After the Rave'N incident, the consequences came quickly—if not quite as harsh as they should have been.
The mayor's son and his two lackeys were sentenced to community service. Not in Jericho, where their names still carried weight, but at Nevermore itself. Scrubbing stone paths. Cleaning grounds. Doing the kind of work they'd never imagined themselves lowered to.
It was a fitting punishment—being forced to maintain the very place they'd tried to humiliate.
They kept their heads down. Mostly.
While this was happening, something far worse was unfolding in Jericho.
The killings had increased.
Before, it had been methodical—one death a week, spaced just far enough apart to let the town breathe before panicking again. After Rave'N, that restraint vanished.
Three people were found dead in four days.
The pattern remained unchanged. Bodies were discovered mutilated.
Fear settled into the town like rot.
Shops closed early. Streets emptied before nightfall. Curtains stayed drawn even during the day. People stopped trusting shadows—and each other.
Sheriff Galpin felt the pressure tightening with every passing hour. The town council demanded answers. The mayor demanded results. And the people of Jericho demanded safety—something he could no longer convincingly promise.
If this continued, Jericho wouldn't just be afraid.
It would shut down.
Ethan lowered the newspaper, eyes skimming the headline one last time.
"She's really a crazy bitch," he thought. "Killing her own kind just to fuel her hatred for outcasts."
It tracked.
No one in the Gates family had ever been normal. A father who gave his own son poison to wipe out an entire school. And now her—murdering normies to resurrect another psychopathic ancestor, all for some twisted idea of revenge against outcasts.
Same mindset. Different generation.
Psychopathy clearly ran in the family. They wrapped it in ideology and history, but it always came down to the same thing—using other people as disposable tools.
Sacrifice everyone else. Call it justice.
Ethan scoffed quietly and set the paper aside.
'Hypocrites.'
"Well," he thought, "I'm not much better."
He knew who was behind it. Had known for a while. And yet he'd said nothing—not to the sheriff, not to the town. Not because he couldn't stop it, but because stopping it now didn't serve him.
He wasn't pretending otherwise.
He was waiting. Letting events move forward because they benefited him more that way. If that made him selfish, so be it.
At least he didn't dress it up as righteousness.
Ethan exhaled slowly.
Everyone had their reasons. His were just honest.
***
Like that, Parents' Day arrived—the once-a-year event at Nevermore where students were expected to spend time with their parents under the polite fiction of bonding.
The academy prepared accordingly. Banners went up. Schedules were printed. Faculty rehearsed their practiced smiles. Nevermore presented itself as refined, structured, and entirely unconcerned with the long history of familial dysfunction that came with educating outcasts.
Parents began to arrive in waves—elegant, eccentric, unsettling in their own unique ways. Some hugged too tightly. Some kept a careful distance.
Wednesday Addams regarded Parents' Day with her usual enthusiasm—none. To her, it was less about bonding and more about tolerating proximity.
"So… those are your parents?" Enid asked, glancing ahead.
Morticia and Gomez Addams were approaching, perfectly composed, as if the rest of the courtyard were merely a backdrop arranged for their entrance.
"Yes," Wednesday said. "Where are yours?"
Enid pointed. "There."
Her mother was already watching her, expression sharp and appraising, as if measuring what Enid had failed to become since the last visit. Enid's shoulders stiffened instinctively.
Talking to her mother was exhausting. Every conversation circled back to the same subject—wolfing out. Camps. Techniques. Fixes.
Enid could practically hear it forming: Have you wolfed out yet? Have you tried harder? Maybe if you went back to camp.
As if trying harder would magically change her body. As if Enid's feelings were a minor inconvenience.
Her father stood beside her mother, offering Enid a small, supportive smile. It helped. A little.
Wednesday noticed the tension immediately.
"She looks disappointed," Wednesday said. "Impressive. She hasn't even spoken yet."
Enid sighed. "That's kind of her thing."
Gomez and Morticia reached them then, Gomez practically glowing, Morticia composed and watchful.
"Miércoles!" Gomez exclaimed, sweeping Wednesday into a brief, enthusiastic embrace. "The air here crackles with tension. It reminds me of our honeymoon."
Wednesday endured it. Barely.
Morticia's eyes moved over her daughter, taking in every detail. "You look… yourself," she said softly.
"That was the intention," Wednesday replied.
Enid shifted beside them, suddenly aware she was very much in the middle of an Addams family moment. "Uh—hi, Mr. and Mrs. Addams," she said quickly. "I should—go—do the whole family thing."
She gestured vaguely toward her parents, already bracing herself.
Gomez turned to her at once, beaming. "Ah! You must be Enid. Wednesday speaks of you."
Wednesday blinked. "I do?"
"Constantly," Gomez said cheerfully. "You are the colorful one, yes? A delightful contrast. Like a scream in a mausoleum."
Enid smiled, unsure whether that was a compliment. "I'll… take that?"
Morticia inclined her head. "Take care, Enid."
Enid nodded, then hurried off toward her parents before any more attention could be drawn to her.
Gomez watched her go, then leaned slightly toward Wednesday. "She has spirit. And nerves. A dangerous combination."
"She's tolerable," Wednesday said. After a beat, "More than most."
She glanced at the three of them—her mother, her father, and her brother—an assessment rather than affection.
Before any of them could respond, a voice cut in from just behind her.
"You must be Wednesday's parents. And… brother."
All four Addamses turned at once.
Ethan stood there.
Gomez's eyes lit up with interest. Morticia studied him calmly. Pugsley stared without blinking.
Wednesday turned last.
Her expression didn't change—but the look in her eyes was unmistakable.
What are you doing here?
****
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