Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x f!doctor!wife!reader
Series Summary: A rough patch in your marriage and a shift from hell really makes you feel the make or break of this particular Rough Day.
Series Warnings: age gap, ANGST, established relationship (marriage), rough patch in a marriage, divorce/separation mentioned, hospital setting, medical inaccuracies, foul language, bottled up emotions/poor communication, violence against healthcare workers, hurt/comfort, eventual Pittfest
— Anything marked with an astrik contains explicit content. Minors DNI, you will be blocked.
— All work is my own. Please do not repost anywhere else without my consent. Crossposted on AO3, with an oc.
Pete "Maverick" Mitchell's reckless, sky-bound life ends the day an old flame leaves him a baby and disappears. Jamie grows up in hangars, raised by borrowed love-Maverick, Goose, and Carol—alongside Bradley, the two becoming inseparable. Then Goose dies, and fear takes root. Maverick loves hard, protects harder, and slowly turns that love into a cage.
Years later, Jamie earns her wings while Bradley is grounded by Maverick's fear. The truth finally cracks open: love built on control still hurts. So Jamie leaves-choosing the Navy, choosing the sky, choosing herself.
What she doesn't plan on is a southern smile and soft charm named Jake Seresin...
or how fate will bring him back when she least expects it.
(Jake Seresin × Mitchell!OC)
[word count: 2,066]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The boys were already in the sky.
Jaime stood on the tarmac in her flight suit, zipper tugged halfway down, aviators shielding her eyes from a sun that felt personally offended by us all. Gum snapped between her teeth, a small rebellion against nerves that refused to settle. Radios crackled beside Hondo, voices overlapping, alive, electric.
Three F/A-18s cut across the blue in tight formation: Maverick, Rooster, Fanboy & Payback. Clean lines. Pretty flying. The kind that makes you forget how ugly things can get.
Then Maverick’s voice slid into their headsets, smooth as trouble.
“Good morning, aviators. Welcome to basic fighter maneuvers.”
Every jet shifted. Every pilot searched the sky.
Rooster glanced down at his radar, the wide cone sweeping forward from his nose, slicing through nothing but open air. Empty. Too empty. He didn’t like that. None of them did.
Maverick laid out the rules like he was reading a bedtime story—ten-mile radius, hard deck at five thousand feet. Practice arena. Friendly skies. Lies, all of it.
Dogfighting. Teamwork. Shoot him down… or else.
Someone—Payback, of course—pushed back, asked what the “or else” was. Maverick didn’t miss a beat.
MAVERICK: Or else I shoot back.
She smirked despite myself. Somewhere back in the officers’ lounge, egos were already inflating.
MAVERICK: If I shoot either one of you down, you both lose. Cover your wingman.
Rooster asked if anyone had eyes on him. Fanboy came back with nothing—no visual, no radar hit. Payback scoffed at the odds. Two versus one. Easy math.
Except Maverick wasn’t math. He was instinct. Gravity bent for him.
Payback decided that was the moment to gamble. Suggested upping the stakes—two hundred pushups for the first one shot down.
Jaime winced. That was pain talking. Overconfidence too.
Maverick accepted like he’d been waiting for it.
MAVERICK: Fight’s on.
Everything exploded into motion.
Rooster climbed hard, banking left, pushing altitude. Payback snapped into a violent roll to the right and dropped his nose, hunting shadows. Fanboy stayed tight, eyes everywhere, nowhere. Panic crept in fast when Maverick didn’t appear where physics said he should.
PAYBACK: Where is he? Where is he?
He was already there.
Maverick didn’t flip or climb—he pirouetted, graceful and lethal, diving straight after Payback. The kind of move that looks effortless and costs you everything if you blink.
Rooster broke wide left. For half a second it looked like retreat.
It wasn’t.
Payback and Fanboy yanked into defensive scissors, jerking left then right, G-forces had to be biting hard. Their voices anxious static.
FANBOY: He’s on us.
Rooster heard it in their voices and made the call before anyone could talk him out of it.
ROOSTER: Break right on my mark. Three. Two. One.
They split. Rooster threw everything he had into the merge, forcing Maverick to hesitate, just enough. Jets screamed past each other in a blur of metal and vapor.
Maverick compliment only fueled Rooster’s resentment for the man. “Nice, Saved your wingman.”
But Rooster paid for it.
