Wyoming, Jackson.
A helicopter cut through the cold mountain air before slowing into a hover above a quiet suburban home. The rotors thundered overhead, bending trees and scattering loose leaves across the yard as the side door slid open.
Ethan stood at the doorway, wind tugging at his coat.
"You know," he said over the roar, glancing back at the pilot, "just park the helicopter somewhere nearby. When I call, come back."
The pilot stared at him for a second, clearly questioning every life choice that led to this job. "Okay, boss. As you say."
Without another word, Ethan stepped out.
He simply dropped.
Air rushed past him as the ground rose fast. The garden below—trimmed grass, a small stone path, a wooden fence—came into sharp focus. At the last second, his descent slowed unnaturally, boots touching the lawn with barely a sound instead of a crater.
He straightened just as Selene stepped off the hovering edge above.
She fell cleanly, controlled, coat flaring around her.
Ethan extended his hand upward and caught her mid-descent, guiding her momentum so she landed lightly beside him instead of crashing through the flowerbeds.
The helicopter peeled away into the distance.
Ethan looked toward the house, expression no longer amused.
"Let's see what kind of hell decided to knock on my door."
The front door opened the moment the helicopter noise faded. Mike stood there, breathing hard, as if he had run all the way from inside.
"Thanks—master—come in, come in fast," he said, stepping aside.
"No need to rush," Ethan replied calmly as he walked in.
The house felt wrong. Too quiet. Too tense.
The book sat on the table in the room where the kid disappeared.
Ethan's eyes went straight to it. He stepped closer and studied the cover first. The face carved into it looked stretched and twisted, as if frozen mid-scream.
The texture wasn't normal leather. The edges of the pages were uneven, darkened like something old and preserved.
He flipped a page.
The symbols were written in thick, jagged strokes that looked disturbingly like dried blood. The letters weren't decorative—they felt deliberate, ritualistic.
"Yeah," Ethan said quietly, closing the book halfway. "This is definitely a dangerous book."
Mike's voice trembled. "Can you save my daughter?"
Ethan looked at him seriously this time.
"I'll try. But first we need to know where she was taken. This kind of book doesn't just make someone disappear. It opens something. And to understand it, we need someone who can read this language."
He didn't understand the script himself—but he knew someone who would.
As they walked past the living room, Ethan noticed Mike's wife sitting on the couch. She clutched a small jacket tightly to her chest, her eyes hollow and unfocused, her body rigid except for the faint trembling of her hands.
"I shouldn't have let her take the book," she muttered under her breath, the words barely audible, heavy with guilt.
"You should stay with your wife," Ethan said quietly to Mike. "She's barely holding herself together."
Mike swallowed hard and nodded
"I'll find your daughter," Ethan said. "As soon as possible."
***
At the Addams mansion, lunch was proceeding in its usual composed silence.
Morticia sat at the head of the table, elegant as ever, Gomez beside her with an affectionate smile that suggested he was seconds away from declaring his devotion again.
Pugsley was experimenting with something mildly explosive under the tablecloth. Thing crawled across the surface carrying a salt shaker with suspicious purpose.
Wednesday sat perfectly straight, dissecting her meal with clinical precision.
Then the sound came.
A distant thudding.
The windows trembled slightly as the noise grew louder—rotor blades cutting through the air above the estate.
Gomez paused mid-sentence. "Querida… we don't usually receive visitors who announce themselves like a military operation."
Morticia tilted her head gracefully. "How discourteous. One should always glide into an entrance."
The shadow of the helicopter swept across the stained-glass windows.
Before anyone could comment further, one of the tall windows creaked open—
—and Ethan stepped through it.
Not crashed. Not stumbled.
Stepped.
He landed a short distance from the dining table, coat settling around him as if dramatic entrances were part of his weekly routine.
"Hello everyone. Sorry for this type of entrance," he said with a brief apologetic nod. "I'm in kind of a hurry."
Thing paused mid-crawl.
Gomez slowly rose from his seat, eyes sparkling. "Young man, I respect commitment to theatrics."
Ethan didn't waste time. He walked straight to Wednesday and leaned down, murmuring something into her ear.
Her expression did not change—but her eyes sharpened.
"You're sure this isn't another plot you're cooking to arrange some teenage field trip?" Wednesday asked flatly, gaze piercing.
"No," Ethan replied without hesitation. "This is serious."
He reached into his coat and pulled out the book.
"Here's the proof."
The leather cover looked wrong under the chandelier light. Veined. Uneven.
Wednesday took it from him. Her fingers traced the surface.
"Human skin," she observed calmly.
Interest flickered across her face.
She turned to her parents.
"Mother. Father. I'll be going on a trip to Ethan's house for a week."
Morticia and Gomez exchanged a knowing smile.
"How enchanting," Morticia purred.
"Such initiative!" Gomez added proudly.
"This is definitely what you think," Wednesday clarified, deadpan.
Ethan coughed lightly. "Umm… Wednesday, why don't we invite your family as well? Your mother might be helpful."
"No."
She grabbed his sleeve and began dragging him toward the stairs.
"We are not turning this into a social gathering."
"Wow," Pugsley said, pressed against the window, staring up at the helicopter hovering in the sky. "Wednesday's friend owns a helicopter."
He squinted. "Wait… did he jump from that distance to the window?"
*****
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