. Too good. More than Wednesday deserves. But could she have it? That’s entirely another question.

“Don’t say I could have you in another life, because I don’t believe in that,” Enid says, finally looking up, her eyes red-rimmed. “Because I want you in this life.”

“You can’t,” Wednesday opens the door. Grief is all that she’s ever known until she met Enid. Her hand shall lull Wednesday for thousands of years, nourishing her for a lifetime. For spring to come, she must repent until the end of time, her fury buried, oblivion a distant away.

She can hear Enid’s heart breaking at the words, shattered. “I see.”

The blonde moves to get away from Wednesday’s embrace, but Wednesday doesn’t let go. perhaps it’s time Wednesday to let in something new. “Not until I get out. For good.”

The time of war is long gone, or will be soon, as the hearse has driven away, painting faces chiselled on a horizontal line, a never-ending trip. Then one night, a dazzling light will wake Wednesday, asking her if she had forgotten her sword dance, begging her to paint in the darkness once again. But that’s a worry for when that night comes, and Wednesday knows Enid will be there to guide her back to the light. If fate lets her.

“For good?” Enid asks, tightening her embrace.

“For good. After I take your supposedly birth father to justice. Well, my world version of justice,” Wednesday nods, pulling back just enough to look into Enid’s eyes.

“He’s not my father,” Enid repeats.

“But what if he were, Enid? He killed not one, but two Adjudicators. Death is a guaranteed sentence. Murray would be lucky if they offered him a quick death.”

What on earth is Wednesday doing? She should have accepted Enid’s answer, sated by it, and then moved on. But that wouldn’t be right. Not to Enid. Wednesday has to do right by her.

“I-,” Enid hesitates. She is really thinking about it now. Good. “I’d want some answers from him first. But he’s a stranger to me in the end. I don’t even know what he looks like.”

“Wouldn’t this be fate giving you a chance to get to know the father you’ve never had?” Wednesday continue prodding. Family has never been an easy topic for either of them. But she must get to the bottom of this, for both of their sake. “Would you fight to have him live, Enid? A stranger who gave birth to you?”

“They usually charge me a hundred bucks for this kind of therapy, you know?” Enid deflects, then remains quiet for a while. “I don’t know, Wednesday. I found my family, on my own. So, what am I supposed to do with a super criminal biological father who murdered your parents, Wednesday?”

“Do you want to meet him?”

Wednesday has decided not to take off and hunt down the patriarch of the Lykaios family like a dog. For now. Not until Enid gets her answer. Not until Wednesday gets her answer.

ENID

Enid wants to burn the result paper.

Murray Sinclair, no, Lykaios, is her biological father.

Her throat feels dry. The blonde is thankful that Wednesday made her think about the what-ifs last night. About consequences and punishments.

A bloody criminal. A murderer. A fiend.

Crime does pay. And Murray Lykaios will meet his end soon. Enid wonders if he knew that.

Wonders if he knew who she is, if Enid was the name her gave her, if he also likes Moussaka as she does.

If he loved Enid, he wouldn’t have given her away. Enid bars the door in her mind, forbidding self-pity from getting to her.

---

Bianca had set up the meeting with Murray at the Continental. She wasn’t going to risk being offed by the Lykaios as a means to cover their tracks. Despite the unspoken code in the underworld, it is plain foolish to trust a mob boss’ words.

“Don’t do anything hasty, child,” Larissa reminds Wednesday. “The repercussions for conducting business on the hotel’s grounds are-”

“Harsh. I know,” Wednesday replies curtly.

Wednesday is more quiet today. Even more quiet than her usual broody self. Enid feels like she’s sitting on a pit of firewood herself. Anxiety eats away at the blonde.

She reminds herself of Wednesday’s promise to leave this life after this. So close within their grasp, yet Enid knows better than anyone that happiness can sift through one’s hands like sand if you’re not careful. The High Table will announce Murray’s will, her father, who gave birth and raised the vengeance demon within her Wednesday. Enid wonders if he will go in peace, or must he suffer before dying. She doesn’t want to know.

They’re sitting in Larissa’s office, waiting for the meeting time. The file exchange will take place first, and then Larissa will inform Murray of the revocation of his membership at the hotel, for he has breached the rules of their world.

No one touches the Adjudicators, except for the High Table themselves.

Another half hour and Enid shall unwrap this unwanted gift of fate.

---

“Murray,” Wednesday greets as she and Enid take their seat in front of the ageing man.

The hotel’s lounge is always busy, regardless of the time of day. Bustling with an eclectic mix of the city's elite—sharp-suited businessmen, elegantly dressed socialites, and hardened figures from the criminal underworld, all mingling together. The sound of clinking glasses and the subtle scent of expensive cigars blend into the ambience. A small jazz band plays in the background, their notes floating above the low murmur of conversation.