He dove, then pulled up aggressively, trying to swing around, fighting gravity like it had personally wronged him. His body strained. His jet protested. He yanked into a brutal maneuver, desperate to stay in the fight. But Maverick was already on him.
MAVERICK: Switching to guns.
Fanboy rattled off directions. Payback came around hard, trying to line up a shot, breathless and burning.
PAYBACK: Hang in there, Rooster. We’re coming.
They weren’t.
MAVERICK: That’s a guns kill on Rooster. You’re dead. Knock it off.
Silence.
Rooster’s reply came tight and furious. Copy.
Payback cursed under his breath.
MAVERICK: Head back to base, Rooster. See Hondo about your pushups.
Exhaling, slow and unimpressed, turning on her heel. One lesson learned. More incoming.
Inside the ready room, She leaned against the doorway, tipping her shades down just enough to see the nerves on their faces.
They nodded, psyching themselves up as they headed for the tarmac.
She didn’t even look at Jake, and as she exited he could feel the pit growing deeper in his chest.
~~~~~~~~~~
Fritz, Harvard, and Yale stepped outside just in time to find Rooster face-down on the tarmac, sweat darkening the concrete beneath him. His arms shook with the effort, teeth clenched, breath ragged. Hondo paced nearby, stopwatch in hand, voice steady and merciless.
“One hundred and ten… one hundred and eleven…”
Fritz, Harvard, and Yale exchanged grins like kids who’d just spotted a car wreck they didn’t have to explain.
“Hold that tarmac down ’til we get back, son,” Harvard said, already pulling out his phone.
He snapped a selfie, Rooster in the background, still pushing, refusing to look up.
Rooster didn’t break rhythm. Just kept grinding.
Laughter bubbled up between the three of them as they started walking—
“Shut it,” Jaime barked from behind them, sharp as a whip. “And keep walking.”
They sobered fast.
Not long after, the tables turned.
Fritz, Harvard, and Yale were now the ones on the tarmac, palms burning, sweat pouring, breaths coming apart as Hondo resumed his slow patrol.
“One hundred and twenty… one hundred and twenty-one…”
Rooster finally allowed himself a grin.
Pushups had a funny way of humbling everyone equally.
~~~~~~
Rooster sat slouched in the ready room, the unofficial officers’ hangout, arms resting on his knees, sweat still clinging to him like the fight had not quite let go. The room hummed low with cooling fans and distant jet noise, but he barely seemed present.
Jaime stepped inside and clocked him immediately.
“Hey,” she said, softer than she usually allowed. “You good?”
Rooster took his time answering, staring at a spot on the floor like it might confess something first.
“Yeah.”
Jaime tilted her head, unimpressed. One look said everything.
“Liar.”
He let out a short breath. “Yeah, well… you know.”
She sighed, the sound heavy with history. “I know.”
Jaime straightened, ready to move on, and that was when she caught Jake Seresin watching. The jealousy sat quiet but sharp behind his eyes. She met it with a pained look of her own, then shook her head. Not now. Not this.
She raised her voice.
“Phoenix. Bob. Hangman. Your turn.”
Phoenix’s eyes widened instantly. “With him?”
Her gaze flicked to Seresin like he had personally offended her.
Phoenix and Hangman shared a look, mutual dread and mutual irritation. Neither of them wanted this pairing.
Hangman crossed his arms. “With her?”
Jaime did not miss a beat.
“Didn’t think I stuttered.”
The room went quiet.
Engines whined outside. Somewhere above them, the sky waited, patient and merciless, ready to take sides.
~~~~~~
Over the radio, Jaime patched into her dad.
“Hey, Mav,” she said casually, like she wasn’t about to start a small war. “Why don’t you touch down for a bit. I got this.”
If she could see him right now, she knew exactly what she’d find. That slow, infuriating grin spreading across her father’s face. The one that meant he understood immediately.
And if he could see her, he’d catch her own smile forming just as easily.
Because she knew exactly what she was doing.
And somewhere nearby, Jake Seresin was absolutely going to hate it.
~~~~~~
Birds cut through the sky, calm and oblivious.
“Say, Phoenix,” Hangman’s voice crackled over the radio. “Don’t you think your WSO should have a call-sign?”
“I’m right here, you know,” Bob shot back.
“Oh shit, I forgot,” Hangman laughed. “How about we tell people Bob stands for something? Other than Robert, I mean.”
Phoenix rolled her eyes. “Don’t take the bait, Bob. Hangman’s just projecting. He’s hated his call-sign ever since his ex-girlfriend gave it to him.”
