Chapter Text
Wednesday
Enid was pacing again.
Back and forth, back and forth—like a canary in a too-small cage, wings clipped, heart fluttering itself toward collapse. The boards beneath her feet had begun to creak with wear, grooves etched by anxious repetition. It was noise. Motion. Disorder.
Wednesday sat in perfect stillness, the black ink of her journal drying like blood on a blade. She didn’t need to move. She didn’t need to speak. Tonight was already planned, calculated, inevitable. And inevitability was stronger than Enid’s nerves.
And underneath that stillness, the itch crawled under her skin all the way to the bone. A constant, gnawing presence that no amount of routine could quiet. Tonight, she would finally scratch it.
“I just don’t think you should go alone,” Enid said, voice soft but firm, hands fluttering like anxious birds. “What if something goes wrong? What if he’s not there? What if—”
“Nothing will go wrong.” Wednesday shut the book with a snap. The sound cracked through the apartment like a coffin lid closing.
Her tone was calm, clipped, final. She didn’t need to raise her voice to make it true.
“And, you faint at the sight of blood.”
Enid huffed, arms crossed, eyes bright with frustrated worry.
“It’s all accounted for,” Wednesday continued, sliding her fountain pen into its place. “Every step. Every possible outcome. I planned this evening down to the minute. He’ll be there. He’ll be alone. And by sunrise, he’ll be gone.”
One less predator out there to stalk his unsuspecting prey. One more offering to the itch clawing inside her ribs.
It wasn’t reassurance in the way Enid wanted—no warmth, no softness—but it was the truth, and that was the only comfort Wednesday knew how to give.
Enid groaned and threw herself dramatically onto the couch, glitter-pink phone clutched to her chest like a lifeline. “You’re impossible.”
“Correct,” Wednesday said, pulling on her coat. “And on a schedule.”
Enid blew out a heavy breath ruffling the pink and blue tinted fringe around her face.
“Ajax is coming over later?” Wednesday can’t help but ask before she slides out the door.
The moon isn’t Full—but it’s close, and the days leading up to, and just after it often left her roommate extra…edgy.
She would prefer they fuck while she’s not home not just so she doesn’t have to put on her noise cancelling headphones and blast Italian Opera to drowned them out while she’s writing—but also because it works off some of the anxious werewolves energy.
They don’t need an instance like last month. Replacing furniture that got accidentally clawed apart wasn’t a hardship—but it was an annoyance. One that Wednesday would prefer to avoid. Especially when finding a sofa that met both of their requirements—Enids need to be Extra in Every Way and Wednesdays avoidance of color meant hours of shopping.
Wednesday would rather stick needles in her eyes than endure that experience more than once a year.
“Yes,” Enid sits up watching her from under heavily sparkled lashes. “Just…Be careful Wen, I’ve got a bad feeling about tonight.”
Wednesday barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She hates that nickname but tolerates it. One of many inconveniences she's learned to accommodate over the years.
Her least favorite if she were making a list: Enid’s constant simpering worry like Wednesday is anything but methodical, prepared and perfectly capable of delivering pain.
—But she’s learned that appeasing her best friend’s worries is a far superior route to a peaceful existence than scoffing at them.
Still, she can’t drop all pretenses. She certainly wouldn't want to encourage this behavior to continue. She allows the scowl to tighten her lips. “I thought I was the one with visions, have we switched now?”
Enid growled—but it’s not a predator’s sound, it’s sheer exasperation with her impossible roommate and 100% human.
“Your premonition is noted,” Wednesday said, tugging her coat tighter. “I’ll be certain to haunt you personally if you’re proven correct.”
“Not. Funny. Wen.” And that drew her attention—not the words, but the tone.
Worry was Enid’s default state when it came to Wednesday's darker extra curricular activities. But something about the edge in her voice tonight is sharper, weighted with more than casual concern.
Wednesday didn’t sigh—she refused to give Enid that satisfaction—but she did pause long enough to meet her eyes.
“I’ll be careful,” she said, crisp as broken glass. It wasn’t the reassurance Enid wanted, but it was all she would ever give. The door clicked shut behind her before there’s a response.
Just as well, she was merely delaying the inevitable, and Wednesday prefers to be prompt when introducing well deserving individuals to the cold embrace of death.
By the time she reached the end of the block, the noise of Enid’s pacing had faded. The night air was quiet, without wind or rain to hinder her movements. Still as death. Exactly as she preferred it.
The city’s underbelly was waiting, and she intended to carve her way through it. The streets peeled away around her like the ribs of a carcass, guiding her toward tonight’s hunt.
Every step had been charted, every variable anticipated. She'd studied every victim, every crime scene, and for tonight's endeavor even stalked the man for several weeks to locate the optimal time to strike her blow. The predator thought himself safe in the dark.
He’d soon find out that he was wrong.
She took great pleasure in the knowledge that it was one of the very last thoughts he would ever have before exiting the mortal coil.
________________
Three hours later the gloves went into the fire as planned, curling to ash with the last of her patience.
The itch didn’t burn up with them. If anything, it sharpened—claws raking her ribs, leaving her restless, raw. Tonight, blood hadn’t satisfied it. Justice hadn’t quieted it.
Something else was missing.
She pulled on another pair without hesitation. It was rare for her to go without them these days, at least while hunting.
The risk of touching the wrong imprinted object—of leaving herself vulnerable, without control in a way she hadn’t been in years was too great. Not to mention the possibility of leaving behind a trace of DNA or fingerprint. The thought of being captured for something so unimaginative was unacceptable.
Only the morally replete justice system could get so bent out of shape over a little assistance cleaning up the worst society had to offer. They should be sending her plaques and accommodations for her contributions, not wringing their hands and wasting time trying to stop them.
Not that she was interested in such trivial things, though a key to the city would certainly be useful. She'd happily take diplomatic immunity as well, for the same reason.
Tonight should have ended here—The hunt was finished, the body disposed of, but her pulse still ran hot…The itch scraped harder, like sandpaper on raw skin.
If anything as the night wore on it has only gotten worse. It was like her very skin was too tight, pinched and ill suited to fit over her own bones.
She had taken one name off her list, and yet the hunger hadn’t quieted. She frowned considering.
Perhaps it was no longer enough?
Her methodical game of cat and mouse, even if the other party didn’t know they were playing. It used to be thrilling, calming, vindicating—lately it just felt empty.
Something was missing. But no vision, meditation or research could identify what. It certainly wasn't something she was open to discuss.
Relief and answers both eluded her. A combination she found increasingly frustrating.
She refused to examine the impulse too closely. She was not unraveling. She was efficient. Opportunistic justice was not disorder.
Despite the limited observations of those around her Wednesday was not without emotion. She felt things just like anyone else; she was after all human. She just preferred to maintain the cool stillness of an unrippled body of water.
Deep, dark and capable of reflecting to the world the perfect image so that no one could possibly guess at what lay underneath…but lately, that dark stillness had felt more like a bottomless pit.
An absence of anything new, or thrilling—there was little challenge, almost nothing to pique her interest and time seemed to be blending her days together without notable accomplishments or merit.
Mediocrity was the true death. A slow suffocation.
And boredom was more dangerous than rage. Rage burned out. Boredom hollowed you until only risk could fill the gap.
She needed…what? She refused to look too closely. But the nausea of directionless drifting curdled low in her stomach.
Either way, the night wasn’t over.
There was only one place left to go. The one place that could drown the noise without another corpse.
She turned her steps toward the club, grateful for the mask tucked beneath her coat.
A descent. A dare.
And maybe—if she was lucky—something waiting in the dark that would finally scratch the itch bloody.