That night, as Nevermore locked its gates and the moon rose like an old wound, Adrian lay awake, listening to the building breathe. The walls creaked. The pipes groaned. The shadows shifted and whispered, licking at his fingers, offering solace or destruction he couldn't tell.
And across the hall, behind a door that didn't lock, a girl with ink-black braids touched her lips and whispered to the dark:
"Next time, don't disappear."
He let himself answer silent, but certain.
Next time, he promised, he wouldn't.
The Weathervane smelled like every bad decision made after midnight burnt espresso, cheap disinfectant, and a sweetness that clung to the back of your throat like guilt. Adrian slipped inside before the bell over the door could tattle on him, rain loosening its grip on his coat in a slow, resentful drip. He kept his hood up.
Tyler hair slightly mussed, apron smeared with chocolate syrup and something red that wasn't looked up from a temperamental espresso machine and gave him a half-smile. The kind you use when you're alone on a life raft with a shark and a handshake.
"What can I get you?" Tyler asked.
"Quad over ice," Adrian said. "No milk, no sugar. Don't insult it."
Tyler's lip twitched. "You say that like it's a living thing."
"It is," Adrian muttered. "Mostly dead. But we all have our phases."
He didn't take a seat. He didn't want his back to a wall or a window. He wanted it to dissolve.
The mug clattered onto the counter. Adrian grabbed it and turned then stopped.
The man was already there. Sitting in the corner booth. Back straight, hands folded, the kind of presence that took up more room than it should. No one sat near him, even though half the tables were full. Some people carry absence like a scent.
Chief, Adrian thought. The word burned like he'd swallowed a match.
No worse. Father.
He didn't remember walking to the booth. Just the way his father's eyes slid up to meet his, like a hunter spotting his own reflection in a river.
"Sit," the Chief said, and the word was soft
too soft. Like the beginning of a lullaby sung to a child you never loved. Adrian didn't move at first. He just stood there, steam curling off his coat, the rain still whispering down outside like it was trying not to be noticed.
That voice it wasn't the one that taught him to kill. The organization had done that later, with cold rooms and colder people, drills that made him forget what a childhood should feel like. But this voice? It was older. Deeper. It was the voice that left him screaming in a nursery with no walls. The one he used to imagine saying "I'm sorry" or "Come home," but never did.
And now it was here. In a coffee shop that smelled like scorched milk and broken things. Dressed like a respectable man clean lines, expensive wool, subtle red in his tie like dried blood. His hands were folded neatly. No scars visible. None ever were.
Adrian sat, but the chair felt too small, the table too close, like a trap designed for a Wendigo who'd already been declawed.
"You were waiting," Adrian said, voice flat. "What no letter first? 'Dear son, sorry I left you to rot in that orphanage, let's grab a coffee'?"
The Chief didn't smile. He rarely had. "You were always good at sarcasm. It hides the fear."
"I'm not afraid."
"Not today." He leaned back, the booth creaking. "You're slippery right now. Inside their little sanctuary. Where we aren't supposed to tread."
Adrian's jaw tightened. "Nevermore's protected. Jericho too. Your hunters know the rules. No interference."
"Protected," the Chief repeated, the word souring in his mouth. "Sanctuary for monsters. Schools for them. Lessons in 'how to be human.' As if a wolf can sit through algebra and stop howling."
"Some of them can," Adrian said. His voice didn't waver. He wouldn't give him that satisfaction. "Some won't. That's your job. It was mine, too. Until you let the whole place swallow me."
"You were a tool," the Chief said. "You still are. Tools don't cry when no one uses them. They rust." He folded and unfolded his hands, revealing a flash of ink on his wrist an old sigil, the organization's mark. "And you, Adrian, are rusting in the wrong place."
Adrian fought the urge to crush the mug in his hand. "You left me. After she died you vanished. I learned the truth from a report file one year and two bodies too late."
"You learned at the right time," the Chief countered. "Knowing before would have weakened you. And you needed to be strong. You needed to be turned into something worthy of her memory."