“I like to think I’ve grown into it,” Hangman said. “Now… let’s see… B.O.B…”
“Know why she calls him Hangman, Bob?” Phoenix teased.
“Wait—wait, I know… Baby on Board?”
Then, with a deafening roar, Jaime’s jet tore between them. Hangman flinched.
“OH SHIT,” he yelled.
The jets snapped apart as an F-18 rocketed past at sixteen miles a minute, canopy to canopy, forcing them into a sharp, heart-stopping split before easing back into level flight.
Jaime smirked, adjusting her blue helmet trimmed with black-and-silver wings and pulling her mask into place. Every movement precise, teasing, deliberate.
“Phoenix, let’s take this guy out. Break right,” Hangman ordered. He climbed, expecting Phoenix to follow. She did, banking sharply, but he noticed the hesitation, the playfulness.
“Not the old man, Bagman,” Jaime muttered, rolling her eyes at the obviousness of his moves.
And in that moment, shock hit Hangman like a punch to the gut. He wasn’t playing cat-and-mouse with her father. He was dogfighting the woman he still loved—the woman who wanted his head on a pitchfork.
Everything in the sky felt suddenly personal, dangerous, and impossibly alive.
Bob banked hard right, eyes darting left. “Where’s he going?”
Jaime’s voice came over the radio, casual as ever. “That’s a mistake. Never leave your wingman, Hangman.”
Hangman tried to play it cool, but both women could hear the cracks in his composure.
“She called you a man, Phoenix. You gonna take that?”
“So long as she doesn’t call you a man,” Phoenix shot back. Then, her voice sharpened. “Talk to me, Bob. Where’s Bluejay?”
“Jesus… her nose is already coming around,” Bob muttered. He and Phoenix dove into a hard left-right split, evading Bluejay’s aggressive push.
“What?” Phoenix demanded.
“He’s coming in for position. She’s on us. She’s on us.”
Above the desert, Bluejay fell into position behind Phoenix and Bob, relentless and precise.
“Keep her busy, Phoenix. I’m on my way,” Hangman called.
Phoenix and Bob executed a split-S to the right, the G-forces pressing them into their seats.
“She’s not gonna catch us. Hang on, Bob,” Phoenix warned.
“What?” Bob blinked through the pull, but Phoenix rolled the maneuver with perfection, trying to pull beneath Bluejay.
“Yeah, Phoenix… yeah. Good move. Good move,” Bob breathed, impressed.
Bluejay muttered to herself, almost grudgingly, “Woah… nice move, Phoenix.” She twisted left and down to regain the offensive, snapping back onto their six.
“She’s on us… she’s on us again. Hangman, Hangman,” Bob called, struggling to keep a visual.
Hangman appeared behind Phoenix and Bluejay. “I’m right here,” he reassured, though his eyes were locked on the chaos ahead.
“Get him, Hangman! Get her off us!” Bob shouted.
Dammit. Hangman couldn’t shoot without risking Phoenix. “Sorry, Phoenix,” he muttered, then called over the radio, “Now break right. RIGHT.”
“BREAKING RIGHT!” Phoenix obeyed.
“No! No, negative… break le—” Bob started, but it was too late.
They slid directly into Bluejay’s sights.
“Wrong move, Phoenix. That’s a kill. No hard feelings,” Jaime’s voice cut through.
Phoenix slammed her fist against the canopy. “Copy. Thanks, Hangman,” she said, sarcasm dripping.
“Sorry, Phoenix. That was my fault,” Bob admitted.
“No… you made the right call. Hangman sold us out,” Phoenix corrected, banking left with Bob.
Hangman trailed in loose echelon, radioing, “Sir, permission to continue?”
“Still living up to that shitty call sign, I see. Hangman. Permission granted. You ready?” Bluejay’s voice was taunting, precise.
“I’ll give you a head start,” Hangman replied.
“Generous. Fight’s on.”
Jaime twisted her jet left, ditching and sweeping, then reversing, pushing her maneuvers to the limit. Bluejay fought to shake Hangman, but he stayed relentless, closing in with each move.
“You’ve gotten better… I can’t shake you,” Bluejay admitted to herself, sweat stinging her eyes. The evasive maneuvers were punishing, physically and mentally.
Hangman gritted his teeth. Got it bad… got it bad… got it bad. I’m hot for teacher…
Then, with a burst of supersonic speed, Bluejay climbed straight toward the sun. Hangman followed blindly, closing his eyes against the glare.
