"So, Thing," Ethan said, still rubbing the side of his head, "do you have anything to say? Something along the lines of 'it's not good to spy on people'?"
Thing froze for a beat.
Then slowly, deliberately…
He curled his fingers into a very pointed "are you serious right now?" gesture.
Ethan squinted. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Thing snapped his fingers twice, wagged them accusingly, and mimed looking around corners, peeking through bushes, and doing an exaggerated tiptoe.
Ethan blinked.
"…Are you accusing me of spying?"
Thing nodded so hard his whole palm bounced.
"When?" Ethan demanded.
Thing tapped two fingers together. Two days ago.
"Oh, come on." Ethan waved a dismissive hand. "That wasn't spying. That was… situational awareness."
Thing tilted his hand flat, wobbling it in a "not even close" motion.
Ethan frowned. "You're really committed to this slander, huh?"
Thing planted himself on the fallen tree and crossed his fingers like arms, unimpressed.
Ethan exhaled through his nose. "If you're here to report back to Wednesday, just go ahead. I'm not exactly plotting world domination."
Thing hesitated, pointed at Ethan, then at the crater where the uprooted tree had been, and mimed a tiny explosion.
Ethan blinked. "What, you wanna say I'm not single-handedly causing deforestation?" he said, deadpan.
Thing slapped his palm against the bark—his version of a world-weary sigh—then pointed at Ethan again. Then at Ethan's temple. Then gave a slow, wobbly wiggle.
"…You're asking if I'm fine?" Ethan guessed.
A firm, quick nod.
Ethan snorted. "Physically? Yeah. Mentally? Debatable. But I'm walking, talking, not frothing at the mouth, so we'll call it 'fine.'"
Thing didn't buy it. Then made a wavy gesture that all but spelled out That wasn't normal.
"Thanks for worrying," Ethan said, stretching his arms overhead. "But I'm fine. Really."
Thing wiggled his fingers in a doubtful are you sure?
"And hey," Ethan added, far too casually, "if you're ever free, we could hang out. I know a great beauty parlour. Manicures, treatments—the works."
Thing paused.
Actually paused.
He glanced at his own fingers… flexed them… inspected the nails with the tiniest hint of vanity.
Ethan caught it instantly. "Oh? Tempting, isn't it?"
Thing jolted like someone snapped him back to reality, shook himself, and wagged his fingers in a stern no, no, no.
"What? You don't think you'd look great with a little polish?" Ethan pressed. "Nice shine… some cuticle work…"
Thing tapped the bark twice, pointed at himself, then made a gesture like locking a vault—
He wanted to, but he refused.
"So you are tempted," Ethan concluded.
Thing slapped down a hand in a sharp Absolutely not. Not happening.
But his fingers still twitched—barely, but enough.
Ethan raised a brow. "You sure? I'm just saying… you'd pull off a glossy finish."
Thing curled his fingers protectively, then signed, firm and indignant:
I can't be bought.
Ethan smirked. "Didn't say I was buying you. But you looked interested."
He stretched, dusted off his hands, and added with a shrug, "Anyway—go say all that to Wednesday."
***
Wednesday combed through the library's history section, fingers gliding across cracked spines and dusty covers. She wasn't browsing—she was hunting. The drawing's watermark had to come from somewhere, and books never lied the way people did.
"Looking for something special?"
Marilyn Thornhill's cheerful voice floated over from behind a shelf.
Wednesday did not bother hiding her irritation. "Privacy."
Marilyn stepped closer anyway, peering curiously at the folded page in Wednesday's hand. "Oh! That symbol." She tapped the faint watermark with far too much enthusiasm. "That's from the Nightshade Society."
Wednesday stared at her, unimpressed. "Fascinating."
Marilyn smiled, oblivious. "If you're digging into school history, be careful. Some things are… better left untouched."
Wednesday walked away before the woman could infect her with another sunny monologue.
She glanced at the symbol—at least now she knew what it was—when suddenly a vision snapped into her skull like a mousetrap.
Flashes.
Rowan standing beneath the balcony.
The gargoyle shuddering—then falling.
Xavier shouting at him afterward, anger sharp and messy.
Rowan tearing a page from an old book—the very drawing she held—before running out of the library.
The vision broke. Wednesday steadied herself against the shelf, breathing out slowly.
She returned to Ophelia Hall with a new target in mind. If the book he stole from was still in his room, she would find it. Answers did not hide from her—they only prolonged the inevitable.
When she opened her door, Thing scuttled onto the desk and began tapping urgently.
"You found him." Wednesday folded her arms.
"Explain."
Thing launched into a frantic series of gestures—Ethan in the woods, Ethan losing control, Ethan smashing a tree as if it were made of cardboard, Ethan momentarily looking like something that did not belong on school grounds.
For a moment, he didn't look human. Not even close.
Wednesday listened in absolute silence.
When he finished, she asked, "Anything else?"
Thing hesitated, then mimed pointing at Ethan, then himself, then shrugged. Then he acted out Ethan waving dismissively, as if being spied on meant nothing. And finally Thing mimed Ethan pointing toward Wednesday—as if he wanted her to hear all of this.
Wednesday's expression tightened, the kind of thoughtful frown she usually reserved for murder scenes and poorly tuned cellos.
"I see."
She sat down on her bed.
"The mystery around Ethan Corvin grows more convoluted by the hour. A self-proclaimed vampire with impossible strength. A monster attack he predicted. And now… sudden loss of control witnessed by a severed hand."
Her gaze sharpened.
"Layers on layers. Like a Russian nesting doll filled with red flags."
Thing tapped in agreement.
"But mysteries," Wednesday said calmly, "are finite. They all have answers. And I fully intend to dissect every last one of his."
*****
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