Adrian laughed not because anything was funny, but because it hurt less than screaming.
"You didn't raise me. You didn't train me. You didn't even bother to bury what you threw away."
His voice sharpened as he leaned in, words dropping like razors on polished wood.
"You left me in that orphanage like I was some disease you needed to cut out. They called me a demon, said my blood was cursed. Do you know what it's like to have the word evil burned into your skin by people who pray harder when they hit you?"
The Chief's face barely moved, but his jaw twitched.
Adrian didn't stop.
"I ran. Into the woods. Into the arms of something worse than you and better, too. Baba taught me how to survive. Taught me pain, and power, and how to love neither."
A pause.
"And then the organization came. They didn't save me. They pointed me at monsters and said 'kill.' And I was good at it, wasn't I? Real good. Too good."
His eyes darkened.
"So don't sit there and pretend this any of this was your plan. I'm not your son. I'm your consequence."
"Sentiment," his father said, and the word curled like smoke. "We're past that. Let's talk plainly. You're in Nevermore. You're operating outside of us. You're using the shadows for yourself now no direction, no leash. That makes you a liability."
"I'm not harming humans," Adrian said. "Your favorite line. I remember it well." He took a slow sip. The coffee tasted like old pennies and cracked ribs. Good. Honest. "I hunt what hunts us. That hasn't changed."
The Chief's gaze sharpened. "You think you're one of us? You were born to something else, Adrian. You are a monster. We raised you to think you could be both. That was my mistake." He leaned forward, the air between them tightening. "When you walk out of that school if you walk out there will be eyes on you. Orders. A bullet with your name etched into the brass."
Adrian met his gaze with cold clarity. "They can try," he said quietly. "Everyone you send after me is already dead. They just don't know it yet."
The Chief's expression didn't flicker but something in his shoulders tightened, ever so slightly. "You always did have your mother's tongue," he said finally. "Cut to the bone. But mark my words, Adrian. A monster pretending to be a boy is still a monster. And I will not let you roam."
"You never 'let' me do anything."
"A father's control is a myth," he said. "Just like love. Our family is purpose, nothing more."
Adrian stood. "And your purpose is dying," he said. "Same as you. Same as me if I let it."
He finished the coffee in one long swallow. Every swallow stripped something raw. He liked it that way.
"I'm late for class," he said. His voice was calm. Controlled. A blade wrapped in velvet. "Try not to get iced by an old woman crossing the street. It'd be embarrassing."
He didn't wait for an answer. He turned, coat flaring, and stepped back into the rain as if it belonged to him.
The walk back to campus was a blur of rain and memory. He kept seeing the blade sliding through his chest the one in Wednesday's hand. The way the shadows begged to swallow the pain and he told them no. The way dying had tasted: copper, bile, and a cold so deep it felt like an apology.
Coming back had been worse.
Death wasn't a door. Death was a meat grinder you let yourself get pulled through, and immortality was crawling out the other end in pieces, stitching yourself back together with whatever darkness was left inside you.
He'd let her kill him. He hadn't stopped her. And it wasn't just to make a point. There had been a flicker, a flicker of hope maybe this time would stick. Maybe her blade could be the one that stayed, a kindness more honest than anything else. He was tired. Tired like old stone. Tired like something that had clawed its way out of hell too many times and was starting to like the view.
But he came back, and she kissed him no, he kissed her and the tremor in her lips had been something he couldn't stop thinking about. Cold and curious. The taste of black blood and defiance. It made him feel broken and alive all at once. It made him furious.
The shadows stretched in front of him, reaching like hungry children. He refused them. Not now. Not when his head was already loud enough.
Flashback.
A room with no windows. The walls were stone, damp with old secrets. A single candle burned on a cracked plate. The smell: mold, sweat, and fear. Rowan sat tied to a chair, head hanging like a dropped marionette. Adrian circled him silently, a shadow with a heartbeat.
Rowan's eyes flicked up. Wide and glassy. The boy's voice was a rasp. "You shouldn't have stopped me."