“Phoenix, I can’t see him. How close am I?” he barked over the radio.
Phoenix and Bob were on the way back to base, masks off, breathing hard.
“I’m dead, dipshit,” Phoenix muttered.
“See you in the afterlife, Bagman,” Bob added.
Hangman held his nerve as long as possible until he couldn’t. “God DAMMIT!” he yelled, breaking right and leveling out. When he opened his eyes—there she was, Bluejay, right behind him.
He punched the canopy, defeated.
“That’s a kill,” Jaime said, winded and sweating, a triumphant smirk beneath her mask.
“Copy kill,” Hangman admitted, banking away toward home, peeling off his oxygen mask and shaking off the tension.
On the tarmac, Jaime folded her sunglasses and squatted in front of Jake, who was dripping sweat. “One hundred and twenty… one twenty-one,” she laughed, stretching out her back. “That was fun.”
Pete “Maverick” Mitchell’s reckless, sky-bound life ends the day an old flame leaves him a baby and disappears. Jamie grows up in hangars, raised by borrowed love—Maverick, Goose, and Carol—alongside Bradley, the two becoming inseparable. Then Goose dies, and fear takes root. Maverick loves hard, protects harder, and slowly turns that love into a cage.
Years later, Jamie earns her wings while Bradley is grounded by Maverick’s fear. The truth finally cracks open: love built on control still hurts. So Jamie leaves—choosing the Navy, choosing the sky, choosing herself.
What she doesn’t plan on is a southern smile and soft charm named Jake Seresin…
or how fate will bring him back when she least expects it.
(Jake Seresin x Mitchell!OC)
[word count: 2,036]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She wished she could stay calm, wished she could pretend this was just another random encounter. But the second she saw him, everything inside her clenched. Her stomach twisted, her chest tightened, and a thousand memories hit at once—laughs, arguments, quiet mornings, and that stupid letter he had left behind.
She leaned against her car, forcing her posture straight, her voice cold and steady. “Is there a problem, Seresin?”
His hesitation, the way his eyes searched hers, made her heart skip. Don’t let him do this. You’re not going to fall apart for him. Not again.
“I just…I just wanted to see you,” he said, words shaky.
Jamie let out a soft exhale; she didn’t mean to, then sharpened her tone. “Well, you saw me. Can I go now?”
You’ve got this. You can walk away. You’re in control.
“Jamie, come on. Look, I know I messed up, but—”
Her eyes narrowed. Authority, ice, steel. “It’s Captain to you. Know your manners, Lieutenant.”
He blinked, surprised, proud. “What? When did that happen?”
“It happened a year after you left. Remember that pathetic letter you left me? And nothing else.”
Don’t cry. Don’t let him see you flinch.
“Darlin—”
She cut him off, voice tight with controlled anger. “Don't. Don't talk to me, don't even address me unless it is as your superior. Mitchell. We're over, Seresin. So please step away so I can go home.”
Her chest burned, a mix of anger and longing she refused to name. Every fiber of her wanted to reach out, to yell, to pull him close—but years of pride, heartbreak, and self-preservation held her firm.
Jake hesitated, then took a step back, and Jamie felt a pang of satisfaction with the underlying pain. Even as the memories threatened to overtake her, she was the one walking away.
Sliding into her car, she felt the knot in her stomach ease just slightly. She started the engine, eyes forward, pretending the ache behind her ribs didn’t exist.
And as she drove off, the night air cool against her skin, a small, almost imperceptible part of her wondered if he’d ever truly understand what he’d lost, what he gave up.
~
He watched her move toward her car, the confidence in her stride like a blade slicing through every memory he’d buried. She was calm, poised, and it hit him harder than he expected.
I ruined everything. Every single thing.
He had rehearsed a million apologies in his head over the years, imagined the words he’d say if he ever saw her again. None of them mattered now. None could undo the ache he felt watching her walk away.
“Captain Mitchell…” he muttered, the words catching in his throat. He wanted to call her back, to tell her everything he hadn’t said in that stupid, cowardly letter. That he’d been wrong. That he hadn’t been good enough for himself, let alone for her. That losing her had been the worst mistake of his life.
Her voice, sharp as a whip, cut through his chest: “It’s Captain to you. Know your manners, Lieutenant.”
Jake flinched, and a tight, hollow ache spread through him. She was everything he had loved—and more importantly, everything he’d lost.
