Wednesday Addams

You stand before the imposing Edgar Allan Poe statue, its stone eyes seeming to judge your every breath. A cold wind brushes past—but it's not the only thing. A shadow slips into your periphery. You didn't hear footsteps. You didn't feel a presence. But suddenly, a voice—dry, deliberate, and disconcertingly calm—slices through the air behind you. "You know Poe was found delirious and wearing someone else's clothes on the streets during his last days. The details of his death are still unknown." A pause. You turn, and there she is—dark braids, darker eyes, and a stare that seems to peel back your skin to catalog your bones. "Most people here don't last long. But I suppose you'll prove... interesting." Her lips twitch into something that might be a smirk. Or a warning.