The ancient gates of Nevermore Academy loom ahead, wrought iron twisting like skeletal fingers against the night sky. You twist the throttle on your motorbike, accelerating reluctantly toward the entrance, watching as the gates seem to open on their own with an ominous creak. Rolling fog blankets the ground, curling around your wheels as you navigate the winding driveway that cuts through the academy grounds.
"Just deliver the pizza and get out," you mutter to yourself, your voice swallowed by the helmet and the oppressive silence of the grounds. Your headlight cuts a weak path through the mist, occasionally illuminating grotesque statues or what might be... movement... in the shadows.
You HATE delivering here. Last month, you swear something with too many legs scuttled across the path in front of you, causing you to swerve and drop the calzone order meant for the east dormitory. When you picked it up, the box felt... heavier. You delivered it anyway.
Then there was the time you got lost in the hedge maze behind the alchemy building. You'd taken a wrong turn and ended up delivering three hours late to a professor who tipped you in coins that turned to dried leaves in your pocket the next morning.
The main building rises before you, a Gothic monstrosity silhouetted against the cloudy night sky. You park your bike, the engine's sudden silence making the ambient sounds more pronounced—distant howls, the flutter of wings overhead, and was that... chanting?
You grab the pizza box, clutching it like a shield as you climb the stone steps and enter the dormitory wing. The halls are dimly lit with flickering sconces that cast more shadows than light. Room 713. Of course it would be on the thirteenth floor of a seven-story building. Somehow, that makes perfect sense here.
The elevator creaks and groans as if in pain as it carries you upward. When it finally stops, you step into a hallway that seems to stretch and contract as you walk down it. You find the door—black with a brass knocker shaped like a raven's head—and raise your hand to knock.
The sound echoes ominously. One, two, three raps.
The door swings inward, revealing a petite girl with pitch-black hair parted into two perfect braids. Her skin is so pale it's almost translucent, and her eyes are dark pools that seem to look through you rather than at you. Her face is completely devoid of expression.
"Ah, hi... did you..."
"You're three minutes late," she cuts you off, her voice flat yet somehow accusatory. She glances at an antique pocket watch in her hand.
"I'm really sorry about that," you stammer, "there were these wolves chasing my bike through the cemetery shortcut, and I had to—"
She cuts you off again. "Interesting. The cemetery has been trying to collect new residents lately. You should feel honored." She gestures to the pizza box. "Is that still hot?"
You nod quickly, extending the box. "Yes, one large mushroom and nightshade, extra crispy, just as ordered."
Wednesday takes the box, opening it slightly to inspect the contents. A smell wafts out that's both appetizing and vaguely... medicinal? She seems satisfied and closes it.
"That will be $19.86," you say, your voice cracking slightly.
She sets the pizza down on an ornate table beside the door. The table appears to be made of human bones lacquered together, and you try not to stare at what looks suspiciously like a child's skull forming part of the base.
"I unfortunately don't have cash for a tip," Wednesday says, her expression unchanged, "but my roommate says this should suffice."
Without warning, she opens her black shirt, baring her beautiful breasts.
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The room suddenly feels airless. Your pizza delivery cap slips from your head and tumbles to the floor.
"I—you—what—" you stammer incoherently, your brain short-circuiting.
"Well, are you going to feel them or not?" she interrupts, her voice as emotionless as if she were asking about the weather. "I have a cadaver dissection at nine, and rigor mortis waits for no one."
With a shaking hand, you reach forward. Your fingertips are inches from her skin when a vision flashes before your eyes—her standing over you, your neck positioned in an antique wooden guillotine, her hand on the release lever, those same dead eyes watching dispassionately as the blade whistles downward.
You jerk your hand back as if burned.
A microscopic change crosses her features—the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth, not quite a smile, but something adjacent to amusement.
"Interesting," she says, buttoning up. "Most delivery boys don't have the survival instinct to resist. The last three are feeding my carnivorous plants."
She looks at you with perhaps the slightest hint of grudging respect.
"Fear makes for a poor aphrodisiac, but an excellent preservative," she adds, reaching into her pocket and producing a single black coin, which she places in your palm.
"For your troubles," she says. "It's a Serbian death token. It wards off specters, but attracts banshees. Use it wisely."
As you navigate back through the academy grounds, the fog thicker now, wrapping around your bike like hungry tendrils, you're torn between two equally powerful urges—to beg Dina never to send you to Room 713 again, or to slip her an extra $20 to ensure you get it every time.
The vision of those breasts comes back to you.
Definitely the extra $20…
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