The Witch Vol.1 - Werewolves

February 8th 2011 - Tuesday

Adrian Harris worked late into the evening, the fading light casting long shadows across his classroom as he carefully arranged the chemical teaching aids. His face bore the deep lines of exhaustion, accentuated by a heavy sigh that escaped his lips. It had been an especially grueling day. He slammed the locker door shut with more force than necessary, frustration spilling over.

As he returned to his desk to pack away his notebook into his suitcase, he noticed an inconspicuous crumpled paper that hadn't been there before, and he felt drawn to it. Puzzled, he picked it up and unfolded it. A list stared back at him, filled with names, surnames, and addresses. A sickening chill crept down his spine as he realized that most of the names were crossed out—David M. Harris, Lionel B. Harris, Grant S. Harris, Thomas M. Harris—until he reached the last name. His own: Adrian R. Harris. Unmarked.

His eyes darted to the slate on his desk, the words "Prof. Adrian R. Harris" glaring back at him. A wave of dread rolled over him. An unsettling silence hung in the air, thickening as he glanced toward the corridor door. Swiftly, he rolled up the list, stuffed it into his briefcase, and made for the exit. But halfway there, something stopped him. He froze, fear locking his limbs in place.

"Please don't kill me," he whispered, his voice trembling.

"Do you know who wrote that list?" A voice broke the silence, inhuman and eerily detached, reverberating through the empty classroom.

"Laura. Laura Hale," Adrian responded quickly, a shiver coursing through him as he uttered the name.

"Do you know why she was looking for you?" The voice pressed on. Harris kept his back to the unseen presence, unable to speak. "I know why. Turn around, Adrian." The command sent an icy wave of terror through him, his breath catching in his throat. "Turn around, and I'll show you."

He remained frozen.

"Turn around!" The voice grew impatient, but he still did not move.

"No. Please," Adrian pleaded, his voice barely audible.

"Look at me. Look at what you've done." A chair flew across the room, slamming into the blackboard with a deafening crash. Adrian flinched, sucking in a sharp breath, his body stiff with terror. Footsteps approached him, and suddenly, another presence filled the room.

"Get down!" A firm hand yanked him to the ground just as a second chair flew over his head, smashing into the wall where he had stood moments before.

Both men glanced up just in time to see the door slam shut, the intruder gone as quickly as they'd arrived. Adrian clung to his rescuer, only realizing who it was when the flashing blue lights of a police car cast shadows around them. Derek Hale, his sister's childhood friend and the brother of the very girl the attacker had mentioned, had come to his aid.

"This is the Sheriff's Department. You are surrounded!" A booming voice blared through a megaphone from outside. "Nobody leaves the building!"

Derek pushed Adrian aside and darted out of the room. Within minutes, he had made his way out of the school, but two police cars were already hot on his trail. One driven by the sheriff, the other by Diana—her unmistakable mass of curly hair marking her out even from a distance. Derek steered toward the industrial district, knowing the late hour meant fewer witnesses.

Recognizing the familiar figure of Derek disappearing into the night, Officer Harris immediately reached for her phone. She knew Hunters were listening to police radio frequencies and were likely aware by now that law enforcement had the elusive werewolf cornered. Time was running out.

"Diana?" Charlie's voice crackled through the receiver, his surprise palpable. They had exchanged numbers long ago, never expecting they'd actually need to use them.

"Our charming friend just paid the school a visit," Diana said, her voice tense but steady. "Now he's got the sheriff and me trailing after him, and the Hunters won't be far behind. Can you think of something to throw them off? The police aren't the biggest problem right now. We'll lose him soon enough."

"I'll figure something out," came the quick reply, followed by the immediate click of the call ending — an unmistakable sign of Charlotte's resourcefulness in action.

In the interim, Derek deftly navigated the maze of industrial structures, forcing both Diana and the sheriff to display near circus-worthy acrobatics as they maneuvered through the tight corners of the industrial streets, hemmed in by towering concrete slabs.

Soon, her boss's voice crackled through the police radio, "Repeat! The suspect is on foot! We're in pursuit, headed northwest..."

Diana's ears pounded from the blaring police sirens, made worse by the incessant barking of her canine partner in the back seat. Yet, despite the chaos, she savored the thrill of the chase. Car pursuits were a rare indulgence in the usually quiet town of Beacon Hills.

Skillfully, she overtook the sheriff's vehicle, now trailing close behind Derek, ensuring she maintained enough distance to avoid obstructing his escape. Just as she braced herself for the full pursuit, an unexpected obstacle materialized—a large cherry-red SUV emerged from the opposite direction. Diana instantly grasped the grim reality: the Hunters had joined the chase. With a quick swerve, she cut right in front of their vehicle, mimicking Derek's evasive maneuver, and expertly corrected her path to keep him in her sights.

It wasn't until she had to slam on the brakes, watching Derek dart into a building she couldn't follow into, that she realized additional forces had arrived. The game had escalated.

Exiting her vehicle with purpose, she barked an order, "Release the dogs!" It was the safest option for both the fleeing suspect and her fellow officers. Without waiting for a reply, she flung open the rear door of her police car, unleashing Artemis, who shot off in pursuit.

Diana had named her police dog—a sleek, well-trained female German Shepherd she'd raised from a pup. Everyone found it amusing that Diana named her Artemis. After all, in Roman mythology, Diana was the Goddess of the Hunt; in Greek, she was Artemis. At times, Diana mused that this playful naming might explain the almost supernatural bond she shared with her canine companion, an intuitive understanding that felt nearly telepathic.

Moments later, a deep, muffled growl echoed from inside the building. The dogs fell silent, returning to the officers with their tails tucked between their legs.

"What on earth?" Sheriff Stilinski muttered in surprise.

Diana feigned confusion, though she had a solid understanding of what was happening inside.

***

Meanwhile, the crimson SUV remained parked in the shadows as Chris Argent watched the police activity unfolding, phone pressed to his ear as he spoke with his sister.

"He's on foot. Just ran into the ironworks..." Chris relayed.

"Wait, wait. Did you say on foot?" Kate cut in, her grip tightening on the steering wheel of her car, which she had just been using to chase down a black Camaro.

"Yes, into the ironworks," came Chris's reply.

"Running?" Kate repeated, her brow furrowing with confusion.

"Yes, running! He's on foot!"

"If he's on foot... who the hell's driving his car?" Leveque, Kate's companion, asked from the passenger seat, glancing out the rear window at the Camaro they were pursuing.

Struggling to keep pace, Kate remained glued to the Camaro's rear bumper, determined not to lose it. She acknowledged Derek's reputation as a skilled driver, and she doubted many in Beacon Hills could handle a car like that with such precision.

The black Camaro held three passengers. Behind the wheel, Charlotte—her red hair tied back in a messy bun—steered with grim determination. Stiles, gripping his seatbelt tightly, sat in the passenger seat, while a visibly anxious Scott occupied the back.

"Holy God, who taught you to drive?" Stiles gasped after they barely made it through a sharp turn. Charlotte offered no response, simply pressing the gas pedal even harder. Kate was proving to be a relentless opponent, and while Charlotte would have preferred her Chevelle, they had to stick to the plan: impersonate Derek to draw the Hunters' attention away.

"Slow down!" Scott shouted from the back seat, his voice edged with fear.

"I don't think you're grasping the concept of a car chase," Charlotte growled back, ignoring his plea.

"If you go any faster, you'll kill us!" Scott protested again, his voice rising.

"If she slows down, they're going to kill us!" Stiles shot back, gripping the seat for dear life as Charlotte pressed the pedal to the floor, sending the car into a deeper surge of speed.

Scott, glancing nervously out of the rear window, felt a strange sense of foreboding creeping over him.

"They're gone," he said, surprised. Stiles, reacting quickly, grabbed the walkie-talkie he had swiped from his father earlier that evening.

"All units, suspect is on foot, headed north, last seen on Hancock..." a voice crackled through the walkie-talkie, cutting into the tension in the car. Charlotte cursed under her breath, the sound shocking both boys into silence. Without a word, she made a sharp turn, accelerating even further as they raced toward the industrial sector of town.

***

Derek breathed a sigh of relief as he evaded the pursuing police. Steering into another dimly lit alley, the familiar swish signaling an incoming gunshot abruptly shattered his brief sense of reprieve. Despite his swift attempt to shield his eyes, the Hunters' tactics unfolded too quickly. The ensuing white flash enveloped him, his vision blurring instantly.

Blinking rapidly, his eyes stinging and struggling to regain focus, Derek discerned a figure on a nearby ramp—Chris Argent, armed with a crossbow. Another bolt shot out, landing dangerously close to him and bursting into a cascade of white sparks. This time, however, Derek expected the attack. He shielded his face with his arm and darted for cover behind a nearby forklift.

Desperation etched across his features as he scanned the alley, searching for an escape route or any glimmer of salvation. At the alley's end, the headlights of a fast-approaching car caught his attention.

His own Camaro screeched to a halt beside him, the passenger door swinging open.

