Victor held Wednesday's hand as they walked through the last stretch of forest shadows, stepping back into the warm halo of light at the edge of the Harvest Festival square.
The noise of the crowd and the sweet aroma of food instantly wrapped around them, creating an absurd disconnect from the deadly silence and bloodshed in the forest behind them.
Enid Sinclair was pacing anxiously in place, her short blonde hair looking fuzzy under the streetlights.
The moment she saw their figures, she rushed over, worry written all over her face.
"Wednesday! Victor! Are you guys okay? Victor suddenly said you were in danger, and then he..." Her gaze darted rapidly between Victor and Wednesday, and her words halted abruptly.
She saw Wednesday quickly, almost subconsciously, shake off Victor's hand.
She also saw the lingering, unusually vivid flush on Victor's face, and Wednesday's slightly faster-than-usual breathing (purely due to the physical exertion of the waltz).
An inexplicable, strange sense of déjà vu hit her. A vague, uncomfortable feeling rose in her chest—stifling, yet impossible to pinpoint.
"Are you guys... alright?" she ended up repeating, her eyes full of pure confusion and concern.
Victor laughed heartily and draped his arm naturally over Enid's shoulder, pulling her into a buddy-buddy half-hug as he guided her back toward the lively festival crowd.
"We're fine, we're fine!" His tone was as relaxed as if discussing the weather.
"It was just that guy Rowan. Brain wasn't quite right. Wanted to off Wednesday because of some dusty old prophecy drawing. But, bad luck for him, he ran into the real deal and got snip-snip by some monster that popped out of nowhere."
He made a tearing motion with his free hand.
"Venom thought the monster smelled pretty good and wanted a snack, but the other guy had no manners and brought a flashbang. Almost sent us packing too."
He shrugged, as if recounting a trivial, everyday mishap. "Forget about that. The festival isn't over yet! I think I saw a chocolate fountain over there!"
His monologue contained too much information and was delivered too fast. Enid's brain couldn't process it all at once, so she let herself be led away in a daze, her attention subconsciously drawn to "chocolate fountain."
It wasn't until Victor shoved an ice cream cone—drenched in thick chocolate sauce and sprinkles—into her hand that she instinctively took a big bite.
The cold sensation and sugary explosion detonated in her mouth. This intense sensory stimulation seemed to reboot her brain instantly.
She jerked her head up, eyes wide and round, sucking in a cold breath that nearly made her choke on the ice cream.
"Wait!" She finally grasped the key point, her voice pitching up into an incredulous soprano.
"You... you mean... in the forest! Right now! There is a... corpse?! Rowan's corpse?!"
Wednesday stood to the side with her arms crossed, watching coldly. Only now did she speak, her sharp tongue delivering a precise follow-up strike:
"Astounding reaction speed. It seems sugar does indeed activate certain dormant neurons."
Enid had no time for Wednesday's sarcasm. She grabbed Victor's arm, her nails unconsciously extending slightly and piercing his jacket fabric.
"Oh my god! Someone died! We have to call the police! No! We have to tell the Principal first! Are... are you guys okay? Are you hurt? Where is the monster?!"
She was incoherent with panic, her eyes scanning both of them, looking for injuries.
"Relax, relax, Enid." Victor patted her back and casually added another spoonful of chocolate sauce to her ice cream.
"We ran into Bianca on the way; she's going to tell Principal Auntie. As for the monster? It ran away. But don't worry," he grinned, revealing sharp canines, a flash of eager light in his eyes. "It won't run for long."
Enid looked at his completely unbothered demeanor, then at Wednesday, who looked indifferent as if she had just taken a stroll. Suddenly, a deep sense of helplessness washed over her.
Did these two... have a slightly different understanding of "death" than she did?
"But... but..." She wanted to say more, but Victor cut her off.
"No buts!" Victor suddenly bent down, leaned close to the ice cream in her hand, and inhaled deeply, wearing an expression of intoxication.
"Whoa, is this Venezuelan dark chocolate? Rich layers of aroma, slightly fruity acidity, long aftertaste... Good taste! Eat it quick! It won't be good if it melts!"
