Wednesday yanked her hand back as if scalded by a red-hot branding iron! She panted heavily, her forehead covered in cold sweat, her dark pupils contracting violently in shock.
The stuffy air of the car enveloped her again, the hum of the engine and the sound of wind outside the window flooding back into her ears.
She finally understood.
That hyperactivity, that chattiness, that endless madness and clamor... it wasn't his nature.
It was an alarm that could never be switched off after crawling out of hell.
It was a bone-deep fear of absolute silence and cold.
It was using endless noise to fight against the memory of silent screams and stitched lips.
It was confirming he was still alive, could still make a sound, could still exist wantonly, noisily.
So... beneath that madness was a soul long since crushed and haphazardly pieced back together.
Vic was baffled by her sudden attack and even more sudden retreat. He blinked, instinctively licking his lips which had just been covered: "Uh... Wednesday? Are you okay? Your hand is so cold..."
Venom slowly poked half its head out from his shoulder. Those huge white eyes, for the first time, were not goofy or greedy, but simply looked deeply, complexly at Wednesday.
Its voice seemed to sound directly in her mind, low and calm, devoid of its usual mockery:
"Did you see?"
"Our birth."
A deathly silence fell inside the car, leaving only the roar of the engine.
Wednesday looked into Vic's eyes, which still held a hint of bewilderment and concern. Hidden behind them was an endless dark ruin she had just glimpsed.
Her hand unconsciously clenched, fingertips digging deep into her palm.
The bewilderment and concern on Vic's face, after Venom's low utterance, vanished rapidly like smoke scattered by the wind.
He blinked. In those eyes that always danced with a mad light, a flash of sudden realization passed, quickly replaced by an extremely complex expression—
A strange mix of surprise, amusement, and... deep nostalgia.
"Wow..." he breathed the word softly, almost like a sigh. His tone was no longer the usual exaggerated clamor, but a magnetic, thoughtful low voice.
"Interesting ability."
His gaze focused on Wednesday's still-pale face, the corners of his mouth beginning to curve upward bit by bit.
It was no longer that mindless, foolish grin, but a slow, penetrating curve, dangerous and captivating.
"Let me guess," he tilted his head, as if playing an interesting guessing game, "psychic?"
No answer from Wednesday was needed. Her subtle, almost imperceptible trembling said it all.
"Ah..." Vic let out a long, almost moaning sigh. He leaned back slightly against the seat, closed his eyes, and a distinct flush actually appeared on his face. It wasn't shyness, but a flush born of being immersed in extreme excitement.
It instantly stripped all foolishness from his always overly animated face, revealing a sinister and startling handsomeness.
"So nostalgic..." he murmured, his voice as light as a dream yet clearly reaching Wednesday's ears, "those 'good' old days. That battle royale game... still makes me savor it endlessly."
His tongue lightly licked his lips, as if tasting the sweet flavor of blood and fear from his memories.
At that moment, what emanated from him was no longer noisy stupidity, but a cold, powerful aura tempered by experiencing ultimate darkness.
The aura of a predator.
Wednesday's heart, without warning, gave a violent, fierce throb.
It was an unfamiliar, uncontrolled pulsation, as if suddenly gripped tightly by something dangerous and beautiful.
She looked at his profile, which seemed suddenly unfamiliar, at that sinister flush, and a strange feeling she couldn't even interpret herself flashed through her mind.
Not fear, not disgust, but a kind of... dizziness after being strongly attracted.
However, this state lasted only a few short seconds.
Like a switch had been flipped.
Vic's eyes snapped open. The dangerous, captivating aura from moments ago vanished without a trace.
He was back to being the noisy, carefree Victor Black.
He exaggeratedly stretched as if just waking up, then gave Wednesday a huge, silly grin, the corners of his mouth almost reaching his ears.
"Whoa! So you saw it all, huh?" He slapped his thigh loudly, startling Principal Larissa, who was driving in front, into a slight movement.