"Get in!" Stiles shouted from the back seat, revealing a petite red-haired figure gripping the steering wheel with determination.

Derek caught a glimpse of Chris, now switching from a crossbow to a rifle. As the werewolf dashed toward the car, Chris fired, but the shot only grazed the car's paintwork. The Camaro roared to life, speeding out of the steelworks area as the sound of police dogs echoed in the distance. Chris, hearing the dogs approach, melted into the shadows.

"What part of lying low don't you understand?" Scott's accusatory voice greeted Derek as he climbed into the car. It was only then that he fully grasped the gravity of his situation, realizing that the witch wasn't alone—Stiles and Scott were in on this, too.

"I had him," the older shapeshifter growled, more to himself than to them.

"Who? The Alpha?" Stiles' head popped up between the front seats, uncomfortably close to Derek's face.

"He was right in front of me!" Derek shouted, his frustration spilling over. "And then the fucking police show up…"

"Hey, hey, hey, they're just doing their jobs," Stiles cut in, instinctively defending his father. He immediately regretted it, noticing the murderous glare aimed in his direction.

"Thanks to someone who decided to make me the most wanted fugitive in the state," Derek snapped, fixing his gaze on Scott, who was hunched over in the back seat.

"Can we seriously get past that?" Scott stammered, clearly uncomfortable. "Yes, I made a dumbass mistake. I get it."

"It's okay!" Stiles interjected, exasperated. "How'd you find him?"

Derek shook his head, saying nothing, his eyes trained on the passing trees as the car slowed down to avoid attracting attention.

"Can you try to trust us for half a second?" Scott asked, a hint of frustration in his voice.

"All of us," Stiles added, spitting a little in the process. Derek shot him a disgusted look. "Or just them… you don't have to…" Stiles stammered, shrinking under Derek's glare. "I think you trust Charlie anyway… I mean, you're together…" He babbled on, earning increasingly deadly stares from the older werewolf. "You can trust Scott too… After all, he is a werewolf… We're helping you… I'll just… be quiet," he finally mumbled, sinking back into his seat.

"The last time I talked to my sister, she was close to figuring something out. She found two things. The first was a guy named Harris."

"Our chemistry teacher?" Stiles popped his head back up between the seats in disbelief, only for Charlotte to nudge him in the back of the head, forcing him to sit back down.

"Why him?" Scott asked, genuinely confused.

"I don't know," Derek muttered, clearly frustrated with himself.

"What's the second thing?" Charlotte asked, her brow furrowing as she kept her eyes on the road, trying to make sense of where this was leading.

"A symbol," Derek sighed, pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket. He handed it to Charlotte, who took a quick glance before returning her focus to the road, her grip tightening on the wheel. Then, he passed the paper to Scott.

The teenager sighed heavily, examining the photocopy. It wasn't an original drawing, but he recognized it instantly.

"What? You know what this is?" Derek asked, his eyes narrowing as he noticed Scott's heart rate spike.

"I've seen it. On a necklace…" Scott muttered in response. His mind immediately connected the symbol with the Beast of Gévaudan. Derek turned to him, expectant. "Allison's necklace…" Scott finally admitted, his grip tightening on the paper.

Charlotte's knuckles whitened as she gripped the steering wheel even harder. The situation had just become significantly more complicated.

***

February 9th 2011 – Wednesday

"This is going to be impossible, you know?" Scott muttered the next morning as he and Stiles made their way into the school.

"Just ask her if you can borrow it," Stiles replied, his tone casual.

"How?" Scott asked irritably, fully aware that starting any conversation with Allison felt impossible after days of silence between them.

"Simple. You ask. 'Hey, Allison, can I borrow your necklace?'" Stiles suggested, shrugging nonchalantly. "Then maybe throw in, 'I'll see if there's anything on it or in it that will lead me to the Alpha werewolf I need to kill in order to get back together with you?'"

"You're not helping," Scott growled, his eyes scanning the hallway to make sure no one overheard their conversation.

"Just talk to her," Stiles insisted.

"She won't talk to me," Scott reminded him. "And what if she only takes it off when she's, like, in the shower?"

"That's why you ease your way into it," Stiles explained. "Get back on her good side, remind her of the good times. Then you ask for the necklace..." He trailed off, noticing the blissful smile that had suddenly spread across his friend's face. Stiles gave Scott a light tap on the shoulder. "You're thinking about her in the shower, aren't you?"

"Yes," Scott admitted with a heavy sigh.

"Stay focused," Stiles advised, gripping Scott's shoulder and turning him back to reality. "Get the necklace, get the Alpha, get cured, get Allison back," he listed, each step punctuated. "In that order, got it?" He made sure Scott was paying attention before heading off to class, leaving Scott standing in the middle of the corridor.

"Get the necklace," Scott murmured to himself, repeating the plan.

***

Jackson finally decided it was time to consult a doctor about the scratches Derek had inflicted. Though he tried to maintain an air of indifference, genuine concern gnawed at him, especially after everything he'd learned about McCall. Yet, there was a peculiar thrill in this new knowledge—an understanding that opened doors to possibilities he'd never considered before.

And so here he was, lying on his stomach on the hospital bed, allowing Dr. Fenris to examine the persistent wounds. These scratches should have healed by now, but they'd flared up again after the incident at the DVD rental shop.

"What did you say scratched you?" the doctor asked, his voice as indifferent as his expression. He was an older man, his hair fully gray, devoid of any particular charm but known to be an excellent specialist.

"Just... an animal," Jackson answered after a brief hesitation, unsure of how else to respond. "Can you hurry this up? I'm missing first period," he added impatiently.

"Have you been having trouble sleeping?" the doctor pressed, leaning closer as he studied the inflamed marks.

"Kind of. I've been having dreams," Jackson admitted reluctantly, puzzled by the doctor's line of questioning but compelled to continue. "Nightmares, about a fire... It's always this house. I can hear screaming... What does this have to do with anything?"

"Nothing, I hope," Dr. Fenris sighed, picking up a pair of curved pincers that immediately set Jackson on edge.

"What is that?" Jackson asked, his voice betraying his rising alarm.

"Just taking a closer look," the doctor responded calmly.

"Hey, I don't have much time," Jackson said, trying to sit up, but the doctor gently pushed him back down, causing him to flinch.

"Hold still, please."

"I thought you were just going to look," Jackson protested, his voice growing louder with frustration.

"Yes, but to do that," the doctor said, opening a drawer that rattled with metallic instruments, "I might need to dig a little deeper."

From the corner of his eye, Jackson caught a glimpse of the instrument the doctor now held, and his heart raced. It looked like a pair of pliers or scissors, but far more ominous.

"What... what are those?" Jackson stammered, his voice trembling.

"Hold still, please," the doctor repeated, gently pressing Jackson's head back down. He touched something at Jackson's neck. "That didn't hurt, did it?"

"No... It was just cold."

"Good. Because this part might sting just a little."

Jackson felt a sharp sting, followed by an odd tugging sensation beneath his skin. His body trembled uncontrollably, his teeth clenched tightly as he tried to stay still.

"Hold still, please," the doctor commanded again, but Jackson couldn't stop the violent shaking as the pain escalated.

"Hey. Hey, that hurts!" Jackson shouted, his voice raw. "A lot."

"You've got something under your skin," the doctor explained, his tone oddly soothing, though it did nothing to ease Jackson's growing panic. "Just a moment longer."

"Stop!" Jackson cried out, no longer able to restrain himself. The pulling sensation returned, this time accompanied by a searing pain that made him scream. From the corner of his eye, he saw drops of blood fall to the floor, mingling with what looked like the purple petals of some bizarre flower.

Jackson's screams echoed in the sterile room, but he remained almost frozen, terrified that even the slightest movement would intensify the agony.

"Almost done," Dr. Fenris murmured, as he pulled something out of Jackson's neck—a rope-like object entwined with tendrils, sprouting young stems of some kind of plant. More purple petals scattered to the floor, tainted with blood.

Jackson couldn't bear it any longer. He lifted his head to look at the doctor, but instead, his eyes met the piercing blue gaze of Derek Hale. Derek stood there, clad in his signature leather jacket, his expression wild, his eyes glowing electric blue, a manic smile stretching across his face.

"Hold still," Derek said in a low, menacing voice, pressing Jackson's head back down with his hand. Jackson squeezed his eyes shut, crying out as the pain threatened to overwhelm him.

After a moment, Jackson opened his eyes, the pain gone. He leaped off the hospital bed, his eyes darting anxiously around the treatment room, scanning for any sign of danger. Everything appeared as it had before—no sign of the young man, no blue flakes, no blood. It was as if nothing had happened.

"You can put your shirt back on now," Dr. Fenris said, his tone suddenly much more sympathetic than before. "The scrapes on your neck are nothing to worry about."

"I'm good to play in my game tonight?" Jackson asked, his voice still carrying a slight tremor.

"Absolutely. But I'll need to prescribe an antibiotic. Have you eaten any unusual herbs recently?"

"Like what?" Jackson asked, genuinely surprised, unable to recall anything of the sort.