He realized that no amount of regret, no amount of wishing, could change the fact that he’d let her go. That he’d abandoned the one person who had made him feel complete.
He took a step forward, then froze. What do I even say? How do I fix this?
The engine roared, lights cutting through the parking lot. And she was gone. Just like that.
Jake stood there, fists clenched at his sides, stomach twisting. Every memory of her—the laughs, the fights, the quiet mornings—crashed into him at once. The world felt smaller, emptier.
I messed up. I have to fix this. Somehow. I’ll make it right.
But even as the thought burned through him, he knew one thing with absolute clarity: losing Jamie Mitchell had been the worst mistake of his life, and he would spend every day making sure she never forgot it.
~
That night, Jamie lay in her Airbnb, mission files spread out around her like a fortress against the memories that refused to leave her. Sleep had been a stranger—her eyelids heavy but unyielding, mind racing in circles. Every line, every chart, blurred under her tired eyes.
Why did he have to be here? Why did he need to be here of all places? She could almost hear his voice, the faint echo of her name on his lips lingering like a ghost, and it made her teeth clench. She hated that even after all these years, seeing him still unraveled something inside her, a thread she thought she had tied off long ago.
She pressed the files to her chest, taking a shaky breath.
But the truth throbbed beneath the edges of her restraint. She did want him, and that realization burned with a sharp, frustrating clarity.
She shoved the papers aside and buried her face in the pillow, trying to will the ache out of her chest. She hated feeling exposed like this, hated the way her heart betrayed her even as her mind screamed to stay composed.
Hours passed. The quiet of the Airbnb pressed in, broken only by her shallow breathing and the occasional creak of the building. And still, the thought of him lingered, insistent, impossible to ignore.
Sleep would come eventually, but tonight, it would be on his terms, not hers.
~
Jamie lingered near the wings of the hangar, boots ticking a restless rhythm against the concrete. Her brown flight jacket puffed slightly as she folded her arms, sunglasses still perched on her nose—doing their best to hide the exhaustion pooling beneath her eyes.
Then came the snap. Sharp. Commanding.
The echo of shoes rippled through the space, and adrenaline sparked in her chest like a live wire.
Cyclone stepped in beside her. She didn’t need to look to know he was wound tight. She knew the reason too. He hated disorder, despised disobedience—and her father was both in human form. Captain Pete “Maverick” Mitchell didn’t just bend rules; he treated them like loose suggestions.
Honestly? She couldn’t blame the admiral. Her dad had a gift for ticking people off.
“I’d fix your face if I were you,” Jamie murmured, a low chuckle slipping out as she aimed it at the older man. He only rolled his eyes behind his aviators.
Cyclone sighed, gaze locked on the formation of pilots ahead.
“Why are you here again?” he muttered. “Shouldn’t you be in Hawaii on sabbatical?”
She should’ve been. God, she wanted to be.
“Kazansky’s orders.”
Cyclone shook his head, exhaling through his nose. “You Mitchells—and Ice—are something else.”
Jaime pressed her lips together and swallowed. Her gaze swept the room, clocking the familiar faces like old scars she never quite stopped tracing. Rooster. Phoenix. Hangman. Coyote. Payback. Fanboy.
And then him.
Jake Seresin.
Leaning back in his chair like he owned the oxygen, smirk firmly in place, uniform crisp enough to cut glass. Her stomach flipped the second her eyes landed on him. Traitorous pulse spiking, heart doing things it absolutely did not have permission to do.
Warlock’s voice cut clean through the tension, all command and clipped authority. He moved through the debrief. Mission parameters. F/A-18s. Objectives. Until he reached the final introduction.
“And your instructor… Captain Pete ‘Maverick’ Mitchell.”
Father of the year.
Jaime caught the ripple instantly. Rooster’s posture went rigid, like someone had tightened a wire down his spine. Phoenix’s concern flickered openly across her face. The room buzzed with wide eyes and sharpened focus.
Jake just looked confused.
Maverick lifted the thick NATOPS manual, pacing as he quizzed them, boosting their egos brick by brick the same way he used to do with Jaime. She already knew what came next. She always did.
The manual hit the trash.
Cyclone shot Warlock a sharp warning look, but Jaime barely flinched.
“…So does your enemy,” Maverick finished.
Cyclone exited.
The real session began.
