Back in the town square, everything was being prepared for the unveiling ceremony.
A crowd gathered in front of the stage, townspeople buzzing with excitement as cameras and phones were raised. Banners celebrating Founder's Day hung from every lamppost, and at the center of it all stood a statue.
Joseph Crackstone.
The mayor stood near the stage, straightening his notes as he prepared to deliver his speech. Beside him was Principal Weems, her posture rigid and deliberate—a carefully staged image meant to signal unity between Jericho and Nevermore.
A performance of cooperation.
On one side of the square, the Jericho High band stood assembled in their uniforms, instruments ready, waiting for the cue to begin. Their presence was loud, polished, and unmistakably local.
And then there was the exception.
Wednesday Addams sat among them.
Her cello rested between her knees, endpin planted firmly against the ground. Dressed in black, she looked entirely out of place—silent, still, and utterly uninterested in the festive atmosphere surrounding her.
This wasn't her idea.
It had been Principal Weems's.
A symbolic gesture, no doubt. Nevermore contributing "culture" to Jericho's celebration. A reminder that the outcasts were cooperative. Civilized. Harmless.
Wednesday accepted the assignment without protest.
Which, in hindsight, should have concerned everyone.
Because while Weems thought she was orchestrating diplomacy, Wednesday had clearly planned something else entirely.
And when she played, it wouldn't be to honor Joseph Crackstone.
The mayor stepped up to the podium, tapping the microphone once before offering the crowd a practiced smile.
"Friends, neighbors, and honored guests," he began, his voice carrying easily across the square. "Today, we gather to celebrate the legacy of Jericho's founder—a man of faith, vision, and unwavering conviction."
"He was a man who believed that with a happy heart and an open ear, there was nothing our town couldn't achieve together," the mayor continued, his voice warm with rehearsed sincerity. "A man of faith. Of vision. Of conviction."
"So today," the mayor said, gesturing toward the covered statue, "as one united community—and alongside our friends at Nevermore Academy—we have come together to honor that legacy."
Principal Weems inclined her head, the picture of cooperation.
"This monument stands as a symbol of unity," the mayor went on. "Of shared values. Of a history that binds us all."
He paused, letting the moment swell.
"And now," he said solemnly, "may the spirit of Joseph Crackstone be memorialized for eternity."
The band began to play, the familiar, cheerful tune filling the town square as planned.
The mayor reached down and pressed the button.
At once, the fountain surrounding the statue activated. Water surged around the base of the monument, cascading in smooth, rhythmic arcs. The crowd responded immediately—applause, smiles, phones lifted to capture the moment.
The mayor beamed, clearly pleased.
Cameras flashed as reporters documented the scene: the flowing fountain, the covered statue, the united front of Jericho and Nevermore standing together for the unveiling.
At the back of the crowd, Ethan stifled a yawn.
The music, the applause, the speeches—it all blurred together into a single, exhausting performance. He glanced down at Thing, who waited beside him on the ground, fingers twitching with impatience.
"Thing," Ethan murmured, eyes still on the stage, "go do your thing. I can't watch this farce anymore."
Thing slipped away without hesitation, vanishing into the crowd.
Everything was already in place.
The fountain no longer held water.
During the chaos of setup, it had been quietly replaced with fuel—hidden beneath reflections and stone, disguised as part of the display. And leading away from it, nearly invisible—
A fuse.
A thin trail of black powder snaked across the ground, laid earlier with careful precision. It began well away from the crowd, then wound back toward the base of the statue.
Thing crouched at the trail's beginning. He raised the matchstick launcher and aimed.
Fsssh.
The match sparked.
The flame caught instantly and raced along the powder with a sharp, angry hiss, snaking across the ground faster than anyone could react.
A few heads turned.
"What's—"
The fire reached the fountain.
BOOM.
The fountain erupted in flame.
Fire blasted upward in a violent roar, curling around the statue as heat slammed into the square. The cheerful music died instantly, replaced by screams and the sharp crack of burning fuel.
"Fire!"
"Oh my God—run!"
"Get back—get back!"
People stumbled over one another, scrambling backward as flames surged higher, wrapping the statue completely.
The mayor yelped and bolted from the podium, abandoning his speech mid-step. Principal Weems spun around, shouting orders as she tried to corral the students.
The band scattered, instruments dropped and clanging against the pavement as heat chased them back. Smoke billowed upward, thick and choking, as the statue of Joseph Crackstone disappeared behind a wall of fire.
The lies burned loudly.
And through it all—
A cello sang.
Low. Steady. Unshaken.
Wednesday sat perfectly still, bow gliding across the strings, a faint smile tugging at her lips. The music cut through the screaming crowd and crackling flames, dark and deliberate, as if she were conducting the chaos herself.
Amid the chaos, one figure wasn't running.
Ethan stood among the retreating crowd, his eyes fixed on the statue as flames licked around its base. The heat shimmered in the air. The metal groaned softly as it warmed, its surface beginning to soften under the fire.
A smile crossed his face.
"Now it's my turn," he said quietly.
Telekinesis rippled through the bronze.
There was no explosion, no flash—just the slow, unmistakable sound of metal warping. The softened bronze twisted under an invisible force, bending where it shouldn't. Gasps rippled through the onlookers who noticed too late.
The upper portion of the statue shifted, folding in on itself. Fingers emerged from the distortion, stretching, reshaping—
Until the hand took form.
One finger rose higher than the rest.
A middle finger.
Someone in the crowd stared, stunned. "Is that…?"
Another voice followed, louder. "That's a middle finger."
"Fitting," Ethan muttered.
******
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