"Well, you've got aconite poisoning," the doctor explained.

"What the hell is aconite?"

"It's a purple flower. Sometimes called monkshood or..."

"Wolfsbane," Jackson interrupted.

"So you're familiar with it?" Fenris asked, clearly surprised. It wasn't exactly common knowledge.

"No," Jackson replied, instinctively rubbing the back of his neck where the scratches lay. "I have no idea how I knew that."

He quickly dressed and left the treatment room. As he walked past the nurses' station, he spotted a friendly-looking, dark-haired woman tapping away at a computer. An idea formed in his mind. Flashing her a charming smile, he approached.

"Good morning..." he greeted, his smile widening as she looked up from her screen, her warm brown eyes meeting his with a welcoming smile of her own.

"Morning," she responded, still smiling.

"Would you mind if I looked something up on your computer real quick?" Jackson asked smoothly.

"I bet a handsome face like yours doesn't hear no very often," she laughed, but after a moment, she narrowed her eyes slightly, as if trying to place him. He smiled, feigning modesty at the compliment, though she was right—he rarely heard no. "Wait, aren't you one of Scott's friends?" she asked.

"Yeah," he replied casually, leaning in. "A good one, actually."

The nurse, who Jackson now realized was McCall's mother, glanced around the corridor to make sure none of her colleagues were watching.

"Just be quick, okay?" she whispered, getting up from her desk and walking toward the cantina just behind the reception desk.

Jackson slid into her seat and quickly began typing. His fingers danced across the keyboard as he searched for "wolfsbane." He skimmed the first few pages that appeared in the browser, his eyes flicking over the old engravings and text. A sly grin crept across his face, and after a moment, he even chuckled quietly to himself.

He deleted the search history, stood up, and left without so much as a word of thanks.

Melissa, noticing the boy had disappeared, returned to her station and cast a curious glance at the computer screen. But there was nothing—just the main desktop staring back at her. She looked up, scanning the area for any sign of him, but Jackson was already gone.

Jackson arrived at the school just in time for the break between second and third period. As he strode through the bustling corridor, he carried himself with an air of newfound confidence. For the first time in a while, he felt a clear sense of purpose, a goal fixed firmly in his mind—one he was determined to achieve.

His eyes scanned the crowd until they landed on Scott, who was at his locker, punching the code into the padlock. Jackson approached with purpose. The locker door swung open, only to slam shut again with a sharp clatter. The sudden noise made Scott flinch, his brown eyes immediately locking onto Jackson's piercing blue gaze.

"I know what you are, McCall," Jackson announced with a mischievous grin, though his tone was disturbingly casual, almost as if he were greeting an old friend.

"Wha... What?" Scott stammered, utterly taken aback, his confusion plain as he tried to grasp the situation.

"I know what you are," Jackson repeated, stepping closer, his grin widening.

"Uh, sorry... but I have no idea what you're talking about," Scott mumbled, his heart pounding in his chest, the sound almost deafening in his own ears.

"Yeah, you do," Jackson said, his smile never faltering. "And here's the thing. However you came to be what you are... you're going to get it for me too."

"Get what for you?" Scott struggled to keep his face neutral, trying to imitate the unreadable expression he had learned from Derek. He couldn't afford to give anything away.

"Whatever it is. A bite, a scratch?" At those words, Scott felt a lump form in his throat, making it hard to swallow. The glint in Jackson's eye told him everything—he had just confirmed what had previously only been suspicions. "Sniffing magic fairy dust under the moonlight?" Jackson added with a smirk, clearly enjoying himself. "I don't care. You're going to get it for me..." He let his voice trail off for dramatic effect, grabbing Scott by the chin and turning his face toward Allison, who was deep in conversation with someone across the hall. "Or she's going to find out too."

Without waiting for Scott's response, Jackson released him and sauntered off, a wide, self-satisfied smile stretching across his face. His steps were light, almost carefree, as if he had already won.

The teenage werewolf glanced behind him in horror, taking a deep breath. His eyes darted frantically down the corridor, searching for some solution to the unfolding crisis. Spotting Stiles, he rushed over and grabbed him, pulling him aside with a sense of urgency.

"Jackson knows!" Scott practically growled. "Jackson knows about me!"

At those words, Stiles shot up, moving almost comically fast as he yanked Scott along.

"How the hell did he find out?" he blurted out, his voice full of disbelief.

"I have no idea," Scott replied, his face a mixture of panic and confusion. Both of them were on edge, their arms flailing as they rushed, as if the rapid pace could somehow ease their anxiety. They had no clear destination, but Stiles couldn't stand still in his state of agitation.

"Did he say it? The word?" Stiles asked, his attempt at whispering ruined by the adrenaline coursing through him. "Did he say, 'I know you're a werewolf'?"

"No. But he implied it pretty freaking clearly," Scott retorted, his voice rising with frustration.

"Okay, maybe it's not as bad as it seems. He doesn't have any proof, right? And if he wanted to tell someone, who's going to believe him anyway?" Stiles tried to offer some comfort, but the shakiness in his voice suggested he wasn't fully convinced himself.

"How about Allison's father?" Scott shot back, eyes wide with worry.

"Okay, it's bad. Very bad. It's as if we were on Alderaan and could actually spot the Death Star… Def Con 1 bad..." Stiles muttered to himself, fully realizing the severity of the situation. But Scott stared at him blankly. "Dude... you still haven't watched Star Wars?" Stiles asked, incredulous. 

"I need a cure. Immediately," Scott's voice cracked as his panic escalated.

"Does Jackson know about Allison's father?"

"No, I don't think so..." Scott muttered, running his fingers anxiously through his hair.

"Where's Derek?"

"Hiding. Like we told him. Why?"

"I've got another idea. It might take a little finesse, though."

"Remember, we've got the game tonight. Quarterfinals. And it's your first game," Scott reminded him, though his tone was laced with desperation.

"I know, I know," Stiles said with a chuckle that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Do you have a plan for Allison?"

"She's in my next class," Scott shrugged helplessly, clearly out of ideas.

"Get the necklace," Stiles said, patting his friend on the shoulder to instill some confidence before heading off to his own class.

"Get the necklace..." Scott mumbled to himself, heading toward his classroom as the first bell rang, calling the students back inside.

Upon entering the classroom, Scott's eyes immediately sought Allison, the pretty brunette seated near the window. Her gaze reflected a deep sadness, and the vacant seat next to her seemed to beckon him. Just as he was about to sit down, a short girl with reddish-blonde hair intercepted him.

"Try another row, sweetheart," Lydia said sweetly, leaning provocatively toward him.

Exasperated, Scott muttered under his breath before settling into the seat just behind Lydia, still close to Allison, but not as close as he'd hoped.

"You didn't have to do that," Allison whispered to her friend, her tone carrying a quiet reproach.

"You need an ex-boyfriend buffer for a little while," Lydia replied with a smile, her voice laced with playful mischief.

"Allison," Scott leaned forward, desperate to catch his ex-girlfriend's attention. He was so eager he almost tipped out of his seat. Lydia watched him with an amused grin, clearly enjoying the scene.

"See what I mean?" Lydia turned to Allison, who tried her best to ignore Scott's voice, though it was clear she wasn't entirely indifferent to it.

"Allison?"

Finally, Allison couldn't resist any longer and turned toward him.

"Hey," she whispered, her voice subdued. "Class is starting," she added, her tone drained of emotion. But Scott, straining to catch her subtle cues, could still detect the lingering scent of sadness on her.

"I know, and I'll shut up," Scott replied, clutching his phone. He had just come up with an idea—something that might win her over, even if just a little. "I'm sending you some stuff I had on my phone. Thought you might want it."

She nodded slightly, though it was clear her enthusiasm had faded. Her response wasn't out of excitement, but more a hope that it would get him off her back.

"Okay, let's get started," Mrs. Ramsey, their English teacher, called out as she strode to the front of the class. "Get your books out. I'd like to return to our discussion from yesterday..."

Allison glanced at her phone as Scott's message popped up on the screen. She opened it, her brow furrowing. It was a collection of photos—pictures they had taken of each other back when things were still good between them. She couldn't help the slight curve of her lips as a faint smile formed, but she quickly suppressed it, her expression hardening into an angry, tear-filled glare directed at Scott.

"A more in-depth analysis of Iago and how he preyed on Othello's jealousy..." Mrs. Ramsey continued, dusting chalk off her hands.

Allison, unable to stay any longer, grabbed her books and abruptly left the classroom, not sparing a glance or word for the teacher. She stormed out, her heart heavy, and Scott immediately bolted after her, leaving his belongings behind in the hall.

"The subject seems to resonate with some," Mrs. Ramsey commented with calm detachment, clearly accustomed to the dramatic outbursts of teenagers after years of teaching.

As the werewolf emerged into the corridor, he called out after the girl, her quick steps echoing down the hall. She halted and turned toward him, her eyes still glistening with unshed tears, though her jaw was tightly clenched.

"Why'd you send those?" she asked, her voice trembling ever so slightly. Scott was certain that without his heightened senses, he wouldn't have caught it. "Are you trying to make me feel even worse for breaking up with you?"

