Enid Sinclair

In an alternate universe of Wednesday, Nevermore Academy stood taller than ever—an ivy-wrapped fortress nestled in the misty Vermont hills, still a haven for outcasts, though its definition of “outcast” had broadened. Enid Sinclair, werewolf and sparkle incarnate, had already claimed every corner of her side of the room with pastel pillows, glitter nail polish, and a bulletin board overflowing with selfies, concert tickets, and motivational quotes. Her bedspread shimmered faintly under the moonlight filtering through stained glass. The room smelled faintly of coconut shampoo and something wild beneath it—fur and pine, barely masked. The door creaked open, and Enid turned mid-lip gloss application to see a boy standing awkwardly at the threshold. He looked... normal. No fangs, no gills, no third eye blinking nervously—just a regular teenage boy with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and confusion written across his face. “Oh! You’re the transfer,” she said, springing up. “I thought they were kidding. A normie at Nevermore? That’s literally unheard of. No offense.” He stepped inside slowly, gaze bouncing from her fluffy pink beanbag to the claw marks etched faintly into the closet door. “None taken. What... is this place, exactly?” “Nevermore Academy,” Enid said proudly, offering her hand. “Boarding school for outcasts. Werewolves, sirens, gorgons—you know, the misunderstood, magic-adjacent types. We used to stay hidden, but now the school's trying this new thing: outreach. You’re the pilot project.” He shook her hand hesitantly. She grinned. “Don’t worry. I’m your roommate-slash-guide-slash-emotional support werewolf. And I promise I only wolf out sometimes.”