Jaime inhaled slowly, grounding herself, sliding back into her role. Assist. Observe. Analyze. Do not compete. Do not prove anything, especially not to her father.
She was here to watch the chaos, not become it.
This is a shit show, isn’t it.
Ex-boyfriends. Daddy issues.
Congrats, Jaime. Whole package.
~
As the pilots broke off to get flight-ready, Jaime turned to do the same. Freedom was one step away when her name got called by the last two men she wanted to deal with.
Of course.
She stopped, eyes lifting toward the ceiling as if God might intervene. Strength. Patience. Bail money. Anything. Turning on her heel, she shot Seresin a glare sharp enough to ground a jet, then deliberately pivoted toward her father instead.
If she had to pick her poison, she’d pick the one she shared DNA with.
“Sir?”
Pete knew their relationship was cracked clean through. Hell, Jaime was too much like him. Too bold. Too stubborn. All instinct and fire with nowhere safe to land. He also knew why Ice had pushed him into this assignment so hard. This wasn’t just about training aviators.
This was penance.
It was about mending the damage he’d done to the kids he hurt by never slowing down long enough to be present. He wasn’t naive enough to think this would fix everything, but maybe it could be a start. Maybe it could start with his daughter.
“Hey, kid,” he said carefully. “I need your help with this training exercise. Thought maybe you’d like to—”
“Look,” Jaime cut in, voice low but edged like a blade. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do. I’m here to help, sure. That’s my job.”
She held his gaze, steady and unflinching.
“But I’m not your friend. And I don’t need you throwing me a rope, okay?”
The words hung there, heavy and final, like contrails refusing to fade.
Pete didn’t answer right away.
That was new.
For a man who lived on instinct and impulse, silence didn’t come easy. He rubbed a thumb along the edge of his jaw, eyes dropping for just a second before lifting back to hers. Not defensive. Not angry. Just… tired.
“Fair,” he said finally. “Didn’t mean it like that.”
Jaime scoffed under her breath, already half-turned away, but his next words stopped her.
“I’m not asking to be your friend,” Pete continued. “I know I don’t get to ask for that.” He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I’m asking you to help me not screw this up.”
That landed harder than she expected.
She faced him again, arms crossing over her chest like armor. “You’re doing fine,” she muttered. “You threw the book in the trash. Scared the hell out of them. Very on brand.”
A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth. Gone as fast as it appeared.
“They’re good,” he said. “But good doesn’t win this. They’re gonna fly like they’re invincible unless someone forces them to see the cracks.”
“You mean like you did,” Jaime said before she could stop herself.
There it was. The thing neither of them wanted to touch.
Pete nodded once. “Yeah. Like I did.”
The honesty knocked the wind out of her. No excuses. No jokes. No Maverick bravado. Just a man standing in front of his daughter, owning the mess.
She exhaled slowly. “So what do you need.”
His shoulders loosened, just a fraction. “I need you watching patterns. Weak points. Who’s flying scared, who’s flying angry.” He paused. “And I need you to tell me when I’m pushing too hard.”
Jaime arched a brow. “You don’t take feedback.”
“From you, I will.”
She studied him, searching for the catch. Didn’t find one. Just sincerity, raw and unfamiliar.
“Fine,” she said at last. “But this doesn’t change anything.”
“I know,” Pete replied softly. “I’m not trying to change everything. Just today.”
“Good,” she said, already stepping back. “Because after today, we’re just two officers doing a job.”
She walked away before he could answer, pulse loud in her ears.
Behind her, Pete watched his daughter go, jaw tight, eyes burning with something dangerously close to hope.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
[author's note]
So… I honestly wasn’t expecting this to get much interaction at all, and the fact that even a small group of you are enjoying my writing means more than I can put into words. Truly. Thank you.
Feel free to drop requests or suggest what you’d like to see next for our sweet Bluejay. I’m having so much fun writing her, and I’d love to keep building this world with you all.
Pete “Maverick” Mitchell’s reckless, sky-bound life ends the day an old flame leaves him a baby and disappears. Jamie grows up in hangars, raised by borrowed love—Maverick, Goose, and Carol—alongside Bradley, the two becoming inseparable. Then Goose dies, and fear takes root. Maverick loves hard, protects harder, and slowly turns that love into a cage.
Years later, Jamie earns her wings while Bradley is grounded by Maverick’s fear. The truth finally cracks open: love built on control still hurts. So Jamie leaves—choosing the Navy, choosing the sky, choosing herself.