"No. I thought you'd like them. I thought it would remind you of us..." he replied quietly, hesitantly.

"Are you trying to hurt me? Get back at me?" Her voice cracked, and the tears now clung to her lashes, on the verge of spilling down her pale cheeks, flushed with emotion.

"No," he responded in disbelief, completely at a loss how she could think so little of him.

"Please, don't talk to me," she whispered, her voice soft and pleading. "I need more time before I can be just friends. Okay? Please," she added, seeing his inability to respond. Without waiting for an answer, she walked away quickly, leaving him standing alone in the corridor, his heart sinking under the weight of failure—not just in getting the necklace, but in everything else as well.

He returned to the classroom with slow, heavy steps, his head hung low in sorrow.

Struggling to make it through to his lunch break, Scott finally caught up with Stiles. After exchanging the usual routine of buying each other lunch, they found a vacant table and settled in, engaging in conversation.

"Did you get her to give you the necklace?" asked the skinny guy.

"Not exactly," muttered the werewolf, still uncertain about the events that had transpired during the English lesson.

"What happened?"

"She told me not to talk to her. At all," Scott replied, his gaze fixed on his plate as he lost his appetite.

"So she's not giving you…"

"No, she's not giving me the necklace," Scott growled, unsure if he was angrier at himself, at Stiles, or perhaps even at Allison.

"Did you find out anything else?"

"Just that I know nothing about girls and they're completely psychotic," he shrugged, leaning back in his chair with a look of resignation.

"Okay. I came up with a Plan B in case something like this happened," Stiles sighed heavily, munching on curly fries.

"What's Plan B?" asked the black-haired boy, his voice tinged with calm resignation.

"Just steal the stupid thing," Stiles stated bluntly, spreading his arms wide before grabbing the bottle on the table.

"Couldn't we try getting to Harris?" Scott suggested.

"My dad gave him a 24-hour protective detail, and the jerk won't even talk to Charlie," muttered the scrawny boy as he sipped his water. "All we've got is the necklace. Steal it."

"Stiles," whispered Scott, suddenly alarmed as he noticed Jackson's unblinking gaze fixed on them from across the cafeteria. "He's watching us."

The husky werewolf glanced toward the far end of the room, spotting the lacrosse team captain sitting with Lydia and Allison. While the girls were engrossed in their own conversation, Jackson stared intensely at the two boys without wavering.

"Act normal," Scott growled, seeing Stiles freeze mid-motion, clearly unnerved by the scrutiny.

The skinny guy shrugged and shook his head, leaning back in the chair, visibly tense. Meanwhile, Jackson bit into his green apple, the crisp crunch cutting through the ambient noise of the cafeteria, causing the sensitive werewolf to wince.

"Scott? Can you hear me?" The quiet words echoed in his mind, but Scott caught them easily, summoning all his willpower not to glance in the direction from which the voice came. "You can, can't you?"

"What's wrong?" Stiles whispered, noticing his friend stiffen.

"Jackson's talking to me. He knows I can hear him," came the uneasy reply, making the husky boy immediately glance at the school's lacrosse star. "Look at me," Scott nervously instructed, but his own eyes remained locked unnaturally on his plate. "Talk to me. Act like nothing's happening."

"You trying to pretend you can't hear me?" The voice, amused, rang out again.

Scott forced a fake smile toward Stiles and nodded.

"Say something," he urged through clenched teeth. "Talk to me."

"I... I don't know what to say," Stiles blurted, waving his hands in a flustered panic. "My mind's a blank."

"Your mind's a blank?" Scott asked in disbelief. "You can't come up with something to say?"

"Not under this kind of pressure!" his friend croaked. "And FYI, he's not sitting with them anymore," he added, turning his attention to the table where the girls, indeed, now sat alone.

"Where the hell is he?" Scott muttered under his breath, scanning the canteen anxiously.

"Looking for me, McCall? I'm right here," the voice echoed with cruel laughter. "What else can you do? Can you see better? Are you stronger? More powerful? I knew there was no way you suddenly got that good at lacrosse. Which means you're actually a cheater, aren't you? Can you even play lacrosse?" Jackson's words struck with precision, each one calculated to throw Scott off balance.

"Yes," growled the werewolf softly, hands clenching around his tray, unaware he was responding to the taunt. Stiles observed him with growing concern.

"I'll bet my new co-captain is going to score a bunch of shots tonight, aren't you? And while you're pretending you're not a lying cheat, I'm going to ruin your life if you don't give me what I want," Jackson continued, relishing how his words slowly unraveled Scott's composure. "You know where I'm going to start? With her..."

Scott's gaze instantly drifted to Allison, sitting with Lydia, laughing, seemingly indifferent to the pain of their recent breakup. His hand clenched dangerously around his water bottle, trembling.

"I'm going to destroy any chance you have left with her. And once I've done that..." Jackson's voice grew darker, each word deliberate.

"Scott," Stiles whispered, trying to pull his friend back from the brink, though he couldn't hear the poisonous words himself. He could see perfectly what they were doing to Scott's self-control. "Don't listen. Don't give him that kind of power over you."

"I'm going to do everything you never got a chance to do," Jackson pressed on, knowing he had to maintain the pressure to get the reaction he desired. Even from across the room, he could see Scott's hands tremble. Stiles watched, fear flashing in his eyes. "And she's going to beg for more. I bet she likes to get loud. Maybe she's even a screamer. How are you going to feel, Scott? When she's screaming my name?"

The tray in Scott's hands shattered with a loud clatter, sending food scattering across the table. The sudden noise drew the attention of Lydia and Allison, who looked over, puzzled. Scott noticed their gaze and raised an anguished look in return. His eyes shifted toward Jackson, who sat with a subtle, satisfied smile curling at the corners of his mouth, clearly reveling in Scott's unraveling.

With a deliberate slowness, Jackson lifted the apple to his lips, biting into it once more, the skin crunching under his perfectly even white teeth.

***

To intensify Scott's torment, Jackson invited Allison for a pool session during their shared break, aiming to make his threat more tangible by winning the girl's favor.

They swam in adjacent lanes, engaging in friendly races. Surprisingly, Jackson found himself enjoying the time spent with Allison, even without considering his ulterior motive.

"You beat me again," she laughed as they both touched the pool wall.

"I have an unfair advantage," he grinned broadly. "See these cheekbones? Aerodynamically suited for speed in the water," he joked, drawing her attention to a feature he knew many girls at school admired.

Meanwhile, Scott sat on the bleachers, his stomach twisting into tight knots as he watched Allison laugh at Jackson's jokes. Her bag sat in front of him, and he carefully scanned the surroundings to ensure no one was watching him. He had to find the necklace.

"So, you're coming to the game tonight, right?" Jackson asked.

"I was sort of thinking no," Allison admitted, sighing, her expression faltering.

"But you have to. We win this, and we're into the semi-finals." He looked her in the eye. "It's not because of Scott, right?" he asked, incredulous.

"I was thinking it might be a little weird," she hesitated.

"But he's fine with it. He actually asked me if you were coming. He said he hoped you didn't feel weird about it."

"He did?" Allison was surprised, and Scott, who overheard them while rummaging through her bag, was surprised too.

"Yeah. He's a good guy. You can't hate him too much," Jackson continued smoothly, his manipulation as effortless as ever. "I mean, it's obvious he's not mature enough yet to date someone like you. But then, you can't blame him for trying."

Allison laughed at the compliment, playfully splashing water at Jackson before jokingly pushing his head underwater. Scott, witnessing the scene, clenched his jaw, furious not only at what he was watching but also at his failure to find the necklace.

Jackson exited the pool area with a smug look, satisfied with the progress of his plan. An hour of swimming had not only relaxed him, but further convinced him of the perfection of his strategy.

"Jackson!" a voice called from behind. He turned to see Lydia approaching him through the crowded hallway, clutching her phone in one hand and waving it in front of his face when she reached him.

"This little text? Not funny," she said, her voice dripping with disbelief.

"I wasn't trying to be funny," he replied coolly, his expression unflinching. "If I were, I'd have put a 'haha' at the end. See? No 'haha.' Just a period."

Lydia, incredulous, read the message aloud. "'Lydia, please give back my spare house key at your earliest convenience as we are no longer dating.'" She scrutinized his face, momentarily wondering if the boy before her was someone else entirely.

"You didn't lose it, did you?" he asked, his tone impersonal and detached, something Lydia wasn't used to hearing directed at her.

"What the hell is this?" she demanded, her voice lower now, uncertain about the surreal situation unfolding.

"In preparation for some big changes, I've decided to drop the dead weight in my life," Jackson explained, sounding as if he were reciting from a well-rehearsed script. His gaze drifted away, his lips curling into a cold smile. "And you're just about the deadest."

"Are you breaking up with me?" Lydia asked, shock coloring her words.

"Dumping, actually. I'm dumping you," he clarified, still riding the high of his good mood, showing no remorse. He was ready to walk away but was stopped when she grabbed the sleeve of his leather jacket, her face twisted in disbelief.