Piercing blue eyes stare at Enid. She gulps. Enid didn’t expect Murray to look so… human.

”Addams,” Murray greets back. “Haven’t had the chance to properly thank you for dropping our mole off at the headquarters the other day.”

“Save it,” Wednesday spits out.

With his neatly styled salt and peppered hair, well-trimmed beard, and dare she even say, kind-looking facial features, one might mistake Murray Lykaios for an affluent businessman, not a mob boss.

“So, you know,” Murray takes a drag of his cigar, unsurprised.

Wednesday shrugs.

“You must want to kill me,” Murray muses, nodding to himself. “I wouldn’t blame you.”

“Whatever you have to say, make it quick,” Wednesday says, eyes like dagger.

Murray brushes off Wednesday’s threat and turns to Enid, soaked in grief. “You look just like your mother.”

“My… mother?” Enid asks. Her chest tightens. She was held in her mother’s loving arms once, not born out of thin air and sent straight to the orphanage.

When she was a child, Enid always imagined what her parents were like. In all her make-believe games, her father was a firefighter while her mother was a gardener and a baker. They had a happy life, with a puppy called Moony. A naif, fatuous dream.

“She was the light of my life, and then you arrived,” Murray’s eyes are glassy as he reminisces. “The soul of my soul.”

“And yet you abandoned me.”

Where was her mother when Murray left Enid to a life of isolation and desuetude? A life where Enid had to earn the right to belong and to be loved. Her parents did not perish in a tragic fire like Wednesday’s, all thanks to her father; but rather, they left Enid.

Murray grimaces, forcing himself to relive the painful memories, the creases on his face push against one another, and a single tear falls.

“After you were born, I wanted to leave this life,” he gestures his hand around the lounge. “The Lykaios gave me an impossible task, and even if I failed, your mother and you would still be free, taken care of for life.”

“Your task was to kill Wednesday’s parents,” Enid instinctively reaches for Wednesday from under the table. Wednesday has balled her hand into a tight fist while listening to Murray’s story. Running her thumb over the back of Wednesday’s hand, Enid wishes she could relieve Wednesday of this pain, but all she can do is to be there for Wednesday.

“Not just her parents,” Murray sips his drink and turns to Wednesday, squinting. “The entire family. And I had to make it look like an accident. You have always been a wild card, Wednesday. And I missed the opportunity to correct that mistake all those years ago. You should’ve stayed at home like a good child and died with your family that night.”

Murray went from a doting and devoted father to a calculating, cold-blooded killer in a split second.

Something within Enid recoils. She had wished for a family for so long, with a real father and mother, but not like this. Disgusted. The bile fills up within Enid, repugnance and contempt.

“You failed your little task and got promoted. Is this the part where you’re supposed to whine?” Wednesday stares back at Murray, unafraid.

Enid can feel how each second passes is equivalent to another shred of patience lost. The hair on the back of her head stands up. If she doesn’t do something, Wednesday will most likely become an excommunicado, and to put it lightly, that might not be the most desirable outcome.

“They killed my wife because I failed that ‘little task’! Do you think that promotion was a gift? It’s a stain, a filthy reminder that my mistakes cost me my wife and child,” Murray sneers. “And you know what, I don’t regret it. I’ll kill anyone and everyone if it means my family will be safe.”

Enid readies herself to jump in between Murray and Wednesday.

Murray deserves to be brought before a trial and judged, even if the court is criminal in nature. She can’t have Wednesday throw away the prospect of a life they might have together just because her biological father is deranged and remorseless.

“I agree,” Wednesday nods, taking Enid by surprise. “I’d do the same if I were in your shoes.”

Never mind. If she really thinks about it, Wednesday has killed no less than dozens of people to save Enid's life. Her heart flutters still at the thought that Wednesday considers her family. How inane and frivolous.

From a macabre point of view, they’re both so damaged and ruined from such a young age, which is perhaps why Wednesday fits her so well.

“So, you understand why I had to give you away. I couldn’t risk losing you as well,” Murray looks at Enid in a way that one might mistake for begging for forgiveness. “I had no other choices.”

Enid laces her hand with Wednesday from under the table. “But you did lose me. You don’t know me at all. We may share the same blood but, you’re a stranger to me. And don’t tell me you never tried to keep tabs on me, because that’s a lie and we both know that!”

Her voice rises and rises until her feelings flood out in torrents. “You had so many chances to try and make it better! God, you’re a mob boss, you could have made hundreds of excuses to approach me, a goddamn journalist! Had you really wanted to get to know me as a person, rather than this f*cked up idea you have in your head, you would have done it!”

