Wednesday wanted to ruthlessly criticize Victor with her usual sharp tongue.
But looking at the big boy in front of her—eyes hazy with drink, hair messy, yet carrying a rare, candid concern—those scathing words swirled on the tip of her tongue but refused to come out.
This feeling was unfamiliar and irritating.
"You're drunk."
Finally, Wednesday squeezed out this dry sentence, trying to find a logical explanation she could accept for this inexplicable stagnation and Victor's uncharacteristic honesty.
Victor struggled to turn over, burying his face deeper into Wednesday's black pillow, which smelled of a cold, faint fragrance. He mumbled indistinctly: "Probably..."
His voice was muffled, thick with sleepiness and nasal congestion.
The atmosphere in the room fell into a subtle silence, broken only by Victor's gradually stabilizing breathing and the faint sound of wind outside.
This silence wasn't the kind of controlled quiet Wednesday usually enjoyed; it was viscous, filled with unsolved riddles and unspoken words.
"Why do you say I am being targeted by them?" Wednesday broke the silence first. Her voice regained its usual chill, but a careful listener could detect a trace of barely suppressed curiosity.
Victor seemed recalled to a shred of consciousness by the question. He squirmed, trying hard to sit up.
After a few attempts, he gave up and simply lay on his side, looking at Wednesday with drunken, misty eyes.
"That attack in the forest... I had suspicions..." He spoke slowly, trying to organize logic in his alcohol-soaked brain. "At first, I thought it was targeting me... but thinking carefully, it didn't add up..."
He paused, seemingly recalling details: "They clearly knew my and Venom's weaknesses... yet they only prepared one flashbang... This doesn't fit their style of total annihilation... So, I probably wasn't their main target... at most, collateral damage..."
His gaze focused on Wednesday's face. Although his eyes were unfocused, they held an abnormal seriousness: "Wednesday... you are their target. That monster killed Rowan... yet ignored you... Why?"
He answered his own question, his tone gradually becoming clearer: "Because that monster's purpose... was actually to save you. And that monster is clearly directly or indirectly controlled by the Plague Doctors... so I reached a conclusion..."
"For some reason... those Plague Doctors need you... or something on you, for a specific purpose. And before that purpose is achieved... you cannot die."
He hiccuped, then continued, "I've been wondering what their goal is... until today... when I smelled their scent at Crackstone Crypt..."
At this point, Victor suddenly struggled to his feet. The ropes on his body had come loose at some point—perhaps he had untied them long ago, or perhaps Wednesday hadn't tied them tight enough.
His steps were unsteady, but he suddenly approached Wednesday with abnormal precision.
Wednesday felt a fingertip brush extremely quickly and lightly over her sensitive waist, bringing a faint ticklish sensation.
The next second, the deep purple book with the elegant Nightshade emblem appeared in Victor's hand.
Wednesday's pupils contracted slightly. A strange feeling mixed with shock and thin anger rose in her heart.
Damn it! She had tucked that book carefully inside her clothes! How dare he... move so precisely and... presumptuously!
Victor's expression remained normal, as natural as if he had just picked up a book from a table.
He opened the cover, finding the exact page holding the other prophecy drawing.
"Then... you found this prophecy drawing." He pointed to the left half of the drawing, depicting a pilgrim holding a staff.
"Put together with the other drawing, it's a confrontation duel between you two."
"Joseph Crackstone..." Victor's fingertip tapped the pilgrim on the left drawing. "This guy died hundreds of years ago. If the prophecy is true... this guy will resurrect one day in the future... and duel you."
He looked up at Wednesday, the light of deduction flickering in his drunken eyes:
"Resurrecting this guy... might be the goal of those Plague Doctors. Of course... it could be someone else who wants to resurrect Crackstone... but the Plague Doctors are definitely involved... at least playing a role in fueling it."
"About Joseph Crackstone... I know very little..."
His voice began to slur again, his head nodding. "Only know he was the founder of Jericho... There's an Outreach Day this weekend... if you're lucky enough to be assigned to 'Pilgrim World'... you might find things related to him there..."
After saying all this, Victor seemed to have exhausted all his energy, and the drunkenness surged back violently.
His body swayed, and finally, he slumped forward softly. His head landed squarely on Wednesday's slightly thin but straight shoulder. His breathing became deep and even; he had actually fallen asleep just like that.
Here it comes again.
That familiar, disturbing, strange feeling attacked again.
Feeling the sudden weight on her shoulder and the warm breath transmitting through the fabric, Wednesday subconsciously covered her chest, trying to calm her heart, which had started to pound disobediently fast again.
She gritted her teeth, and with a trace of imperceptible panic, reached out to push Victor off her shoulder.
Victor fell backward without resistance, sinking into the soft bed. He mumbled a few indistinct dream words, but his arm raised unconsciously, wrapping tightly around the metal headboard like a vine, as if clinging to a final lifeline.
Wednesday stood there, taking several deep breaths before barely managing to press that unfamiliar emotion back under the ice layer of her heart.
She looked at Victor, sleeping soundly on her pristine black bed and even hugging her headboard, her brow furrowing tightly.
"This is my bed." She announced coldly, as if issuing an ultimatum to a sleeping person.
Wednesday stepped forward, grabbing Victor's arm, trying to pull him up.
But Victor's hand gripped deathly tight, as if welded to the railing. No matter how hard she pulled, he didn't budge an inch, only grunting dissatisfiedly in his dream.
Wednesday panted slightly from the exertion. Finally, she had to abandon the physical eviction method.
Looking at the deep-sleeping Victor, Wednesday's fingers unconsciously brushed the fabric on her shoulder, now warm and damp from his breath.
Drunken deduction, yet unexpectedly precise... for the value of this intel, Wednesday thought coldly, my bedsheet can tolerate one contamination... as an investment.
Glancing disdainfully at Victor's messy small cot next to the toilet door, Wednesday looked away immediately.
Finally, her gaze landed on the only remaining bed in the room—Enid's.
Fortunately, she thought, at least the rainbow werewolf's sheets and duvet are a relatively plain beige, only dotted with a few small, not-too-glaring golden paw prints, rather than the blinding psychedelic style I anticipated.
Otherwise, she might have died of an allergic reaction—both physiologically and psychologically.
Wednesday walked unceremoniously to Enid's bed, looked at the sleeping blonde girl, and commanded concisely: "Enid, move over."
Enid mumbled something incoherent in her sleep and unconsciously squirmed toward the inner side of the bed, yielding a narrow space barely enough for a person.
Wednesday squeezed in expressionlessly, turning her back to Enid. She occupied the very edge of the bed, trying to maintain maximum distance from this overly warm, overly "vibrant" sleeping zone.
She closed her eyes, trying to banish everything that happened tonight—the Nightshade emblem, the prophecy drawing, Victor's drunken words, and that disturbing closeness and touch—from her mind.
However, Victor's words "You are their target" and "Resurrect this guy" echoed repeatedly like a cold spell.
And his mumbled hint about Outreach Day and "Pilgrim World."
It seemed she had a mandatory destination for this weekend.
The night deepened, and silence finally returned to the dorm.
Only three breathing sounds rose and fell—one sleeping soundly on the black bed hugging the railing, one squeezed on the edge of the beige bed trying to maintain a cold barrier, and one in dreamland unconsciously hugging her low-temperature roommate.