Venom also poked a small head out of his collar, staring at the ice cream with longing in his big white eyes. "Share a bite? Just one bite? I can hold the cone for you with a tentacle!"
Enid looked at the human and symbiote duo eagerly awaiting her review of the ice cream and completely lost her temper.
She looked down at the melting, sinful, sweet chocolate ice cream in her hand, then thought about the cold, broken corpse in the forest.
Finally, silently and fiercely, she took another big bite of the ice cream.
Forget it. Even if the sky falls, finish the ice cream first.
At least right now, all three of them were standing here unharmed—even if two of them were probably psychologically beyond saving.
She sighed, feeling the faint comfort of melting chocolate on her tongue, and decided to push the blood and monsters to the back of her mind for now.
After all, as Victor said, the festival wasn't over yet.
What she didn't notice was that while she looked down to eat, Victor and Wednesday exchanged a brief, meaningful glance.
There was no relaxation in that look. Only cold sharpness and the excitement before a hunt.
The game had only just begun.
---
The next morning.
The dorm room smelled of fresh pine, a peculiar mix with the usual sweet scent of chocolate and the faint, lingering metallic smell of blood.
Victor was uncharacteristically quiet, sitting on the edge of his "Toilet Kingdom" territory, head bowed, focused.
He held a small, sharp carving knife, carefully working on a piece of boxwood.
Wood shavings fell like fine snow, gradually revealing the lifelike, sharp-scaled outline of a crocodile's head.
Wednesday sat on her bed, but her gaze frequently drifted to the carving in Victor's hands and his astonishingly steady fingers.
It was hard to imagine that this guy, who usually acted like he had ADHD and was loud enough to blow the roof off, had such a quiet, peaceful side requiring extreme patience—and his skill was quite remarkable.
"What? Rowan is still alive?" Victor didn't look up, his tone as flat as if discussing wood grain.
"How interesting. Last night we danced a fabulous waltz over his dismembered, steaming body."
He blew away some wood dust from the details of the carving.
"Correct," Wednesday's voice was icy.
"The police found nothing in the forest. Then, this morning, he appeared at the Principal's office to apply for withdrawal. He even smiled and waved at me. Rosy complexion, normal behavior."
Her fingertips tapped lightly on the bed frame. "Everyone thinks I am crazy, or using the clumsiest lie to cover up a failed escape attempt."
"Whoa."
Victor finally looked up. Those eyes, usually flickering with manic light, were clear and deep now. He tilted his head and smiled.
"Maybe we just partied too hard and had a collective... hallucination?"
The look Wednesday shot back was a blade dipped in ice.
"Oh, fine. You really have no sense of humor." Victor shrugged and lowered his head again, the knife tip precisely outlining the crocodile's cold pupil. "Excluding the low probability event of our collective insanity, there remain only two possibilities."
His tone became calm and logical, complementing his precise carving movements.
"One: The Rowan who was torn apart by the monster in the woods last night—and tried to kill you first—was a fake. The one bouncing around this morning is the genuine article."
"Two: The Rowan last night did indeed die, deader than a doornail. The Rowan this morning who can talk, laugh, and wave... is a fake."
The carving knife paused.
"Our academy has quite a few shapeshifters," Victor pointed out lightly. "It's not hard to create a passable fake. By the way, my dear Principal Auntie—Ms. Larissa Weems—is a top-tier shapeshifter. She can even perfectly replicate clothing."
He raised his eyes, looking sharply at Wednesday.
"And to prevent damage to the Academy's reputation and avoid a scandalous headline like 'Student brutally murdered in forest,' she very likely took matters into her own hands, or assigned another shapeshifter to take Rowan's form and bury this incident completely."
"Since this 'Rowan' has applied for withdrawal, that's perfect. Now, whether dead or alive, he disappears from our view."
He put down the knife and the nearly finished, dangerously lifelike wooden crocodile head. He brushed the wood shavings from his hands, wearing a smile that mixed smugness with inquiry.
"So, Miss De la Muerte? Is my deduction as 'Watson'... satisfactory?"