“You really are your mother’s daughter. She would’ve been so proud of you,” Murray stares at her, nowhere stunned by her outburst, rather, the corner of his mouth twitchs. He turns to Wednesday. “And just like her mother, I see Enid has chosen someone from my world as well.”

Wednesday’s face hardens, disgusted at the insinuation that Murray and she are all the same. “Unlike you, I will have my peace.”

“Can a woman like you ever know peace?” Murray asks and yet looks more like he’s asking himself.

Ashes wrap around Wednesday, her eyes a lake of sorrow at Murray’s words. Their road will be long and difficult, but Enid feels hopeful. Her wounds had stood silently for years, waiting for a rain to bring them back to life, searing her mind. Though, if they are alive, it means they can heal.

Enid reaches for Wednesday’s hands. “I’ll make sure she regains the peace you took from her all those years ago.”

A flash of hurt, mixed with pride crosses Murray’s face. He takes another drag of his cigar. “Even when I did nothing for you, I’m sorry that you must bear the sins of your father, Enid.”

Their conversation is cut short by a cough from Larissa. Next to her is a petite, bald man who wears heavy makeup, his face covered with piercings and tattoos.

“The Adjudicator is here,” Larissa introduces. “Mr. Murray Lykaios, I hereby revoke your membership at the New York Continental for the unauthorised assassination of Adjudicator Gomez Addams and Adjudicator Morticia Addams.”

“The High Table would like to have a word with you, Mr. Lykaios. Let’s save us the trouble of a messy arrest if you could just come quietly.”

Murray doesn’t resist, only gives Enid a resigned smile. As he walks away with the Adjudicator and Larissa, Enid calls out.

“Do you like moussaka?”

Murray turns his head, his blue eyes kind, like how a father ought to look at his daughter. “It’s my all-time favourite.”

Chapter 8: Aftermath

Chapter Text

It’s over.

Her decades-old grudge resolved, anticlimactical and bathetic.

The big bad wolf, taken away and executed at the hands of the High Table, denying Wednesday her death was she to pursue and annihilate all those that stand in her way.

The big bad wolf has left Enid behind. Her Enid. Vivacious, ebullient, irrepressible.

The big bad wolf stole Wednesday’s life and at the same time, gave Wednesday life. Only a few decades gap in between.

Wednesday has never thought she’d fall in love with the daughter of her family’s killer. How utmost peculiar. Gomez and Morticia would have laughed at the morbidity and cynical nature of this relationship.

They would’ve liked Enid, Wednesday thought, especially Pugsley.

Unlike Wednesday, her parents would answer any and every question Enid had about how the underworld worked; Pugsley would successfully persuade Enid to pull a prank together on Wednesday, and of course, she couldn’t be mad for long, because it’s Enid after all.

“What’re you thinking?” Enid smooths out the frown on Wednesday’s forehead with her fingers. “Surely, you don’t intend to run after them and shoot Murray outside the hotel, right?”

Insouciant and uninterested, the lounge guests focus more on the jazz performance on the stage rather than the slight ruckus that played out before them minutes ago.

Wednesday shakes her head. “No, not anymore.”

“So, you did think about it,” Enid sighs. “Why the change of heart?”

“I thought about how my family would’ve reacted to this. For all that he’s done, Murray and I share a common interest,” Wednesday confesses. “For you, mon cœur, I’d raze the world just to keep you safe.”

Wednesday would’ve done the exact same thing as Murray had if those she loved’s lives depended on it. Her ghosts are laid to rest, though when Wednesday can finally find peace, that’s a question only time can tell.

---

The doorbell rings.

Wednesday checks her clothes once more, making sure everything is impeccable. First impression is everything. Wednesday never cares what people think, but this is important to Enid, and thus, it is important to Wednesday.

She can shoot someone without thinking twice, and yet, here Wednesday stands, nervous about a dinner. With Enid’s mother figure.

The latch unlocks, a stout woman peeks out, eyes lightening up at the sight of Enid. Wednesday has done her homework, much to Enid’s objection. Old habits die hard.

“Louloudi mou! It’s so good to see you. Is this the friend that you told me about?” Athanasia greets the pair; the door swings wide open. “What happened to your face?”

The old woman gasps and reaches up to Enid, pulling her down to examine the scars on her face, fussing over her like how a mother would.

“It’s street creds, Athanasia, real hip with the kids nowadays,” Enid laughs. Blithe and warm. “This is my girlfriend, Wednesday.”

Athanasia squints at Wednesday, as if judging to see whether she measures up to Enid.

“A pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Wednesday extends her hand. “Thank you for hosting us tonight. I’ve brought something to contribute, I hope that’s fine by you.”

She presents the wine bottle. Domaine Sigalas Santorini Assyrtiko 2022. A classic. Perfect to go with seafood.

Athanasia looks impressed, then ushers them inside. “The food is just finished. Come on in, come on in.”