Adrian leaned in close. "You shouldn't have tried to crush her lungs with your mind. But here we are, Rowan. Choices."
Rowan's breath hitched. "She'll end us. You don't get it we're not safe with her. No one is. My mother saw it. She drew it tomorrow, next year, I don't know. The dark day. The last day. The one that never ends." His voice cracked. "She brings it. She is it."
Adrian tilted his head. "You tried to kill a girl because your dead mother doodled in a trance?"
Rowan jerked against the ropes. "It's a prophecy. Not a doodle. She saw the world drowning in shadow. Saw Wednesday standing in the middle of it. Smiling."
Adrian's lip curled. "I've seen worse things smiling. I see one every time I look in a mirror." He crouched, voice dropping to a whisper. "Let me make something clear. You don't get to choose what she becomes. Neither do I. But if you try again if you even look at her wrong I'll show you the dark day your mother dreamed about. Up close. Intimate."
Rowan shook, rage and terror clashing in his throat. "She'll doom us," he hissed. "You'll doom yourself for stopping me."
Adrian stood. Shadows licked at his boots like loyal dogs. "I was doomed before you knew what that word meant," he said, and blew out the candle.
The dark rushed in like an ocean.
End flashback.
By the time Adrian reached Nevermore's gate, the rain had watered itself into submission. The ground steamed. The sky looked like a bruise.
He stepped onto the gravel path, boots crunching, and the building rose before him like a gothic throat clearing. He could feel her inside. Wednesday. A vibration in the marrow. The sword wound in his chest throbbed a ghost pain, phantom and faithful.
He paused just long enough to watch a pair of students sprint past, laughing too loudly. Bianca stalked across the yard, head high and eyes cutting. Xavier sat beneath a warped tree, sketchbook open, scowling like art had personally wronged him.
He could pretend. He could slot himself into this puzzle the dark transfer, the quiet kid with a secret, the shadow-laced savior who just wants to be left alone.
He could pretend. But then he remembered the way the Chief's eyes hadn't changed in fifteen years. Monsters don't get to retire. They get hunted. Or worse they get turned.
Adrian shoved the thought aside and stepped into the foyer. Stone swallowed sound. Iron chandeliers dripped wax like it was bleeding sap.
He took a breath, bracing himself for something like normal, whatever that meant here.
And then he smelled her ozone, grave soil, and old ink. Wednesday, coming down the stairs like she owned the banister.
Their eyes locked. She didn't look away. Neither did he.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the space between them the distance loaded like a gun, unspoken and aiming for somewhere soft.
Her mouth was a hard line. Her fingers: spotless. Of course she'd washed it off. Wednesday Addams didn't wear sentiment. Or blood she didn't mean to spill.
"You're late," Wednesday said, voice flat as slate.
Adrian didn't slow. "You're still keeping count."
Her eyes flicked over him whole, intact, bleeding nothing.
"You survived," she noted. No inflection. No approval. Just fact.
He met her gaze, smirk slow and sharp. "Sorry to disappoint."
She stepped down one stair, just enough to meet his height. "Disappointment requires expectation."
His chuckle was low, frayed around the edges. "And here I thought the stabbing was personal."
Wednesday tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. "It was calculated."
He leaned in not too close, just enough to be impolite. "And the kiss?"
Silence, long and heavy.
Her reply came quiet, cold. "That was a control experiment."
Adrian's smile faded into something thoughtful. Darker. "Careful, Wednesday. You keep testing me, and you might not like what you discover."
She didn't blink. "I don't run from results."
They stood like that, stairwell bathed in amber light and unspoken things a war paused mid-breath.
Finally, she brushed past him. Her voice trailing like smoke:
"Try not to die again. It's tedious."
Adrian turned, watching her vanish into the corridor.
"Only if you promise not to miss."
She didn't answer.
But he swore she smiled.
He found his way to therapy with Ms. Thornwell late enough to be rude, early enough to prove he wasn't terrified. The room smelled like chamomile and lies. He stared at the couch until it blinked first.