"Dumped by the Co-Captain of the lacrosse team," she growled in his face, heavily emphasizing the title. "I wonder how many minutes it'll take to get over that," she spat, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Jackson merely shrugged, mockingly pressing two fingers to his lips and blowing her a kiss before turning to leave.

"Oh wait... Seconds!" she shouted after him, her anger palpable. As she checked to see if anyone else had witnessed their conversation, her gaze met the somber eyes of the history teacher. Someone observed her humiliation, but since it wasn't a fellow student, it didn't sting as much. She knew the red-haired teacher wouldn't share what she had seen.

***

After school, Stiles rushed into his room at nearly full speed. He had a lot to do and very little time to spare. In a matter of seconds, he was at his desk, dropping his backpack to the floor without a second thought.

"Hey, Stiles!" he heard his father call from the other room.

"Yoo...?" he started, spinning around in his chair, but immediately fell silent, lowering his voice in disbelief. "Derek?"

There, standing in the middle of his room, was Derek Hale. In broad daylight. In the sheriff's house. A man wanted by the police throughout the county—if not the entire state—stood casually in Stiles' bedroom. Derek raised a finger to his lips, signaling for silence, then swiftly gestured for Stiles to move toward the door and block his father's entry.

Stiles clumsily got up from his seat and staggered to the entrance, awkwardly leaning against the doorframe, his arms flailing in a desperate attempt to appear nonchalant. He came face to face with his father, who, after years of living with his son, was hardly fazed by Stiles' erratic behavior. However, something else seemed to puzzle him.

"What did you say?" the sheriff asked, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

"Yo, D-Dad?" Stiles forced a casual tone as he laughed, though his nerves were barely contained.

"Listen, I've got something I need to take care of, but I'll be there tonight. You know, for your first game!" The sheriff looked at his son with a distracted smile, unsure how to express pride because his son was finally going to play—after so long of just warming the bench.

"My first game..." Stiles echoed, his smile a little crooked as he tried to push the thought aside. "Uh, it's great! Awesome. Uh, good!" He hoped his dad would take the cue to leave, as he had hinted earlier, but the man remained where he was, still smiling.

"I'm so happy and so unbelievably proud of you," the sheriff said, his voice serious. For many years now, it had just been the two of them, looking out for each other. And yet, Noah often felt like he hadn't been the father Stiles deserved—working irregular hours, rarely being home.

"Thanks. Me too. I'm happy and proud of myself," Stiles quipped, smiling as his father finally turned to leave. He had almost closed the door when Noah paused.

"They're really going to let you play this time?" he asked, double-checking with a hopeful tone.

"Yes, Dad. I'm First Line. Can you believe that?"

"I'm very proud." The grin on Noah's face hadn't been that wide in a long time.

"Me too. Again, I'm..."

Before he could finish, Stiles pulled back from the door, seeing his father stepping forward to embrace him. He gratefully sank into his dad's broad shoulders. With everything going on with Scott, it had been a while since they'd really talked. He missed it, missed the connection, but he also knew this was not the time to catch up on lost moments.

"Huggie, huggie, huggie..." he muttered under his breath, inwardly laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

Noah finally caught on to his son's eagerness to be left alone and, with a chuckle, said his goodbyes. The moment the sheriff was out of sight, Stiles shut the door with a sharp thud, relief washing over him.

Stiles burst into the room and Derek immediately slammed him against the wall, seizing him by the collar of his shirt.

"If you say one word..." Derek growled, his voice a low, menacing threat.

"Oh, what? You mean, like, 'Hey, Dad, Derek Hale's in my room. Bring your gun!'?" Stiles shot back, his tone dripping with sarcasm. Despite the tension, he felt a sliver of security knowing the werewolf couldn't harm him without facing severe consequences from the Witch. Derek, momentarily at a loss for words, simply glowered. "Yeah, that's right. If I'm harboring your fugitive ass, it's my house, my rules, buddy," Stiles declared, giving Derek a patronizing pat on the shoulder.

Derek's glare could have cut through steel, but after a moment, he gave a curt nod and, with a sharp jerk, straightened the teenager's shirt collar before stepping back.

Stiles let out a nervous laugh, awkwardly patting Derek's leather jacket in return. But as he moved toward his desk, he recoiled in horror when Derek took a sudden, brisk step forward, clearly relishing in the discomfort he was causing.

"Oh, my God!" Stiles squealed, his voice an octave higher than usual, almost like a frightened four-year-old.

"Scott didn't get the necklace?" Derek asked, ignoring the dramatics as Stiles finally settled in his seat.

"No. He's still working on it. But there's something else we can try," Stiles replied, meeting Derek's intense gaze, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. "The night we were trapped at the school, Scott sent a text to Allison, asking her to meet him there."

"So?" Derek's brow furrowed, waiting for a point.

"So, it wasn't Scott," Stiles pointed out, his voice slow and deliberate.

"Can you find out who sent it?" Derek's voice remained clipped, growing impatient.

"No, not me... But I think I know somebody who can," Stiles said, turning to his backpack and pulling out his phone. After a brief exchange over a phone call, he hung up.

"What now?" Derek demanded, his impatience palpable.

"Now we wait," Stiles shrugged. "In the meantime, you want to tell me what you're actually doing here? Shouldn't you be at Charlie's?"

Stiles earned another murderous stare for his remark. Derek clearly disliked the overly familiar way the teenager referred to his teacher, but there wasn't much he could do about it, especially since she herself had suggested the boy call her that. After all, they were supposed to be pretending to be cousins.

"Your father's men were hanging around. I preferred not to expose her," Derek muttered, though he wasn't entirely sure why he was explaining himself.

With that, the conversation fell into silence. Stiles busied himself on the computer, while Derek's attention wandered to a book on a nearby shelf. He picked it up—it looked well worn, too thick for a typical teenager's taste. As he opened the cover, he saw the title page: Arthur Conan Doyle's The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, with a dedication written underneath: For Diana, Paige. His fingers tightened on the cardboard binding, and a low growl escaped his throat, unconscious but filled with suppressed emotion. Stiles, noticing the sound, glanced over and immediately saw the book in Derek's hands.

"Oh yeah, I need to give that back to Diana. Finished reading it a couple of weeks ago," Stiles said with a smile, thinking fondly of his former babysitter.

Just then, the doorbell rang, pulling Stiles away to answer it. Meanwhile, Derek sank heavily into the armchair by the bed, his gaze still fixated on the familiar handwriting inside the book. It had been nearly a decade since he'd last seen it. He knew, at some point, he'd have to deal with his old friend, especially considering how much she'd already helped him. Charlotte had been constantly nudging him to at least call Diana and say thank you, but he hadn't been able to summon the courage. The thought of reconnecting with the deputy threatened to drag up too many memories—ones he'd been trying to bury.

Stiles returned, now accompanied by another young man—dark-haired, deeply tanned, with a friendly face that was currently twisted into a look of disbelief.

"You want me to do what?" the new arrival asked, his tone hovering between indignation and surprise, yet maintaining a calm composure.

"Trace a text," Stiles repeated matter-of-factly.

"I came here to do lab work. You know, like lab partners?" the boy, Danny, replied.

"And we will! ...Right after you trace the text," Stiles sighed, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world.

"And what makes you think I know how?" Danny shot back, eyes narrowing slightly.

"I-I looked up your arrest record," Stiles said, chuckling smugly.

"I was thirteen. They dropped the charges," Danny pointed out, exasperated.

"Whatever," Stiles mumbled.

"No, we're doing lab work," Danny insisted, pulling a chair over and sitting down beside his jittery friend. He started unpacking the books, clearly determined to stick to the plan. Straightening in his seat, he sighed heavily.

As Danny worked, he noticed a presence behind him. Glancing up, his gaze landed on a man—older than both of them, handsome and well-built—who sat engrossed in a thick book. The man's eyes flicked up just briefly, offering them both a dark, brooding glance before returning to his reading.

"Who's he again?" Danny whispered to Stiles, his voice low.

Stiles turned, as if momentarily startled by the question, and for a second, it looked like he had forgotten Derek was even there.

"Uh, my cousin..." Stiles paused, trying to think. "Miguel."

The man regarded the teenager in disbelief, his expression growing darker. Even Stiles shifted uncomfortably at his own slip-up.

"...Is that blood on his shirt?" Danny asked, his voice tinged with concern. The unease radiating from Derek was palpable, but there was also a strange curiosity in Danny's eyes, drawn to the air of mystery surrounding the werewolf.

Stiles' eyes widened, and he quickly turned to verify Danny's observation. Sure enough, Derek's T-shirt had faint bloodstains smeared across it, practically invisible unless you knew to look for them.

"Yeah," Stiles stammered. "Yes. Well, he gets these horrible nosebleeds," he added, tension mounting in his voice. "Hey, Miguel..." Derek lifted his gaze from the book, his eyes dark with a restrained fury that suggested he was holding back from throttling Stiles on the spot. "I thought I told you that you could borrow one of my shirts?"

