The aftermath of the Outreach Day incident spread through Jericho with remarkable speed.
The fire itself was bad enough.
The statue deforming into a raised middle finger was unforgivable.
Residents gathered in clusters across the town square and along the streets, voices raised in outrage. Phones replayed the footage endlessly. Everyone knew what it meant. Everyone knew who it had to be.
Outcasts.
But knowledge wasn't proof.
No one could name who had done it. No one could point to a specific face, a specific student. And this wasn't the seventeenth century anymore. Jericho couldn't respond the way it once had.
There would be no trials.
No burnings.
No righteous mobs with torches.
So the anger had nowhere to go.
It turned into shouting.
Into accusations.
Into fingers pointed uphill.
At Nevermore.
Across the grounds, inside the main building, the reaction was quieter—and far more dangerous.
Principal Weems stood in her office, posture rigid, her expression carefully controlled. Reports lay scattered across her desk. Complaints. Demands. Thinly veiled threats disguised as concern for "community relations."
She didn't need to read them closely.
She already knew the problem.
This hadn't been impulsive vandalism. It hadn't been chaos for chaos's sake. It had been calculated. Symbolic. Executed with precision.
"You two," Principal Weems said coolly, her gaze fixed on the pair seated across from her desk, "care to explain why you were smiling when that incident occurred?"
Wednesday and Ethan sat side by side—the only two students in Jericho who hadn't screamed, run, or panicked.
"I was smiling," Ethan replied easily, "because the statue turned into a middle finger. It was funny."
Weems's eyes narrowed. "Jericho is threatening formal complaints, sanctions, and a renewed investigation into Nevermore's involvement."
Ethan shrugged. "They're welcome to investigate. Art is subjective."
Weems shifted her attention to Wednesday. "And you?"
Wednesday met her gaze without blinking.
"I smiled," she said evenly, "because it was accurate."
Silence settled into the room, thick and uncomfortable.
"That monument celebrated a mass murderer," Wednesday continued, her voice calm, precise. "Seeing it reduced to its most honest form was… refreshing."
Weems inhaled through her nose, slow and controlled.
"You understand," she said, "that optics matter. Nevermore survives because it appears cooperative."
"Cooperation," Wednesday replied, "doesn't require complicity."
Weems studied her carefully. "You didn't deny involvement."
"I didn't confess either," Wednesday said. "You asked why I was smiling. I answered."
Ethan leaned back slightly, folding his arms. "For what it's worth," he added, "the crowd reaction was priceless."
Weems shot him a warning look.
"This town is angry," Weems said. "And when Jericho gets angry, it looks for someone to blame."
Wednesday's expression didn't change. "They always do."
She leaned forward just enough to make the point unavoidable.
"Just like they did before," she continued. "Outreach Day doesn't commemorate unity. It commemorates the day Joseph Crackstone burned outcasts alive—men, women, children."
Her gaze never left Weems.
"You knew that. You know who Crackstone really was. And yet you still push us to smile and shake hands with the descendants of people who haven't changed at all."
Weems's jaw tightened. "I know what happened," she said carefully. "But that was the past. We can't live there forever. In the present, we work toward improving our relationship with Jericho."
"There is no improvement," Wednesday replied. "They still see us as monsters."
"They just use better words now."
The silence that followed pressed down hard.
Weems measured her—conviction weighed against consequence.
"Progress," she said at last, "is rarely comfortable."
"Neither is denial," Wednesday answered.
Her voice never rose.
"You may be comfortable maintaining this illusion of peace," she continued, "but I'm not. I will find the answers I seek—even if it means confronting this town, its history, and everyone who benefits from pretending none of it happened."
Weems straightened. "Wednesday, you're a student of Nevermore. Your actions reflect on this institution."
"They never have," Wednesday replied. "They reflect on the truth people are trying to bury."
A beat.
Weems exhaled slowly. "You're playing a dangerous game."
"I know," Wednesday said. "That's why I'm winning."
Ethan leaned forward, then stood. "Principal Weems, there's no evidence linking either of us to the incident. I'm a vampire—telekinesis isn't exactly standard issue. And Wednesday doesn't have it either."
He adjusted his jacket. "So we'll be taking our leave—since neither of us is responsible."
Wednesday rose as well, already turning toward the door.
Weems's voice stopped them.
"I don't tire easily," she said coolly. "And I will be watching both of you very closely. I won't tolerate any further… incidents."
Ethan paused, then glanced back.
"I think it's a mistake to assume it's always outcasts who cause problems," he said evenly. "You might want to keep an eye on the normies too."
A faint smile curved his mouth. "Sometimes they're far more monstrous than we are."
Weems didn't respond.
She didn't need to.
The door closed softly behind them, leaving Principal Weems alone—with reports she didn't need to read, and a truth she couldn't ignore.
Some problems weren't being caused.
They were being exposed.
*****
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