The clock ticked louder with each passing second. Time was dragging her closer to Nevermore Academy, and Wednesday's irritation had reached its breaking point.She paced her room like a caged raven, black braids swinging slightly as she muttered, "Apparently, I'm expected to 'embrace the experience'... they are trying to mold me into a version of them."
Stitch's ears drooped as he watched her pace, then perked back up. "Mold you? Ew," he said, wrinkling his nose. "No one wants two of same human. One Wednesday is enough."
He crossed his arms, giving a firm nod as if ending a serious debate. "Stitch likes her weird. Perfect amount of scary."
Wednesday shot Stitch a chilling glare, the kind that could freeze lava. Stitch didn't flinch; his tail flicked as he muttered, "Glare doesn't work on Stitch."
Wednesday crossed her arms. "It should. Most living creatures respond to intimidation."
Stitch grinned. "Stitch not most creatures."
Wednesday stared for a beat, then deadpanned, "Unfortunately, I've noticed."
Aleksander, seated on her desk, tried to sound diplomatic. "I don't think they're trying to mold you into their image. Your parents just worry about you. You've, you know, been expelled from eight schools in five years."
Wednesday paused mid-step and fixed him with a stare cold enough to stop a heartbeat. Aleksander raised his hands. "I'm just saying… maybe they want you to have friends. Enjoy life a little."
"I already have one unwanted companion," she replied flatly. "That's more than enough. And for the record, I do enjoy life—by solving murders."
Although she called him her "unwanted companion," Wednesday was aware—at least internally—that Aleksander had carved out an unexpected place in her life. His absence left a faint hollow echo she preferred not to acknowledge, as if admitting it would somehow diminish her carefully constructed solitude.
Stitch sat cross-legged beside Aleksander, his large ears twitching as he watched Wednesday pace. "Hmm… she grumpy," he muttered, scratching his head.
After a pause, a toothy grin spread across his face. "But deep down… not bad. Just pretend tough."
Aleksander looked down at him, half-smiling. Stitch shrugged, tail flicking. "Stitch can smell feelings. Weird human feelings."
Aleksander half-smiled, unfazed. "Then maybe Nevermore won't bore you as much as you think."
That caught her attention. Wednesday's eyes narrowed. "Explain."
He leaned forward. "Nevermore's in Vermont, right? That's where a series of 'animal attacks' have been happening. The first victim—Olivia Davis. Police found her body near Jericho, missing a kidney. Surgically removed. The second was a seventy-nine-year-old man, Benjamin Clarke. Mauled to death while hunting outside Cobham Woods."
Aleksander paused. "Authorities blamed a grizzly bear."
Wednesday's brow arched. "There are no grizzly bears in Vermont."
Aleksander spoke up in excitement."Exactly. Although it was not revealed to outsiders one of his organs where also removed. "
For the first time that night, Wednesday's gaze shifted away—calculating, intrigued. "Well," she murmured, "maybe this field trip won't be a total waste of time after all."
Aleksander smiled getting up and said."So, I guess I will see you in Nevermore."
Wednesday nodded.
Aleksander sat across from his parents in the dimly lit living room. The evening light slanted through the curtains, catching the edge of Cassandra's silver pendant as she spoke."The Academy has its mysteries, Aleksander," she said softly, eyes narrowing. "But remember—Jericho isn't exactly welcoming. There are still groups out there who hate Outcasts."
Ilya leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his beard neatly trimmed and green eyes sharp beneath a furrowed brow. "She's right. Be careful around the Normies. Some of them still cling to the old beliefs… Crackstone's ideas."
Aleksander frowned. "Joseph Crackstone—the original pilgrim who settled the land where Nevermore now stands." His tone carried quiet intrigue. "He saw Outcasts as monsters. Convinced his people they were ungodly. Led a purge that turned into a massacre."
Cassandra nodded grimly. "And even centuries later, some in Jericho still treat that history like a tradition."
Aleksander pushed his chair back and stood, reaching for his jacket. "Alright," he said, slinging it over his shoulder. "I'll take the bike. See you both at Nevermore."
Cassandra arched an eyebrow. "You're riding that thing all the way to Vermont?"
Aleksander gave a small shrug, a faint grin tugging at his lips. "It feels better on the road than sitting in a car."
Ilya chuckled, glancing at Cassandra. "Let him go," he said with an easy smile. "We'll catch up with him there."
Cassandra folded her arms, narrowing her eyes. "You really do spoil him."
Ilya looked amused. "And you don't?"
For a brief second, Cassandra's stern expression softened—just enough to give her away—before Aleksander turned toward the door, smirking to himself.
The next morning, Aleksander stepped into the Morozova garage—a polished expanse of steel, glass, and gleaming chrome. Supercars and sport bikes lined the space like mechanical beasts at rest.He walked straight past the luxury cars to his favorite—the Ducati Diavel 1260 S.
It stood in the center of the garage like a predator at rest. Its front end was imposing—muscular lines folding into air intakes that flared like the hunches of a beast ready to pounce. The fuel tank stretched long and sharp, flowing seamlessly into a deep, scooped seat that appeared to hover without support.The rear was slender yet powerful, dominated by an ultra-wide 240-millimeter tire mounted on a sculpted 17-inch rim, exposed through a single-sided swingarm that made the wheel itself look like artwork in motion. The adjustable 48-millimeter upside-down forks in front and mono-shock suspension at the back gave it both elegance and authority.Its "Black and Steel" finish caught the light in streaks of glossy gray and matte black, accented by flashes of yellow across the frame, tail, and seat badge. Every carbon fiber curve, from the sleek bodywork to the finely stitched saddle, radiated a refined aggression. Even the trellis frame peeked through like veins of a living machine—bold, intricate, and undeniably fast.
Aleksander ran a hand along the tank, half-smiling. "Perfect."Just as he swung a leg over, a familiar chattering sound echoed from behind a stack of tool crates.
Aleksander froze, listening. Then—"Hi!"He turned. "Stitch."
The blue alien scrambled out, ears perked, tail wagging. "Stitch coming too! Vroom vroom!"
He mimed twisting a throttle, growling like an engine before grinning up at Aleksander.
Aleksander sighed, pressing a hand to his temple. "You're going to get us pulled over before we even reach Vermont."
"Eh," Stitch said with a shrug, climbing onto the seat behind him. "Police slow. Stitch fast."
Aleksander gave a resigned chuckle. "You're impossible."Thank you," Stitch said proudly, gripping Aleksander's jacket.
Aleksander slid the key into the ignition, and turned it. The Ducati Diavel rumbled to life with a deep, throaty growl that vibrated through the concrete floor. He revved it once—just enough to feel the power surge beneath him—then settled his grip on the handlebars.With a final glance at the open garage door, he twisted the throttle, and the bike shot forward, the roar of the engine fading into the morning air.