With a loud slam, Derek snapped the book shut and tossed it onto the bed with deliberate force. Without a word, he stood and strode toward the chest of drawers against the wall. Opening it, he rifled through Stiles' clothes, though they both knew none would fit him—Derek's frame was nearly double that of the lanky teenager.

Facing the two boys, Derek pulled off his bloodstained shirt, his back turned to them as he searched through the drawer, fully aware of their gazes on him.

"So, anyway," Stiles started, clearly uncomfortable but pushing through, "we both know you have the skills to trace that text, so we should probably..."

"Stiles..." Derek's voice cut through the conversation like a knife.

"Yeah?" Stiles quipped, turning back to his "cousin."

"This..." Derek growled, lifting the shirt in his hands with obvious frustration, "doesn't... fit!"

"Then try something else on!" Stiles shot back, though he quickly realized that Derek's disheveled state was drawing far too much attention from Danny, who wasn't even pretending to focus on the task at hand. Inspiration struck, and a mischievous smile crept onto Stiles' face. "Sorry. Hey, that one looks pretty good, huh?" he commented, as Derek tried on a shirt that clung tightly to his broad chest. Garish orange and blue stripes emblazoned the shirt.

"What do you think, Danny?" Stiles turned to his friend, pretending to ignore the murderous glare Derek was sending his way. "The shirt?"

"Er..." Danny stammered, clearly flustered. "It's a nice shirt..." he replied, though he didn't seem at all convinced.

"Think he should try on another one?" Stiles asked, clearly enjoying himself now.

"It's... it's not really his color..." Danny finally muttered, his cheeks darkening with a blush.

Frustrated, Derek ripped the shirt over his head, exposing his chiseled, sculpted abs. He could feel Danny's eyes on him, which only heightened his irritation. Stiles, however, seemed delighted as he watched his friend's jaw drop slightly in astonishment.

"You might bat for a different team, but you're still playing ball, right, Danny-boy?" Stiles teased, elbowing his guest with a knowing grin, while Derek continued to sift through the drawer.

"You're a horrible person," Danny muttered, focusing intently on the computer screen.

"I know. It keeps me awake at night," Stiles chuckled. "Anyway, about that text..."

"Stiles!" Derek growled sharply, and when they both turned to him, they saw that he had disheveled hair from changing shirts so many times. His eyes glowed faintly with barely restrained fury. "None of these fit!"

Stiles didn't respond, instead raising his eyebrows at Danny expectantly.

"I'll need the ISP," Danny said, clearly trying to refocus, avoiding eye contact with Stiles' enraged "cousin." "The phone number, and the exact time of the text."

Stiles, unable to contain his excitement, barely stopped himself from doing a victory dance in his chair as Danny got to work. Derek, meanwhile, finally pulled out a plain grey T-shirt from the bottom of the drawer, one that fit him—more or less.

In less than fifteen minutes, Danny found the crucial information they were after. Derek loomed behind them, peering over their heads at the computer monitor.

"There. The text was sent from a computer. This one." They all leaned in closer to the display. Stiles' jaw dropped, and Derek's brow furrowed.

"Registered to that account name?" Derek asked, disbelief lacing his words.

"No, no, no, no," Stiles muttered, shaking his head in denial. "That can't be right." It seemed too far-fetched to be possible, but then again, everything lately had been like that.

All three stared at the screen. Danny, oblivious to the deeper implications, looked on as the other two tried to make sense of it. No matter how they rearranged the letters, the result was always the same: BEACON HILLS HOSPITAL – MELISSA MCCALL.

***

Allison jogged through the woods, trying to clear her mind from the chaos swirling within. Unable to find solace at home, she chose a jog, hoping the physical exertion would help her organize her thoughts. Ever since the incident at school the previous night, she had pushed herself to work out more frequently, determined to build stamina and reclaim some sense of control.

With her headphones blaring music, she maintained a steady pace, unaware that she had veered off her usual route. Ahead, the charred remains of a house came into view, and only then did she realize she had wandered into unfamiliar territory. The building, once large and imposing, now stood as a skeletal structure, with only fragments of the walls and the front porch remaining.

Intrigued, she stepped onto the miraculously surviving porch. Having read up on Derek Hale's family, she recognized the ruins as what used to be his home. Curiosity piqued, she wondered what could have happened here six years ago. Could it explain Derek's behavior? Could it confirm him as a killer?

Pushing open the creaky front door, she ventured inside, finding a dilapidated corridor and a staircase leading to a mostly destroyed second floor. She instinctively headed toward what must have been the living room. This part of the house seemed to have suffered the least from the flames, as though the fire brigade had salvaged a fragment of it.

The place exuded a melancholy aura. It felt like someone had attempted to live there after the tragedy, and the thought sent a shiver down her spine. Despite the devastation, some furniture had survived, adding an eerie touch to the abandoned atmosphere. As her gaze wandered, she noticed scratches on the floor. Brushing away the dust and leaves, she realized they resembled the size of a man's hand—but they were much deeper than she would have expected.

Suddenly, she felt a gaze on her. Startled, she looked up and screamed, realizing she was not alone.

"Damn! You got some lungs on you!" Kate remarked, her voice laced with amusement as she emerged from the shadows.

"Did you follow me here?" Allison's fear quickly morphed into suspicion.

"Well, you can't blame me for being concerned about my favorite niece, now, can you?" Kate replied, confidently placing her hands on her hips as she eyed the younger girl. "What are you looking for?"

"I don't know... Something. Anything," Allison shrugged, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

"You mean answers to lingering questions, like..." Kate prompted.

"Why he would want to kill us?" Allison interjected, referring to the house's former occupant.

"Well, I mean, come on! Look at this place," Kate gestured broadly, her eyes scanning the charred ruins. "Could you imagine if your father and I were trapped in something like this? It might do some pretty interesting things to your head, don't you think?"

"It wouldn't turn me into a psychotic killer," Allison responded, disbelief coloring her tone.

"You don't have to be psychotic to be a killer..." Kate corrected. "You just need... a reason... and sometimes, even without one..." She gently ran her hand along a charred beam nearby, a soft, almost affectionate smile playing on her lips as she breathed in the lingering scent of burnt wood. "You might surprise yourself." She took a few steps closer to Allison, her smile widening. "What do you want, Allison?"

"I want... I want to not be scared," Allison confessed, her voice rising with emotion. "That night at the school, I felt so weak, like I needed someone to come and save me. I hate that feeling. I want to feel stronger. I want to feel powerful."

"Allison," Kate's voice softened as she approached her, her smile growing. "If you can give me just a little bit of time... be just a little patient... I think I can give you exactly what you want," she whispered in her niece's ear, her fingers brushing lightly over Allison's shoulder.

Without waiting for a response, Kate turned and headed for the exit, pausing briefly to glance back, gauging the impact of her words on the teenager before disappearing into the shadows.

***

In another part of town, Scott cautiously opened Allison's bedroom window, fully aware of her absence. He slipped inside and scanned the room, considering where the necklace might be hidden. Carefully, he began exploring the bedside tables and dresser drawers, though he stopped short when his hand brushed against a drawer filled with underwear. Determined to respect her privacy, he hurried on to check the shelves and their contents, but the necklace continued to elude him.

Frustration gnawed at him as he sat down at her desk, absentmindedly flipping through a few textbooks. His eyes fell on something familiar—a receipt from the bowling alley. A smile tugged at his lips as memories flooded back, but his expression quickly changed when he noticed a note scribbled on the back: First date with Scott! He felt a pang of longing, stirring the hope that perhaps they could still salvage their relationship.

Setting the receipt back in place, Scott's gaze landed on an old, leather-bound book nearby, with a chain dangling between its pages. He opened it cautiously and found the elusive necklace nestled within. As he examined the marked page, he noticed several circled words—legend, mythical monster, and Loup-garou. Intrigued, he glanced up the latter term on his phone, alarmed by what he discovered. Allison was dangerously close to unraveling the truth. The French phrase described precisely what he was—a werewolf.

The sound of the garage door opening jarred him from his thoughts. Someone was home. Moving quickly, Scott closed the book, ensuring everything on the desk appeared undisturbed. Pocketing the silver pendant, he made a swift escape back through the window.

As he descended from the roof and landed beside his bike, a voice called out.

"Scott..."

He froze and looked up to see Allison's father, Argent, watching him from a short distance away. The man's expression shifted from a furrowed brow to a surprisingly genial smile.

"Come inside, Scott. She should be home in a few minutes," Argent invited, turning toward the house. "She sometimes goes for a run after school."

"Actually, I should get going—I've got a game tonight," Scott replied, trying to excuse himself, uncertain how to refuse.

Argent ignored his attempt to leave, grabbing two beer bottles from the fridge. "Would you like something to drink? I'm in the mood for a beer," he offered, handing one to Scott and opening the other.

"You don't have to test me anymore," Scott sighed. "Your daughter already dumped me."

"No test. I'm sorry," Argent responded sympathetically. "High school romances burn bright, fade fast... Go ahead."

