A Client
The air in the apartment had shifted.
It wasn’t the silence of fear—the sharp, held-breath tension of someone who knew death was coming. It was something thicker, heavier, stretching between them like a wire pulled too tight. A pause that lingered too long, like a record caught on a single note.
Wednesday should have finished the job by now.
She should have slipped the knife between Enid’s ribs—clean, efficient, done. She should have disappeared into the night, just like she always did, without a second thought.
But she hadn’t.
And now, she was standing here, knife still in its sheath, watching as Enid, the girl she was supposed to kill sat on her bed, looking at her.
Just looking. Enid wasn’t panicking. She wasn’t fighting. She was just waiting.
And that—that was wrong.
Wednesday clenched her jaw, fingers twitching against the handle of her knife. She had killed dozens of people. People who had expected it. People who had spent their lives making enemies, who had lived knowing that one day, someone like Wednesday would come for them. But this?
This was just a girl.
And something about the way she was looking at Wednesday—not with terror, not with disbelief, but with quiet resignation—made something in Wednesday’s chest tighten.
Something twisted. This isn’t how this is supposed to go. She had come here to end a life. Not question it. Not… humanize it.
Her fingers twitched. The knife felt heavier in her grasp.
But she looked at Enid again—really looked at her.
The slight shake in her fingers. The way she curled inward, but not in a way that suggested she was trying to run. The dry humor stretched thin over something fragile, something cracked at the edges.
And suddenly, Wednesday needed to know. She exhaled slowly, reached into her pocket, and pulled out her phone, swiping quickly through the details of the job.
She never did this.She never cared who had put out a hit—only that they paid well. It was irrelevant. A name didn’t matter when someone was already marked for death. Except now, it did. Because Enid Sinclair wasn’t supposed to be a name on this list.
Wednesday’s eyes scanned the file, her pulse steady, but something inside her wasn’t. Then—she found it. The name of the client. She went still. Her grip tightened around the phone. She frowned.
Looked up.
Enid was watching her, breathing uneven, still gripping the blanket like it might anchor her to something solid. But she wasn’t crying. She wasn’t even confused. Just… waiting. Like she already knew.
Wednesday exhaled. Controlled. Even. “Do you know someone named Esther Sinclair?”
Enid’s fingers twitched. She didn’t answer immediately. Not out of hesitation. Out of understanding. Like she already knew what Wednesday was about to say.
Then, finally, she exhaled sharply and let out a small, brittle laugh.
“Oh,” she murmured.
That was it. No confusion. No why? Just—Oh. Wednesday’s stomach twisted.
“You know them,” she said, more statement than question.
Enid let out another short, breathless laugh, rubbing a hand over her face. “Yeah. You could say that.”
She inhaled, then met Wednesday’s gaze with something almost amused. Tired amusement.
“That’s my mom.”
Wednesday didn’t react. Not outwardly. But something inside her coiled.
She had killed plenty of people over petty grudges, broken loyalties, corporate betrayals.
But a mother hiring someone to kill her own daughter?
And Enid wasn’t even surprised. That was what made Wednesday’s stomach curl in a way she didn’t like. She was used to seeing fear. She wasn’t used to seeing acceptance.
She forced her voice to stay even. “Why?”
Enid blinked. “Why what?”
“Why would your mother want you dead?”
Enid exhaled, shaking her head slightly. “I don’t know.”
She paused.
Then, quietly—too quietly:
“I mean… I do. But I don’t.”
Wednesday’s jaw tightened.
Enid looked away, staring at the floor, like the words were coming whether she wanted them to or not.
“She never really liked me,” she said finally. “And I don’t mean in the strict parent kind of way. I mean the kind where you realize she never wanted you in the first place.”
Her voice didn’t crack, but Wednesday could hear it in the edges. The way it wavered. The way she covered it quickly, practiced at making it seem like it didn’t matter.
“I thought if I just tried harder,” Enid continued, voice quieter now, “if I did everything right—got good grades, stayed out of the way, never gave her a reason to be disappointed, became the daughter she wanted—then maybe she’d change her mind.”
She swallowed. “Maybe she’d care.”
The silence stretched.
Then, abruptly, she exhaled sharply—almost laughed at herself. “I guess she finally got tired of pretending.”