---

“Tell me, what are your intentions with Enid?” Athanasia asks as she sets the dishes in the sink.

Wednesday is helping out with cleaning, as both she and Athanasia insisted that Enid hang out with the cats and leave the dishes to them. The question is expected, and no matter how much Wednesday has prepared herself to meet her beloved’s mother figure, her heart races still at the prospect of the ‘shovel talk’.

“I can’t promise she’ll never bore of me, but I want to be there for Enid for as long as she’ll have me,” Wednesday says, doing her best to be succinct and concise.

If Wednesday said Enid is the dawn that brings radiance to her heart, leading her fumbling steps in the dark toward the light, Athanasia would’ve laughed at how corny that sounded. So, Wednesday must settle on what sounds most sensible.

“She had a rough childhood; her foster mother was awful. It wasn’t until Enid got away, that things finally started looking up for that poor kid,” Athanasia sighs.

“I know,” Wednesday nods.

“So, unless you truly mean it, don’t give Enid false hope. Cause if you break her heart, you’ll wish you were never born,” Athanasia says, her threat came out like a breeze, and Wednesday knows not to take it lightly.

“I don’t think I’d be standing here alive today if it weren’t for Enid. She saved me,” Wednesday stares at the sink, her chained-up fiend shivers. “The day I leave Enid would be the day I die.”

Athanasia doesn’t reply for a moment, assessing Wednesday’s answer. “Glad she found you then, mikremou.”

---

It takes Wednesday a while to really soak in her surroundings.

The warm sand under her feet, the gentle sunlight that kisses her skin, the waves lapping at the shore, and the blithe woman beside her.

“What are you thinking?” Enid asks.

In a hidden cove on an island near Mykonos, the pair is on their first vacation together since Wednesday announced her semi-retirement plan. You can’t just quit quit without any consequences, but what you can do is to not take up any new contract. That was enough for now, for Enid.

“Nothing, just happy to be here. Still seems unreal to me,” Wednesday throws her arm over Enid’s shoulder and pulls the blonde close.

“I thought ‘happy’ is a subjective state of mind?” Enid jokes, leaning on Wednesday.

If the world ended right now, Wednesday would be contented, gladly obliged, and dissipate into oblivion with her love by her side. But she wants to enjoy the other side a little while longer, trying things out for the first time. Go on a vacation for leisure’s sake instead of for a contract; visit an antique shop for a new painting rather than hunting for a new weapon; drive around the city with your girlfriend and not be in a car chase.

It's far more than what Wednesday deserves.

But Enid is there, every day, reminding Wednesday that she is worth it, for there is redemption for Wednesday after all, she only needs to seek it hard enough and be brave enough to let it in. The blonde had told her the best vengeance is to live well, to outlive your enemies and to carry your love through life. Easier said than done, but Wednesday is practising Enid's wisdom one step at a time.

“I’m gonna pursue documentary making professionally,” Enid says, staring at the deep blue sea, its surface sparkles like a tray of jewels under the bright sun. “Quit my job at the NYT. They’re hypocrites anyway.”

The proof of Mayor Crackstones’ corruption and involvement with criminals that Enid sent to every single news outlet as well as the police was damning enough to prompt a serious investigation. Kinbott Pharmaceuticals’ stocks plummeted as the evidence package directly named them as one of the main links in the corruption scandal, and thus, lost its monopoly on Jericho Children's Hospital. And yet, despite all that, Enid’s senior, who dismissed her findings and efforts at every corner, did not allow the blonde to run the story, instead claiming Enid’s hard work as his own.

That was the last straw.

“Enid…” Wednesday cautions. She can guess where this is going. It’s not Wednesday’s place to qualm Enid’s quest for truth and knowledge, for the benefit of the public, of course. But it is Wednesday’s responsibility, always, to keep Enid safe, as far away from her world as possible.

“No, it’s not going to be about your world,” Enid squeezes Wednesday’s hand, reassuring. “As much as I crave that kind of thrill and truth-seeking quest, I love you too much to risk it all. Knowing myself, I’ll get my ass into something way over my head, and then you’ll have to re-enter the hellscape that you just got out of. Can’t ever pay me enough for that.”

There it is, once more, how Enid effortlessly captures her heart, holds it in her hands, and be her judge. Had Enid been determined to continue pursuing that project, Wednesday would’ve relented eventually and will put her own life on the line to protect Enid without a second thought.

But Enid is willing to give up such a research topic because of Wednesday, because she loves Wednesday. Her warmth and grace have seeped in Wednesday’s bones, forgiving and accepting all that she was.

And now, every morning, as sunlight wakes Wednesday, her arms open to greet Enid, her love, her life, into her embrace. For whatever it’s worth, Wednesday is glad she took the contract on Enid Sinclair in the first place.