But I kinda like that

 ˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

𝕋ℍ𝔼 next day, Principal Weems drove Wednesday into the quaint town of Jericho, the car gliding smoothly along the quiet streets. The morning sun cast long shadows over the cobblestone sidewalks, giving the town an almost picturesque charm—one that Wednesday found utterly nauseating.

The vehicle slowed to a stop in front of a three-story white building, its clean façade standing in stark contrast to the foreboding atmosphere Wednesday usually preferred. "This is it." Principal Weems shifted into park, glancing at Wednesday. "Dr. Kinbott's office is on the second floor. Other Nevermore students swear by her." She offered a polite smile, the kind designed to be reassuring. Wednesday, however, remained unimpressed. He turned, his dark eyes scanning Weems with suspicion. "You'll be here until I'm done?"

Weems nodded. "Perhaps afterward, we can visit the Weathervane for hot chocolate." Her voice carried a hopeful lilt, as if the mere suggestion of a warm beverage could bridge the vast chasm between them.

Wednesday stared at her for a beat, then deadpanned, "Principal Weems, this feeble attempt at bonding is beneath you."

Without waiting for a response, he pushed the car door open and stepped out, his black boots hitting the pavement with deliberate finality. Before closing the door, he turned back, his gaze sharp.

"And chauffeuring your students around is below your pay grade."

He moved to slam the door, but Weems' voice cut through the moment.

"Given your history, I'm sure you're intent on running away." Her tone was even, but the knowing glint in her eyes betrayed her amusement. "I'm here to prevent that from happening."

She smiled, calm and unwavering.

Wednesday narrowed his eyes slightly before tilting his head. "I wish you luck." With that, he slammed the door shut and strode toward the building, his long black coat billowing behind him. Inside, Dr. Kinbott's office was decorated with a warm, inviting touch—muted pastel walls, an array of plants carefully placed around the room, and an assortment of plush furniture meant to put patients at ease.

The effect was entirely lost on Wednesday.

Dr. Kinbott, a woman with carefully styled blonde hair, stood near the entrance, dressed in a light blue blouse adorned with a delicate necklace. She greeted Wednesday with an overly cheerful smile, as if she were welcoming an old friend.

"I read the notes from your school counsellor," she began, leading Wednesday into the office with a practiced air of professionalism.

"Mrs. Bronstein," Wednesday corrected, tone devoid of emotion. "She had a nervous breakdown after our last session and had to take a six-month sabbatical." He strolled further into the office, casting a glance at the carefully arranged décor. A small lounge area sat in the center of the room, complete with a cozy couch and an armchair facing each other.

Dr. Kinbott gestured to the seating area. "Take a seat."

Wednesday remained standing for a moment before finally lowering himself onto the couch with calculated indifference.

Dr. Kinbott sat across from her, folding her hands in her lap. "How did you feel about that?"

Wednesday met her gaze with an impassive stare. "Vindicated."

A brief silence stretched between them before Wednesday added, "But someone who crochets for a hobby isn't a worthy adversary." Dr. Kinbott merely smiled, unshaken. "Adversary? I hope we can forge a relationship based on trust and mutual respect."

Wednesday scoffed, the sound dry and humourless.

Undeterred, Dr. Kinbott continued, her voice taking on a soft, reassuring tone. "This is a safe space, Wednesday. A sanctuary where we can discuss anything. What you're thinking, feeling, your views on the world, personal philosophy—"

"That's easy," Wednesday interrupted, his tone clipped and precise. "I think that this is a waste of time. I see the world as a place that must be endured, and my personal philosophy is 'kill or be killed.'" Dr. Kinbott tilted her head slightly, as if carefully analysing the words. Then, she simply smiled again.

Wednesday resisted the urge to roll his eyes. This woman was going to be insufferable.

Dr. Kinbott leaned forward slightly, her hands folded neatly in her lap as she regarded Wednesday with a measured look. "So, for instance, when someone bullies your brother, your response is to dump piranhas into the school swimming pool." Her tone was firm but not accusatory, simply stating the fact. Wednesday met her gaze, expression unreadable. He recalled the event fondly, the chaos, the screaming, the satisfying sense of justice. The memory curled in the back of his mind like a pleasant scent—though, as always, he kept his face void of any reaction.

"You know the old saying," he replied smoothly, "never bring a knife to a sword fight." He tilted his head slightly. "Unless it's concealed."

Dr. Kinbott exhaled, clearly unimpressed. "Point is, you assaulted a boy and showed no remorse for your actions. That's why you're here."

Wednesday didn't hesitate. "He lost a testicle. I did the world a favor. People like Dalton shouldn't procreate."

