The morning after his private meeting with Principal Weems, Dirk Sanchez found himself walking the halls of Nevermore, flanked by the quiet echo of his own heavy footsteps.
Everywhere he passed, eyes followed.
Students whispered behind cupped hands, glances darting from his towering frame to the sharpness of his gaze. He carried himself differently—less like a new transfer, more like someone who had always belonged, as though the ancient walls had been waiting for him.
If the students were unsettled, he didn't seem to notice. Or perhaps he noticed too much and simply didn't care.
---
The Escort
"Right this way, Mr. Sanchez," Principal Weems said, her tone crisp, betraying none of the tension from their previous encounters. Yet, as Dirk glanced sidelong at her, he noticed the faintest curve in her lips—a smile carefully hidden beneath her mask of authority.
She led him through the dormitory wing, the corridors buzzing faintly with chatter. Enid Sinclair's voice carried above the others, bright and bubbly, until Weems opened the door.
---
Room 202
The dorm room smelled faintly of nail polish and perfume, with strands of colorful fairy lights strung across one side. The opposite bed was neat, monochrome, with everything arranged in precise order.
Two girls stood waiting.
The first was all energy—blonde, rainbow nails, smile wide enough to brighten the whole wing. Enid Sinclair.
The second stood in stark contrast—dark pigtails, black dress, pale skin like moonlight on stone. Wednesday Addams.
Enid gasped dramatically, clapping her hands together. "Oh. My. Gosh. You're huge."
Dirk tilted his head, unfazed. "I get that a lot."
Wednesday's eyes narrowed, assessing him like a scientist studying a particularly dangerous specimen. "And yet, you're still human."
Dirk smirked faintly. "That's debatable."
---
The First Clash
Principal Weems gestured gracefully. "Dirk, this will be your shared suite. Enid and Wednesday are your… roommates."
Enid beamed. "Finally, someone with muscle. We've been needing a wall to hide behind if monsters come knocking."
Wednesday's tone was cold. "Muscle is irrelevant. Monsters fall to precision, not brute force."
Dirk stepped further inside, his presence seeming to shrink the room. "Why not both?"
The words hung in the air, echoing the very phrase he'd once used on Weems. The principal's lips tightened almost imperceptibly before she excused herself.
"I'll leave you three to… acclimate. Play nicely."
The door clicked shut.
---
Tension in the Room
Enid practically bounced forward, chattering. "So, Dirk—where are you from? Do you like horror movies? What's your star sign? Do you work out, or is that just… genetics? Because wow."
Dirk answered none of her questions. He simply dropped his duffel bag beside the bed nearest the window, unzipped it, and began unpacking with a casualness that somehow radiated intimidation.
Wednesday never stopped staring.
Her voice was calm, cutting. "You're hiding something."
Dirk glanced over his shoulder, his smirk widening just slightly. "Aren't we all?"
---
The Standoff
The two locked eyes across the room—Wednesday, with her sharp suspicion, and Dirk, with his unreadable calm. Neither blinked. Neither looked away.
Enid, sensing the sudden static in the air, waved her hands frantically. "Okay, okay, time out! No glaring contest this early in the semester, please. Let's save the drama for, like, midterms."
Dirk chuckled lowly, finally breaking eye contact. "Don't worry, Sinclair. I don't bite."
Wednesday's reply came instantly, deadpan. "Pity."
---
The Weight of Presence
By the time Enid had launched into another story about nail polish trends, the room had already shifted.
Dirk had made his presence known—not with shouting, not with theatrics, but with the sheer weight of his aura. Flashy in his silence, intimidating in his calm, subtle in his every movement.
And mysterious enough that both roommates—bubbly Enid and cynical Wednesday—couldn't stop watching him.