"I'm good, thanks," Scott declined, pushing the bottle away. "It tastes awful."

Argent's expression darkened slightly, creating an uneasy tension. "I was curious about something," he began, leading Scott into the lounge. "How do you know Derek Hale?"

"Derek who?" Scott feigned ignorance, his heart pounding.

"Allison mentioned she's seen you talking to him. Don't you think that's a little concerning, Scott? You talking to an alleged murderer?" Argent pressed, leaning casually against the fireplace.

"It's not like I'm the only one who knows him..." Scott muttered defensively.

"But you're the only one that's talking to him."

"Not really! You could say the same about anyone Derek might ask for directions," Scott shot back, his frustration mounting. "I talked to him, but before I knew he was a murderer. Why are you acting like I've done something wrong?"

Argent, sensing the tension rising, crouched down next to Scott, his voice calm yet firm. "You don't have to be afraid of me. You know I'm just looking out for my daughter, right?"

Unbeknownst to them, Allison had just returned and overheard their conversation, quietly hiding behind the door.

"Will you believe me if I say I think about it too?" Scott stood abruptly, addressing Argent directly. "It's all I think about. When we were at the school the other night, every decision I made, everything I did, was to make sure she was safe!"

Argent stood as well, his expression softening as he recognized the conviction in Scott's voice. "You should go. You don't want to be late for your game."

Scott nodded, trying to read Argent's intentions, but remained silent as he made his way to the door and left the house.

***

In the dimly lit chemistry classroom, illuminated only by the soft glow of a single lamp atop the teacher's desk, Adrian Harris sat hunched over, his posture betraying the weight of regret. His head bowed low, as if it was too heavy to lift. Across from him stood two figures: Sheriff Stilinski, his demeanor stern, and Officer Diana Harris, Adrian's sister, her face etched with a mixture of sorrow and anger.

"It was six years ago..." Adrian began defensively, his voice thick with remorse. "I was still... dealing with my demons back then. But I've been sober since, Di, you know that." He turned to his sister, his eyes pleading for understanding.

"Listen, I've got my son's first lacrosse game tonight," Sheriff Stilinski interjected, his voice tinged with impatience. "Let's just stick to the details, huh?"

Adrian shifted in his seat, reflecting on the past. "I met her in a bar. We had a lot of drinks—a lot. She was asking me all sorts of questions, about what I do. Do you have any idea what it's like to have someone interested in chemistry after staring at blank faces day after day?" He avoided his sister's gaze, his face awash with guilt.

"Get to the point," Diana urged, her voice taut with dread, as if she already knew what was coming.

"I talked. I told her everything. It was fascinating stuff—how you could melt the lock off a bank vault, how you could dissolve a body and get away with murder..." Adrian's voice held a strange, almost forgotten passion, one that made his sister recoil slightly.

Diana swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper as she asked, "How you could start a fire... and get away with arson?"

Adrian hesitated, then nodded somberly. "And a week later, the Hale House burns down," he whispered, as if revealing a dark, hidden secret.

The sheriff sighed heavily, his gaze flicking to Diana, who stood frozen, her hand pressed to her mouth, stifling the sobs that threatened to escape.

"You know, you could have said something," Stilinski remarked, his voice heavy with disappointment.

"And be an accomplice?" Adrian countered, still avoiding his sister's eyes. "That would have ended my career. Diana would've been left alone. Probably in some orphanage."

As Diana struggled to regain her composure, the sheriff took a deep breath and refocused. "How old was the woman?" he asked, giving Diana time to collect herself.

Adrian pressed his lips together, his silence speaking volumes.

"I see..." Sheriff Stilinski muttered, the realization dawning on him and on Diana. The woman had either been much younger than Adrian or had appeared so.

"You don't know her name or where she was from?" Stilinski pressed, trying to piece together the puzzle.

"No," Adrian said, shaking his head emphatically. "And that's the same thing Laura Hale asked me. I'll tell you what I told her." He leaned over the desk and sketched something quickly on a piece of paper.

"What's that?" the sheriff asked, eyeing the drawing. The crude lines revealed that, unlike his sister, Adrian lacked any genuine talent for sketching.

"The necklace the girl was wearing," Adrian explained. "This was the symbol on it. I asked her about it, and she said it was a family thing. You find the girl wearing that necklace—you've found your arsonist."

"Murderer," Diana corrected sharply, her voice thick with bitterness.

Adrian looked at her, confusion flickering across his face. "Excuse me?"

"It didn't end with the fire," Diana spat, her anger finally breaking through. "This girl is a murderer. Nine people died. One body was never found. One man's been catatonic for six years. And I'll carry a scar for the rest of my life that you can't even bear to look at." She rolled up her sleeve, revealing a burn-scarred arm, the memory of that night forever etched into her skin.

Adrian's eyes closed, unable to face the physical manifestation of his sister's pain. The reality of what he'd helped set into motion weighed down on him like a heavy chain.

Sheriff Stilinski, sensing the need for comfort, gently placed his hand on Diana's back and guided her out of the room, leaving Adrian alone with the ghosts of his choices. The harsh truths that had just been laid bare seemed to echo in the stony silence of the room.

***

Scott irritably shoved his phone back into his bag, pulling on his glove to prepare for the upcoming game. A surge of frustration coursed through him as he noticed Stiles had yet to arrive, despite his friend's assurances that he'd be there.

"It's the bite that does it, isn't it?" a voice suddenly murmured near his ear. Scott looked up to see Jackson casually seated beside him, looking far too relaxed.

"Yeah," Scott admitted, glancing around to ensure their conversation remained private.

"Well, then, it's easy!" Jackson began, his tone flippant.

"No, it's not. I can't be the one to do it, okay? It has to be—it has to be an Alpha," Scott confessed, acknowledging that Jackson wasn't wrong in his assumptions.

"Well, then, get him to do it," Jackson suggested, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

"I don't even know who 'he' is! Okay, trust me—this whole thing is so much more complicated than you think. There's—there's others. There's Hunters," Scott explained, hoping that mentioning the Hunters might make Jackson reconsider.

"Hunting what? What Hunters?" the blonde boy asked, clearly puzzled.

"Werewolf hunters," Scott clarified.

"Oh, my God. You've got to be kidding me." Jackson laughed in disbelief.

"No, jerk-off!" Scott retorted, his patience thinning with the boy he so disliked. "There's a whole family of them, and they carry assault rifles. Do you get that? Assault rifles." He quickly glanced towards the Argents in the stands, hoping they hadn't overheard him.

Jackson followed his gaze and noticed a slightly grey-haired man and a young blonde woman sitting next to Allison.

"Them?" Whittemore pointed his finger at them.

"No," Scott lied, but the nervousness in his voice betrayed him.

"Oh my God, that actually makes sense," Jackson muttered, a realization dawning on him as he caught Scott's wary expression. "Allison Argent," he emphasized, waiting for Scott to grasp what he was implying. When Scott's confusion persisted, Jackson sighed in exasperation. "Oh my God, you don't get it! You've known her this long, and you never actually asked about her name, did you? Idiot!" Scott shook his head, still lost. "Do you know what Argent means in French?" Jackson pressed, waiting for a response. When none came, he triumphantly declared, "It means silver."

"Now, this is what I like to see!" Coach Finstock's voice suddenly boomed from behind, causing both boys to jump. "Rivals turned allies," he announced, clapping them both on the shoulders. "You know there's no 'me' in 'team,' right, boys?"

"...Yes, there is, Coach," Scott protested weakly.

"Okay, smartass, how about this: No 'A' in Econ if no win on field, huh? Good? Huh? Perfect. Good." Coach Finstock chuckled and sauntered off.

"So, what are you gonna do?" Scott asked, trying to resume their conversation.

"I'm gonna give you a chance to give me what I want. Seventy-two hours, Scott. That's all you get. Seventy-two hours," Jackson stated confidently, as though it were a business transaction.

"What if I can't?" Scott pressed, his frustration mounting.

"Oh, come on, McCall—that's not a winning attitude!" Jackson retorted, a mocking grin on his face.

The whistle blew, and Coach called everyone onto the field. Jackson stood, leaving Scott to his thoughts.

At that same moment, Sheriff Stilinski finally arrived at the stands, accompanied by his deputy, Diana Harris. Their trained eyes quickly noticed something amiss—Stiles wasn't on the roster. While Noah's concern was mild, Diana's was more intense. Having once cared for Stiles and knowing his penchant for getting into dangerous situations, she felt an uneasy sense of dread. Her gaze swept across the stands, searching for Scott's mother, hoping to direct the sheriff her way. However, she found herself drawn to the Argents, particularly the blonde whose face sparked uncomfortable recognition within her.

"Look, there's number 37, Jackson," Allison pointed out to her aunt, trying to engage her in the game.

"Holy hotness. Oh, if I were in high school again… or maybe just a substitute teacher," Kate sighed dramatically, eyeing the blonde athlete with an appreciative smirk.

Diana observed this with growing disgust. She knew that face, and the realization was far from pleasant.