Dr. Kinbott opened her mouth, but before she could reply, Wednesday stood, clearly done with the conversation. "I've answered all your questions." He turned to leave, but before he could take a step, her voice cut through the air. "We're not done yet." He slowly turned his head, levelling her with an unimpressed stare.

She smiled patiently, gesturing for him to sit.

Wednesday let out a slow, annoyed exhale before lowering himself back into the chair.

"Therapy is a valuable tool," Dr. Kinbott continued, undeterred by his attitude. "It can help you understand yourself, teach you new ways to deal with your emotions. It can also help you build the life you want." Wednesday narrowed his eyes slightly, watching her closely. Then, with an air of finality, he said, "I know the life I want." His gaze flickered away from her momentarily, landing on a filing cabinet against the wall. His eyes scanned the neatly stacked folders, lingering for a second too long on a name—just before Dr. Kinbott's voice pulled him back.

"Tell me about it," she said, smiling again. "Everything said in these sessions is strictly confidential."

Wednesday turned his attention back to her, his expression unreadable as she leaned in slightly.

"Do your plans involve becoming an author?" she asked. "I understand you've written three novels about a teen detective, Viper De La Muerte. Can you tell me about him?" Wednesday sighed, looking off to the side for a brief moment before relenting. "Viper is smart, perceptive, chronically misunderstood." Dr. Kinbott straightened in her chair. "Any luck getting your work published?"

A short silence settled between them before Wednesday finally responded, "Editors are short-sighted, fear-based lifeforms." His voice was flat, but there was a spark of something behind his dark eyes. "One once described my writing as 'gratuitously morbid' and suggested I seek psychiatric help." He tilted his head slightly, his lips barely twitching upward. "Ironic, isn't it?"

Dr. Kinbott shook her head slightly, her expression remaining neutral. "How did you take that?"

The faintest smirk ghosted over Wednesday's face. "I sent her a thank-you gift."

A memory flickered in his mind—the carefully wrapped box, the rat traps hidden beneath the tissue paper, the spiders that scuttled out the moment she lifted the lid. He could still hear the distant echoes of her horrified scream as the trap snapped onto her fingers, her panic as the spiders crawled up her arm.

"I've always been open to constructive criticism," he added, his voice as even as ever.

Dr. Kinbott didn't react to his words as much as he'd hoped. Instead, she shifted slightly in her seat and said, "I'm glad to hear that. Because I was sent the manuscripts as part of your psych evaluation." Wednesday's brows knitted together slightly, caught off guard by the revelation. "The relationship I found most intriguing," Dr. Kinbott continued, "was that of Viper and his mother, Dominica. Why don't we dig into that?"

For the first time since the session began, Wednesday felt something shift inside him. A tension tightened in his chest, though he forced his expression to remain unreadable.

His mouth opened slightly as if to respond, but no words came.

Dr. Kinbott took his silence as hesitation and gently prodded, "Wednesday, part of this journey requires us going to uncomfortable places emotionally."

His jaw tensed. "I don't travel well."

Dr. Kinbott studied him carefully, but before she could say anything else, Wednesday spoke again.

"Would you mind if I use the powder room first?"

She hesitated, then gestured toward the bathroom door.

Wednesday rose, moving with his usual composed precision as he stepped inside and quietly locked the door behind him. The second he was alone, his sharp eyes scanned the room. He shifted his bag over his shoulder—only to accidentally knock over a small candle on the counter. It clattered loudly against the porcelain sink. Dr. Kinbott's voice rang through the door. "Wednesday? Is everything okay?"

There was a pause before she added, "You can't hide in there for the rest of the session."

Wednesday remained calm, reaching into his bag. "I'm alright," he called back smoothly. "Just preparing myself for our uncomfortable journey."

He tapped his bag once, and a small hand emerged from within.

Thing held up a nail file.

Wednesday plucked it from him and immediately set to work on the window latch, sliding the file into the gap and clicking it open with practiced ease.

With a final glance toward the door, he pushed the window up, slipped outside, and perched on the narrow ledge. From here, he could see the street below—pedestrians milling about, the sound of cars rumbling down the road. He quickly and efficiently slid down the drainpipe, landing silently on his feet in the alley below.

Just ahead, Principal Weems sat in her car, distracted, talking on her phone.

Wednesday adjusted his bag and moved swiftly, keeping his head low. As he walked, he bumped into a man—an older farmer, arms full of apples. The sudden collision sent the farmer's hat slipping back, revealing his weathered face.

The moment their bodies made contact, Wednesday's head snapped back as a vision surged through his mind.

He saw the farmer behind the wheel of his truck, one hand on the wheel, the other holding a phone. His distracted gaze flickered downward—just as a massive eighteen-wheeler barrelled toward him. The blaring horn came too late. The impact was violent. The windshield shattered. The steering wheel twisted. And then—nothing.

The vision cut off abruptly.