"Sit, Adrian," Ms. Thornwell said, her voice a lullaby sharpened to a point. "Let's unpack your night."
He gave her the smallest of smiles. "Careful. Things crawl out when you open suitcases like mine."
"Good," she said calmly. "I prefer them outside. It's easier to see where they bite."
He could have given her the cut-up version. The sanitized nightmare. He didn't. He talked around the edge of truth like it was a cliff, toes curled on the rim. Thornwell listened, eyes like still water, and when he was done, she set the cup down and said:
"You don't want to be saved. You want to be ended. But you want someone else to do it, so you can pretend you fought."
He laughed. It sounded like choking. "You really do earn your paycheck, don't you?"
"Who is Wednesday to you?" she asked.
"A variable," he said. "An equation I haven't solved yet."
"And you want to?"
He said nothing. Silence spilled into the cracks.
When he left, afternoon had carved its way in. The sky was the same color as the coffee he'd had earlier thin, stretched, bitter.
As he crossed the quad, Xavier jogged up beside him. "Dude, where were you? Weems has Poe Cup teams listed and you're drafted."
Adrian scoffed. "Not exactly my sport."
"Tough," Xavier said. "Wednesday signed you up as backup on her team. Guess she thinks you're reliable."
Adrian almost smiled. "I'm honored. Did she put Enid on the harpoons?"
"Catapult," Xavier corrected, grinning. "She wouldn't stop talking about glitter cannons. It's terrifying."
"I'll be there," Adrian said. He owed Wednesday nothing. He owed himself even less. But… he'd be there.
As Xavier turned away, Adrian caught a flash of black braid disappearing into the woods. Wednesday, walking alone. No umbrella. No hesitation.
His feet moved before he told them to. The path wound deeper, branches like fingers scraping. He kept to the treeline, letting the shadows swallow his footsteps.
She stopped at the ruins of an old shed stone, half-collapsed. Her hand hovered near the door, like she was debating opening it or ripping the hinges off.
He let the silence stretch until it almost broke. Then, softly:
"You shouldn't wander alone. Things in the dark bite."
She didn't startle. Of course she didn't. She turned slowly, gaze like a drawn blade. "I'm not alone, am I?"
He stepped into the thin light, hands in his pockets. "You felt me."
"I tasted you," she said. Flat. Honest. "There's a difference."
The air between them hummed. He could feel the part of him that belonged to the shadows twitching, eager. Hungry.
"What did you see?" he asked, voice low. "When you stabbed me."
She tilted her head. "You want flattery? I was focused on not missing."
His lip twitched. "You didn't answer."
Her eyes flickered, a crack of candlelight in them. "I saw… quiet. For a moment. In you. Like you wanted it to stick."
He swallowed. "Maybe I did."
"That's cowardice," she said. No judgment. A statement. "Letting someone else do what you won't."
"Or trust," he murmured. "Depending on who you ask."
Her eyes darkened. "Don't trust me."
"Oh, I don't," he said. "That's why it was exciting."
The wind picked up, carrying the smell of wet earth and old stone. She looked him over slow, deliberate, like she was cataloging a corpse.
"You're on my team for the Poe Cup," she said. "Don't disappoint me. I don't tolerate weakness. Not in myself. Not in allies."
"We're allies now?" He raised an eyebrow. "Do I get a badge?"
"You get to keep breathing," she deadpanned. "For now."
She walked past him, and he felt the brush of her shoulder barely, like a ghost of a touch. He didn't turn. He listened until her footsteps dissolved, until the woods only held his breathing and the mutter of leaves.
Then he let the shadows climb his calves, curling tight. He stared at his hands. They were clean. The blood was gone. He hated how much that felt like a lie.
"She's the dark day," Rowan had said. "The one that never ends."
Adrian's mouth curled into something that wasn't quite a smile.
Let it come, he thought. Let it come and cover everything. Because darkness could be doom, sure. But it could also be home.
And Adrian Corvus was done pretending the light had ever done him any favors.