She stood alone in the courtyard of Nevermore Academy, the air thick with fog and memory.
It was night again — it was always night now.
The moon never moved. The stars never blinked. Time had become still, like the world held its breath... waiting for something to break the silence.
Wednesday Addams tightened her grip on the blade hidden beneath her sleeve. She didn't know why she needed it — she only knew she always did. She had killed before, in this loop. She would again.
The hallways echoed with the same footsteps. The same faces. The same deaths.
“Enid?!”
No reply. Not this loop.
Suddenly, a sharp, burning cold swept through the courtyard, like winter had been poured through broken glass.
Wednesday froze.
It was here again.
She turned toward the main building, watching as the walls peeled back — not with fire or rot, but with unmaking. Bricks curled inward like burning paper. Trees blinked out of existence, their shadows erased mid-fall.
He had returned.
“You don’t belong here...” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure who she meant — him, or herself.
And then... he appeared.
Cosment.
His body didn’t make sense in this world. The infinite mechanical limbs. The starlight eyes. The swirling souls and fragments of ancient beings orbiting him like moons. Every part of him contradicted what reality considered possible.
He didn’t walk — he simply was.
“You fascinate me,” he said in a voice layered with a thousand tones. “You resist.”
She drew the blade. “You're not the first monster I’ve stabbed.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I am the last.”
With a gesture, the world reset.
She awoke in her bed. Again. Alone.
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Birds chirping. Enid gone. Rain beginning. Heart racing.
The same day. Again.
She fought. She died. She screamed. She won.
She woke up.
Again.
Fifty deaths. A hundred. Thousands.
Burned. Crushed. Unmade. Flung into space. Torn apart by claws made of souls. Watched her friends die. Watched them come back. Watched them die again.
And every time... she remembered.
Cosment didn’t understand it.
Why did she remember?
Every other reality crumbled. Every hero died once and stayed dead.
But her?
She persisted.
That’s when he noticed something.
In every loop — slight variations. A different room. A different hairstyle. Slightly different tone in her voice. A new scar. A blink-too-long moment of hesitation that hadn’t been there last time.
Then he saw the truth.
“You aren’t just one,” he whispered. “You’re many.”
Cosment pulled back — mentally — scanning across the multiverse.
And he saw it.
Wednesday Addams — again and again. The same girl, the same face, the same presence.
But in different films. Different timelines. Different genres. Comedy. Horror. Animation. Drama. And in every version...
The same actress.
Cosment reeled.
He wasn’t looking at a girl.
He was looking at a creation.
A fictional being.
And she was being played.
"Jenna Ortega."
He whispered the name aloud, and it rippled through the code of every universe.
That was it. That was the link. All the pain, all the resistance, all the loops — they came from our world. From the actress who played Wednesday.
“So you're not a reality,” Cosment murmured to the Addams girl. “You’re a performance.”
Wednesday didn’t understand.
But Cosment did.
For the first time, the Architect of Total Destruction looked upward. Not to heaven. Not to other universes. But to us — the reality where stories are written, actors perform, and worlds are born through imagination.
A place where he shouldn’t exist.
“They made you,” he said. “All of you.”
He turned and vanished.
Wednesday sat in the ashes of Nevermore Academy, clutching the knife, surrounded by dead classmates who would be alive again by morning.
And far above her reality, beyond fiction itself, Cosment broke through.
He entered our world silently.
Not with force.
With observation.
He walked through production sets, invisible. Saw camera crews. Directors. Writers. He passed by Tim Burton, who directed her. Walked through the digital halls of Netflix. Sat beside fanfiction writers, Reddit theorists, animators, YouTubers, actors. And then he found her.
Jenna Ortega.
Sleeping in her home.
He stood over her.
Not to kill her. Not yet. He needed to understand why her soul — her performances — birthed so many realities. Why each one fought him. Why she was the only light that persisted after all gods had died.
She was an anchor. A seed. A root reality.
“You gave them hope...” he said, voice low, godly. “Now, you will give them despair.”
And so he looped her, too.
Death after death. Film after film. Behind the scenes. Script readings. Set visits. Fans approaching. Journalists. Interviews. Premieres. All of it repeated. She died in car crashes. On camera. Off screen. Publicly. Privately.
And every time, she woke up.
Like Wednesday.
Because Cosment didn’t want her to die.
He wanted her to suffer.
Forever.