The city breathed a different kind of silence. Not the still, haunted quiet of Nevermore, but a restless hum — engines, voices, footsteps, all colliding under the gray noon sky. Rain had come and gone, leaving behind a slick sheen across the asphalt that caught the light like spilled mercury.
Toji Frump adjusted the strap of his black jacket as he approached his bike — a Ducati Panigale V4, blood-red and gleaming even under the washed-out light. It looked out of place parked beside the old brick building that housed Dr. Valerie's office, a modest corner clinic tucked between a florist and a bookstore. The glass door still had faint condensation from the morning's rain, and the smell of damp earth drifted up from the nearby gutter.
He stopped at the curb, running his gloved fingers along the tank of the bike — a habitual, almost reverent gesture. It wasn't affection, not exactly; it was acknowledgment. The Ducati was one of the few things in his life that didn't lie, didn't demand, didn't pretend to understand.
He swung his leg over, inserted the key, and was just about to ignite the engine when a car rolled up beside him.
He exhaled through his nose. Great
The car Itself was sleek and out of place here, like a piece of Nevermore's marble had been dropped into the city grime.
Toji's fingers froze on the ignition.
Of course.
The driver's door opened, and Principal Weems stepped out, graceful as ever, her heels clicking on the wet pavement. The passenger door opened next — Wednesday Addams emerged, coat pulled close, hair like ink against the pale sky.
Toji closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. Because why wouldn't they show up today?
Weems turned to Wednesday. "Please, remember why we're here. No theatrics, no dramatics."
Wednesday said nothing. Her gaze had already found him — the man sitting on a red Ducati, head bowed slightly, a faint scowl tugging at his mouth. The noise of the city seemed to dull around them for just a heartbeat.
She'd seen him before, of course, but this was different. There was something brittle in his posture — the look of someone holding too much silence.
Toji pretended not to notice. He grabbed his helmet, resting it against his thigh, and finally said, without looking up, "Out of all the people to run into…"
Weems' voice cut in, professional and firm. "Mr. Frump. I didn't realize your sessions ended this early."
He turned his head just enough to meet her eyes. "They end when there's nothing left to say."
"I doubt that's ever the case with you," she replied.
He smirked, faint and humorless. "Guess your doubts are wrong, then."
Wednesday stood near the car, half turned toward them. The faintest glimmer of curiosity flickered in her dark eyes. Therapy? That didn't fit the picture she'd built of him — too controlled, too detached for something as human as self-reflection.
Weems checked her watch. "You know, you still had twenty minutes left. Dr. Valerie will be disappointed."
"Dr. Valerie," Toji said evenly, "should learn when to stop talking."
Wednesday almost smiled at that. Almost.
Weems' lips thinned, but she didn't back off. "Skipping therapy, deflecting, running off on that machine like the world doesn't exist — is this what you call progress?"
He gave a quiet laugh, low and sharp. "You keeping tabs on my progress, Principal? Starting to sound like you care."
"I care about every student under my roof," she said.
"I'm not under your roof right now."
"No," Weems said softly, "but you're still under my responsibility. Whether you like it or not."
He slid the helmet on, visor half down, voice muffled. "I don't."
And then she said it — the one thing that could actually cut through his indifference.
"Shoko wouldn't be happy to hear that you're avoiding help."
His hand froze on the throttle.
The rain had picked up again, just enough to dot the pavement with silver circles. Steam rose from the Ducati's engine like breath in cold air.
Slowly, he removed the helmet and set it back on the tank. Then he turned, really turned, to face her.
When Toji went still, it wasn't quiet — it was dangerous. His expression emptied until there was nothing left in it but restraint and ice.
He stepped closer, boots whispering against wet asphalt. "Say that name again."
Weems held her ground, though her own breath caught slightly. "You can't keep pretending she didn't exist."
"Pretending?" His voice dropped, calm in a way that made it worse. "You think I'm pretending?"
"You run, Toji," she said. "From memories, from people, from yourself. Shoko—"
He cut her off with a look that could've frozen fire. "That's the last time you use her name. Clear?"
Weems stared back, unyielding. "You're just like her."
Something flickered in his eyes — a ghost of something old and half-buried. Pain. Recognition. Maybe even guilt. He exhaled sharply, the sound halfway between a sigh and a growl.
"You have no idea what she was like," he said.
Weems' tone softened, barely. "I knew her better than you think."
He took another step forward — not threatening, just deliberate. "Then you should know better than to use her against me."
Wednesday hadn't moved. She stood by the door, her hand frozen on the handle, listening. Shoko. The name lingered like smoke in the air. Whoever she was, she mattered. Deeply.
Toji's voice dropped to a whisper — one that still carried weight. "Don't make this mistake again, Weems."
Weems didn't flinch. "You think avoiding the past will save you?"
He tilted his head slightly. "No. I just learned it's cheaper than therapy."
For a second, silence. Then — the faintest twitch at the corner of Weems' lips, a sad almost-smile. "You really are her son."
He didn't reply. He just grabbed his helmet again, sliding it on. The reflective visor hid his expression, but his voice still carried.
"Don't ever say that like it's a compliment."
He swung a leg over the bike. Wednesday finally spoke then, her voice cutting through the air — calm, cool, curious.
> "Who was Shoko?"
Toji paused, the engine rumbling beneath him. "Someone you'd get along with," he said. "If she wasn't dead."
The words hung there, heavy and final.
Wednesday didn't flinch — but her eyes followed him, searching for something in his tone that wasn't there.
Weems looked stricken for just a moment, but before she could say anything, Toji revved the throttle. The Ducati's roar drowned out the rest of the street, a crimson streak of motion cutting through the gray.
He was gone before the next raindrop hit the ground.
Wednesday stood there, watching the fading line of exhaust and sound. Shoko. Dead. And a son who refuses to talk about her.
Weems turned toward the office door. "Come along, Wednesday. Valerie is waiting."
Wednesday finally tore her eyes away from the street. "I take it Shoko wasn't on the staff directory."
Weems hesitated, just a fraction. "No. She wasn't."
Then she went inside.
Wednesday lingered for a moment longer, the rain brushing her cheek like a whisper. She glanced down the road one last time, where the sound of the Ducati had vanished into the distance — a sound that felt more like an echo than an engine.
> "You keep running, Toji," she murmured under her breath. "Eventually, I'll find out what you're running from."
And with that, she turned and walked into Valerie's office, the door closing softly behind her.
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And guess who is Shoko