Wednesday's breath hitched as he snapped back to the present.

The farmer, oblivious, bent down to retrieve the apples that had fallen. He looked up at Wednesday with a scowl. "Who let you out, you goddamn weirdo?" Wednesday stared at him for a long moment, his expression cold and unreadable. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away.

The warm scent of coffee and freshly baked pastries filled the air inside Weathervane, a cozy café and bakery nestled in the heart of Jericho. The hum of conversation mixed with the occasional clatter of dishes, but near the counter, the usual rhythm of the café was interrupted by a sharp hiss and a sudden puff of smoke.

"Damn it!" The barista at the counter flinched, taking a step back as the espresso machine sputtered violently.

Lilith, standing beside him, wiped her hands on a napkin before bending over the machine, attempting to diagnose the issue. "Okay, don't panic—"

A sudden burst of steam erupted, causing both her and the barista to jump back with startled yelps. As the smoke cleared, a figure emerged from the mist-like haze.

Wednesday stood directly in front of them, his dark eyes watching them with unreadable amusement.

"Holy crap!" Lilith exclaimed, placing a hand over her heart as if to calm the rapid thumping in her chest. She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "Nearly gave me a heart attack."

The barista, still catching his breath, groaned. "Do you make a habit of scaring the hell out of people?"

Wednesday's lips twitched in the barest hint of a smirk. "It's more of a hobby."

Lilith glanced at him, still trying to settle her pulse. "That's an interesting hobby." Her voice was slightly softer now, more curious than alarmed. As Wednesday looked at her, his keen gaze took in the dark shadows under her eyes, the pallor of her skin. She looked exhausted, like sleep had been eluding her for days. A strange sensation settled in his chest—one he chose to ignore for now. His attention was pulled away when the barista spoke again. "You go to Nevermore. Didn't realize they changed the uniform."

Lilith ran a hand through her hair, exhaling as she leaned a bit against the counter. "They didn't."

Wednesday turned to her. "You work here?"

Lilith shook her head, offering a small smile. "No, I just came here after my session with Dr. Kinbott and stopped by the bookstore across the street. I also came to see my friend." She patted the barista's back, and he grinned in response.

Wednesday hummed, then turned back to the barista. "I need a quad over ice. It's an emergency."

The barista and Lilith both stared at him.

"It's four shots of espresso," Wednesday clarified.

"Yeah, I... I know what a quad is, but, I mean, spoiler alert—the espresso machine's having a seizure, so all we have is drip," the barista explained. Wednesday's expression remained unimpressed. "Drip is for people who hate themselves and know their lives have no real purpose or meaning." A man at a nearby table, mid-sip of his coffee, awkwardly placed his cup down and shuffled away.

"What's wrong with your machine?" Wednesday asked, eyeing the malfunctioning equipment.

Lilith sighed, rolling her shoulders as if weary from the ordeal. "It's a temperamental beast with a mind of its own, and it doesn't help that the instructions are in Italian." Without hesitation, Wednesday plucked the instruction manual from her grasp, their fingers brushing momentarily. The contact was fleeting, but enough for Lilith to blink up at him as he began flipping through the pages.

"I need a tri-wing screwdriver and a four-millimetre Allen wrench," Wednesday announced after a moment.

Lilith, still watching him with a slightly impressed look, barely noticed the barista's voice next to her.

"Wait, you read Italian?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Wednesday barely spared him a glance before shifting his gaze back to Lilith, who was watching him with curiosity in her tired eyes.

"Of course. It's the native tongue of Machiavelli."

Lilith smirked slightly before stepping back. "Well, it seems you two have this covered. I'll be at my booth."

She walked away, and Wednesday's gaze instinctively followed her as she settled into a corner booth, pulling out a notebook and beginning to sketch something. There was a faint crease of worry in his brow as he observed her for a moment longer before turning back to the machine.

"Here's the deal," he stated, addressing the barista. "I'm going to fix your coffee machine, then you're going to make me a coffee and Lilith some tea. Then call me a taxi."

The barista gave him a blank look. "Uh, no taxis in Jericho. Try Uber?"

He handed Wednesday the screwdriver. As he began working, Wednesday replied flatly, "I don't have a phone. I refuse to be a slave to technology."

The barista huffed. "Then you're out of luck. Where are you going, anyway?"

Wednesday kept his focus on the machine. "That's on a need-to-know basis. What about trains?"

"Nearest station's in Burlington. It's half an hour away."

Wednesday barely reacted, his sharp mind already making calculations. "You have a valve issue. I've seen it before." He adjusted the mechanism with precise movements, all while his thoughts lingered on Lilith in the corner, her head bent over her notebook, her exhaustion evident.

Something about it unsettled him, though he wasn't quite sure why.

 ˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

By: SilverMist707

Remember you all are amazing <3