"Wasn't it super thrilling? Let me tell you, I was awesome back then! One punch! Just one punch! Okay, actually many punches... Venom was so weak then, limp like a piece of expired dark chocolate. If it weren't for me..."
He started chattering again, gesticulating wildly, his voice returning to its usual headache-inducing volume and speed, vividly describing it as if it weren't some tragic, brutal past, but an exciting video game.
The sinister power revealed in that fleeting moment seemed like just an illusion from Wednesday's psychic ability, or a clumsy imitation he improvised.
Wednesday watched him silently, watching him desperately wrap himself up tightly again with silliness and noise, watching the deliberately maintained, carefree light in his eyes.
She suddenly felt an inexplicable irritation.
Which one was the real him?
Was it the icy youth who grew numb on the operating table, finally broke free from the cage in the most resolute way, fused with the dark symbiote, and smilingly took his revenge?
Or was it the stupid chatterbox in front of her, whose noise made her temples throb, making her wish she could stitch his mouth shut again with needle and thread?
She couldn't tell.
And what disturbed her more was that she found herself... actually wanting to tell them apart.
Venom silently retracted into Vic's body, offering no further comment.
The car was left with only Vic's clamorous, attempt-to-cover-up-everything voice, and Wednesday's deeper, more inscrutable silence than ever before.
Principal Larissa watched all this from the rearview mirror, her silver-gray eyes narrowing slightly. No one knew what the principal was thinking at this moment.
The car continued forward, but the air inside was even more complex and difficult to discern than before.
Dr. Kinbott's clinic was located on the edge of Jericho Town.
A two-story cottage painted a warm yellow, with wilted roses climbing on the white picket fence. It looked less like a clinic and more like the living room of some middle-class family trying to mask emptiness with sweetness.
The air was filled with an overly deliberate scent of aromatherapy, mixed with an underlying note of disinfectant, making it hard to breathe.
Principal Larissa, like a prison guard escorting a serious convict, "ushered" Wednesday and Vic through the clinic door. She then leaned against the car like a door god, her silver-gray eyes locked on Wednesday, silently declaring, "Don't even think about escaping."
The consultation room was on the second floor, even more suffocating.
Warm-toned walls, soft carpets, various harmless sandbox toys and small sculptures placed around. Every detail screamed hoarsely: "Look! I'm safe! I'm cozy! Come, open your heart!"
Wednesday felt her gothic soul being continuously scorched by this overwhelming tide of vulgar warmth.
Dr. Valerie Kinbott herself seemed to have grown out of this environment—a beige knit cardigan, a gentle smile, eyes trying hard to appear all-accepting. She attempted to lighten the mood.
"Please, have a seat, Miss Addams, Mr. Black. Relax, this is just a simple conversation."
Her voice was soft as she gestured to two overly soft-looking armchairs in the center of the room. "We can talk about anything. For example... I heard your way of handling the pool bullying incident before was very... unique?"
She chose the safest topic to start with, trying to get Wednesday talking.
Wednesday sat rigidly on the edge of the sofa as if it weren't furniture, but an electric chair.
Her black skirt formed a sharp contrast with the surrounding soft, warm colors.
"Unique?" Wednesday's voice was like an ice pick, precisely puncturing the bubble Dr. Kinbott had created.
"Do you mean efficient, or the kind of aesthetics you cannot comprehend? Piranhas are nature's cleaners; I merely accelerated the process. Or, Dr. Kinbott, do you prefer letting those maggots continue to multiply under the guise of insincere apologies and meaningless suspensions?"
Dr. Kinbott's smile stiffened for a moment, a fine crack appearing in her professional mask. "I... I meant perhaps there are more... socially acceptable ways to handle things..."
"Socially acceptable?" Wednesday cut her off, her eyes sweeping over a decorative ceramic angel in the room. "Like producing more of these hollow ornaments?"
Dr. Kinbott instinctively followed her gaze to the angel sculpture, seeming to choke on her words.
She decided to temporarily bypass this iceberg and turn her attention to the other target who seemed easier to break through
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