Click, clack, click.
The sound of the typewriter grew increasingly frantic and cold, each keystroke falling like a nail being hammered hard into a coffin lid.
Wednesday's gaze was fixed on the slightly curled paper, the lingering words "buttocks," "weird hand," "live stream" churning her stomach.
This disaster, this vulgar, idiotic, aesthetically bankrupt farce, was the last straw. No, not straw—it was the crow trapped in the teenage prison.
Nevermore Academy, the paradise full of "her kind" in her parents' eyes, was to her merely a place teeming with rainbow-colored werewolves and that... that... she refused to fully replay that bare-assed image in her mind.
It was time. The escape plan had to be launched immediately.
Her eyes swept over the itinerary Principal Larissa had delivered this morning on the desk—[Every Wednesday, 3 PM, Jericho Town, Dr. Kinbott's Psychological Counseling].
What was once a nauseating routine had now become a ticket to freedom.
The town, located on the forest's edge, had sparse foot traffic and an outdated surveillance system—a perfect surgical incision.
She had already mapped out the route: midway through the session, use "needing the restroom" as an excuse to enter the clinic's bathroom, then escape via the pipes.
Thanks to her prior study of the town's layout, she could hail a cab quickly to reach the train station. After that? After that was the wide world.
The plan was simple, efficient, and elegant.
At 2:50 PM, Wednesday walked toward the principal's car parked at the academy entrance, carrying her black suitcase (containing essentials: a change of black clothes, a cipher notebook, three throwing knives, a bag of preservatives, and her diary), as if marching to her execution.
Principal Larissa was already in the driver's seat, her tall figure and silver-gray bun immaculate. She nodded at Wednesday through the window, her expression a routine mix of concern and authority.
Wednesday opened the rear door, ready to squeeze herself into this temporary cage for one last short transport.
Then, she froze at the car door.
Because there was already someone in the back seat.
Victor Black.
He was wearing that black T-shirt printed with "My Other T-shirt Was Eaten by Venom," slouching and engaged in a heated, whispered argument with the Venom on his shoulder.
"—It's all your fault! I told you that old copper alchemist looked dry as a stick—definitely not tasty!"
Venom twisted into a large mouth, baring teeth in retort: "Bullshit! You were the one who pounced first! You said 'He smells like expired communion wafers and sin'—how is that my fault?"
"That was a metaphor! A figure of speech! Who knew you'd actually take a bite!"
"You were chomping away even more eagerly than me! And you said 'dispensing heavenly justice'! Now you're blaming me for all the counseling sessions?!"
"If you weren't always chanting 'brains brains brains, chocolate-flavored brains' in my head, would I even make that association?!"
Wednesday stood outside the car door, the afternoon sun shining on her, yet she felt as if she'd plunged into an icy abyss.
Her escape plan, her precise, dark, elegant blueprint for flight, had at its very inception violently collided with the biggest, most unpredictable, and noisiest variable.
Principal Larissa, seeing Wednesday frozen in place through the rearview mirror, explained: "This guy bit off a Priest's head last week. Dr. Kinbott recommended Victor start regular counseling too. It's on the way, so we're going together."
The principal's tone was as casual as if she were saying "Nice weather today."
On the way? Wednesday felt her fingertips grow cold.
This was like shoving a circus clown with a cheap stereo and cheap chocolate into the transport van on the way to the electric chair for a death row inmate.
Victor finally noticed Wednesday outside the car, immediately stopped the blame game with Venom, and broke into a huge, in Wednesday's view, utterly idiotic grin.
"Wednesday! Wow! You're going too? Great! We can team up! I heard Dr. Kinbott likes sandbox games—we could build a chocolate fountain—"
"—or build that Priest's head," Venom added, before being frantically muffled by Victor.
Wednesday's eyes went utterly dead.
She looked at Victor's face, plastered with "harmless idiot," and through him, saw the train from her plan speeding away into the distance, leaving her, Victor, and Venom behind in the kicked-up dust, still arguing over who was to blame for botching the escape.
Her fingers clenched the suitcase handle tightly, knuckles turning white.
The greatest distance in the world isn't between life and death, but between an elegant escape plan and the deadweight teammate you're forced to bring along.
The plan had to change. Or... eliminate this variable entirely?
Her icy gaze swept over Victor's neck, calculating the feasibility of using a throwing knife to silence him and Venom temporarily (or permanently).
"Get in, Miss Addams. We'll be late," Principal Larissa urged, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Wednesday took a deep breath; the air already seemed saturated with the virus of idiocy and the scent of chocolate that Victor brought.
With a posture bordering on tragic resolve, she bent down, slid into the car, and slammed the door shut heavily.
She sat in the corner farthest from Victor, body tense, staring straight ahead.
Her escape had transformed from a solo, elegant stealth operation into a chaotic breakout forced to carry deadweight—and two of them at that.
This was a dungeon on hell difficulty.
And Victor seemed completely oblivious to the sub-zero, penguin-freezing aura emanating beside him, still excitedly whispering to Venom: "See! I told you we're a community of fate! Even psychological counseling together!"
Venom: "Shut up, idiot. She's thinking about how to toss us into a wood chipper."
The corner of Wednesday's mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.
It was right.
The car compartment felt like a moving metal coffin, rumbling dully along the forest path to Jericho Town.
The only discordant element was the hyperactive, chattering crow stuffed inside the coffin.
Victor's mouth hadn't stopped since getting in the car.
He first tried to discuss the philosophical significance of the academy's greenbelt vegetation with Principal Larissa, only to be silently vetoed by an icy glare from her in the rearview mirror.
Undeterred by the cold shoulder, Victor immediately redirected his firepower toward Wednesday.
"Wednesday! Look at that tree outside! Doesn't it look like a hanged fat man swaying in the wind?"
"Wednesday! Do you think psychiatrists have telepathy? Could I read his mind back?"
"Wednesday! What's your favorite torture device? I bet it's the one with little gears..."
"Wednesday!..."
Wednesday sat upright, hands folded on her knees, gaze fixed straight ahead, like a cold obsidian statue.
She was emulating Principal Larissa's silent defense, trying to build an invisible wall with absolute silence to block out Victor's verbal noise.
But this wall was being relentlessly corroded by Victor's persistent, illogical nonsense.
"Speaking of which, lunch today was really thrilling, huh? Who would've thought Thing had that kind of hobby? But seriously, my butt feels kinda amazing now—like a heavy sense of being chosen by history. Don't you think..."
When Victor's topic did a sharp drift, skidding tail-first once again into that bare-assed farce, the taut string of Wednesday's nerves finally snapped with a *ping*.
In that instant, those blindingly white, jiggling, idiotic images flooded her mind uncontrollably.
Accompanied by Victor's clamorous, shameless post-mortem, shame (though she'd never admit it), irritation, and ultimate disgust toward this noise source instantly breached the dam of her rationality.
"Shut up!"
Wednesday abruptly turned, her right hand swift as lightning, carrying a fierce, murderous aura, and clamped it hard over Victor's ever-noise-producing mouth!
The world was finally quiet.
Her palm registered the warm, soft sensation of Victor's lips and his surprised exhale, carrying the lingering scent of chocolate.
And in that very instant—
Her psychic ability activated.