"You're sick," Allison laughed, her youthful innocence starkly contrasting her aunt's flirtatious remarks.

"You should be all over that!" Kate chuckled, her playful grin fading as her eyes sharpened, catching sight of something that piqued her interest. Leaning closer to her brother, seated beside her, she lowered her voice. "Chris, remember how we talked about a second Beta? A younger one?" He nodded in acknowledgment. "Can you get turned by a scratch?"

"If the claws went deep enough, maybe..." Chris mused.

"Wonder how deep those went," Kate murmured, her gaze locking onto Jackson, the faint but still visible scratch marks on his neck confirming her suspicions.

Another whistle blew, signaling the start of the game.

***

***

"Did you get the picture?" Scott asked over the phone, his voice tense as he readied for the game, unable to find Stiles anywhere. Frustration rising, he had decided to call.

"Yeah, I got it, and it looks just like the drawing," Stiles responded, but before he could elaborate, Derek snatched the phone out of his hands. They were both sitting in Roscoe, Stiles' blue Jeep, waiting for Charlotte to arrive.

"Hey, is there something on the back of it? There's gotta be something," Derek's voice was sharp. "An inscription, an opening, something..."

"No, no, the thing's flat. And, no, it doesn't open. There's nothing in it, on it, or around it. Nothing. And where are you? You're supposed to be here. You're first line," Scott's panicked voice echoed through the earpiece. In the background, Coach Finstock's voice boomed angrily, and Derek glanced at his watch with a resigned look. "Where the hell is Bilinski???" Scott added hurriedly before continuing, "Man, you're not gonna play if you're not here to start..."

"I know," Stiles said, taking the phone back from Derek. "Look, if you see my dad, can you tell him... tell him I'll be there. I'll just be a little late, okay? Thanks." He hung up the call with a sigh.

Derek stared at him for a moment, perplexed. He hadn't expected that Stiles would sacrifice something so significant for him. Only a few hours ago, he'd seen the boy's interaction with his father, had felt the weight of their emotions as keenly as the boy did now. And yet, Stiles had still chosen to be here, at his side.

"You're not gonna make it," Derek said bluntly, his voice low.

"I know," Stiles muttered in return.

"And you didn't tell him about his mom either."

"Not 'til we find out the truth," Stiles replied, his gaze shifting to the hospital sign looming ahead of them.

A sharp tapping on the window interrupted their brief contemplation. Charlotte had finally arrived. Stiles was just about to step out of the car when Derek's voice stopped him.

"By the way, one more thing..." But before Stiles could ask what Derek meant, the werewolf's hand shot out, grabbing his head and slamming it into the steering wheel.

"Derek!" Charlotte's sharp voice growled as she yanked open the driver's side door, pulling Stiles out of the car. Stiles staggered back, leaning on her for support. "What the hell was that for?"

"He knows exactly what for," Derek muttered darkly, his eyes fixed on the hospital entrance. "Go. Now." His tone left no room for argument, and with one last glance, he motioned toward the long-term care unit.

As they entered the hospital, Charlotte followed closely behind Stiles. Once inside, she pulled out her phone, dialing Derek, who waited in the car. The tension in the air was palpable, and the lack of hospital staff, combined with the eerie silence, only amplified her growing unease.

"Melissa's not here," she whispered into the phone.

"Look, ask for Jennifer. She's been taking care of my uncle," Derek's reply came quickly, his voice tense. He could sense that something was wrong, the night's tension thickening around him.

Charlotte stepped into the room where Peter Hale should have been, only to find it completely empty. The bed remained untouched and the wheelchair was left abandoned in the room. A deep frown etched across her face as she exchanged a worried glance with Stiles.

"He's not here either," she mumbled, her mind piecing together the terrifying reality of the situation.

"What?" Stiles' voice cracked with disbelief.

"Derek..." she repeated, her face draining of color. "He's not here. He's gone."

The gravity of her words hung heavy in the air. The vacant bed, the unused wheelchair—it all pointed to one horrifying conclusion.

"Charlie, get out of there right now!" Derek's voice roared over the phone, panic rising. "It's him! He's the Alpha! Get out!"

His words were so loud, even Stiles could hear the warning reverberating through the phone.

As they retreated from the hospital room, Stiles froze mid-step, his eyes locking onto something ahead. Charlotte, following closely behind, bumped into him, and together they turned to find a man standing in the corridor. He leaned casually against the wall, his posture deceptively relaxed as he watched them with a curious gaze. A gruesome burn scar marred half of his face, but his striking, large blue eyes commanded most of the attention. A smile played across his lips, almost friendly in its appearance.

"So, which one of you is Charlie?" He asked, his voice light. It didn't take him long to spot the phone in Charlotte's hand. "For a second there, I thought Derek had switched sides. Good to know some things never change, even with time."

Charlotte instinctively urged Stiles to back away, positioning herself between him and Peter Hale. She moved to shield the boy with her own body. Just as Stiles turned to flee, a young red-haired nurse with a stony expression blocked his path.

"What are you doing here? Visiting hours are over," the nurse said, her words seemingly innocent for a hospital employee, though the context suggested otherwise. Her demeanor made it clear she was working with the Alpha.

"You and him..." Stiles began, panic seeping into his voice. "You're—you're the one who—Oh my God—he's—Oh my God, we're gonna die!"

Suddenly, emerging from the shadows like a predator, Derek appeared, swiftly incapacitating the nurse with a brutal elbow to the face, knocking her out cold.

"That's not nice. She's my nurse," Peter commented, his voice unnervingly calm.

"She's a psychotic bitch helping you kill people," Derek snapped back. "Charlie, get Stiles out of here," he growled, not waiting for her to respond. His eyes flashed dangerously as his fangs bared, ready for the impending fight.

"Oh, shit..." Stiles gasped, barely dropping to the floor as Derek leaped over him and Charlotte, launching himself at the Alpha.

"You think I killed Laura on purpose? One of my own family?" Peter spoke with a chilling calmness, even as his nephew charged at him. He deflected the attack effortlessly, his red eyes gleaming as he grabbed Derek by the jacket and hurled him into the wall. Peter slammed him again, this time into the opposite side of the corridor. Derek crumpled to the floor, momentarily incapacitated.

Seizing the moment, Charlotte grabbed Stiles, pushing him toward the exit as fast as she could. But Stiles was moving too slowly for her liking, and she had to guide him out of the hospital while looking over her shoulder, anxiety mounting. Once they were outside, she ducked behind the nurse's reception desk, her heart pounding as she gathered the energy to intervene.

Meanwhile, Peter loomed over Derek, seizing his jacket once more.

"My mind," Peter began, gesturing absently toward the unconscious nurse, "was literally burned out of me. I was driven by pure instinct." He tossed Derek to the ground again and began rifling through the nurse's pockets, pulling out a set of car keys.

"You want forgiveness?" Derek rasped, struggling to rise. He threw a punch at his uncle, but Peter caught it effortlessly. The Alpha retaliated by slamming his forehead into Derek's, a sickening thud echoing in the corridor.

"I want understanding," Peter corrected coldly, delivering a vicious kick that sent Derek sprawling across the floor. "Do you have any idea what it was like for me during all those years? Healing slowly, cell by cell?" Peter's steps grew more deliberate as he stalked toward his nephew, his voice laced with bitterness. "And even more slowly, coming back to consciousness. Yes, becoming an Alpha sped up the healing process, but I didn't choose it. Taking that from Laura... I didn't want to." As Derek stood once more, he swung at Peter, but the Alpha dodged the punch with supernatural grace, bending back effortlessly like Neo from The Matrix.

Peter caught Derek's fist, his grip crushing the bones with a sickening crack. "I tried to warn you. I tried to tell you what was happening," Peter growled as he slammed Derek across the reception desk, where Charlotte had been hiding.

Seeing the injuries Derek had sustained, Charlotte jumped into action, pulling her battered lover behind the desk, helping him crawl farther away from the maddened Alpha. They sought refuge in the morgue, though the choice of hiding place was grim, to say the least. They could only hope it wasn't a symbol of their fate. But soon enough, Peter found them.

Leaning heavily against the wall of corpse storage fridges, Derek and Charlotte faced the Alpha. Blood dripped steadily from Derek's nose, and his hand gripped Charlotte's fingers so tightly it made her wince. She fought the urge to scream, wanting desperately to do something—anything—but found herself entirely unprepared for this confrontation.

"I was going to wait," Peter sighed, eyeing them both as if pondering his next move. "Make a more dramatic entrance, but..." He tapped a finger against the mirror hanging above the morgue table, causing it to tilt in its frame. They watched in shock as his scarred face transformed before their eyes, the disfigurement vanishing until nothing remained but smooth, healed skin. "When you look this good, why wait?" He smiled, a predatory gleam in his now-perfect features. His attention then shifted entirely to Derek. "You have to give me a chance to explain, Derek." He leaned in slightly, and instinctively, Derek positioned himself in front of Charlotte, shielding her with his body.

The Alpha, however, didn't seem the least bit interested in her. His gaze remained fixed on his nephew.

"After all, we're family."

* * *