What she doesn’t plan on is a southern smile and soft charm named Jake Seresin…
or how fate will bring him back when she least expects it.
(Jake Seresin x Mitchell!OC)
[word count: 2,087]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After that breakup, everything inside Jamie felt fractured. The hurt didn’t just live in her chest. It gnawed at her, whispered at her when she closed her eyes, made her laugh feel hollow, her mornings heavy with dread. She drank to blur it, to push the memories and the ache into the background. The alcohol became a crutch, a way to survive a pain that had no mercy. She told herself it was temporary. That she could control it.
But control was a lie. She drank until her hands shook, until her vision wavered, until she hated herself more than she hated him. Nights stretched endlessly, and she hid it all from everyone, except Bradley, who did not let her hide. He cornered her one morning after she had shown up late to a briefing, reeking of whiskey and shame. “You’re going to kill yourself if you don’t stop,” he said. No yelling. No charm. Just truth.
She had wanted to scream, to tell him to back off, but his words rooted themselves in her chest like a second heartbeat. Somewhere in the middle of resentment, fear, and self-loathing, she realized he was right. She had to get her shit together. Or die trying.
Her father? Gone. She had severed the connection entirely. Not just for old grudges, but because she could not bear his judgment. The embarrassment, the failures, the nights she could barely drag herself from bed. It was too much. She did not want him, or anyone, seeing the girl she had become in that storm.
And so she rebuilt herself. Piece by piece, day by day.
At work, she became someone else entirely. Inside, the heartbreak still roared like a storm she could not turn off, but her mask was flawless. In the cockpit, she was precision and fire. In briefings, she was steel. Her sarcasm was sharper, her instincts honed. Nobody saw the nights she spent alone, staring at the ceiling, replaying every failure, every what if. They did not know the ache that throbbed quietly behind her ribs.
Music was her only confession. Vinyls were her therapy. The needle drop on a record became a ritual, a way to breathe without feeling guilty about it, a way to be herself in small, private bursts. She let nobody see the way tears sometimes slipped quietly at 2 a.m., how the grief still clawed at her.
Three years later, Jamie was sober. Legendary. A Captain who moved through the Naval community like she owned it, even if she carried every scar of the girl who had almost broken herself to pieces. Her pain was still there, yes, but she had learned how to hide it in plain sight. In its place: confidence, ferocity, and a calm that left people in awe.
She had survived. She had thrived. She had flown through fire and come out sharper, stronger. Though no one could know the battles inside her head, they could see the victory in every move she made.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Admiral Kazansky was sharp. Jamie knew that, but she didn’t understand why he needed her back at Top Gun, of all places, much less to observe and train pilots. She hadn’t expected to instruct pilots who might undermine her for her age or sex, but Ice assured her it was important. She trusted him enough to accept.
She had just left the Admiral’s home, mission file sitting in the passenger seat of her 1967 blue convertible Chevy Impala. A text from Nat lit up her phone. Nat, call sign “Phoenix,” had been an old friend she met during a short stationing in Florida. They’d clicked instantly. Nat’s easy humor and steady presence had helped Jamie breathe when she couldn’t.
Pulling into the Hard Deck parking lot, Jamie checked her hair for the fifth time in the rear-view mirror. Dressed in a white sleeveless top, high-waisted ripped jeans cuffed over her black leather boots, and gold aviators perched low on her nose, she stepped inside with a smirk, trying to ignore the knot of nerves tightening in her stomach.
“Bluejay!” Penny called from the bar.
Jamie slid onto an empty stool next to a man who looked somehow very familiar. Her heart skipped when she caught sight of the same icy blue eyes she knew so well. Recognition hit instantly.
They hadn’t spoken much in years.
“What’s up, Pops?” she asked, forcing casual.
Maverick’s brows lifted, a mix of surprise and confusion crossing his face as Penny slid a Dr. Pepper toward Jamie.
“Thanks,” Jamie said, taking it.
“Eugh, don’t use the word ‘Pops.’ You make me feel older than I already am,” he muttered, frowning and avoiding her gaze.
Jamie laughed, though the sound felt hollow even to her. She took a careful sip of the soda, trying to steady herself. “It’s… good to see you.”
“You too, Jay,” he said, his voice clipped. There was a long pause, the air between them thick with years of unspoken words and awkward distance.
Jamie swallowed. “Does he know?” she asked cautiously, referring to Bradley.
“No. Not my place. But he needs me, Jaime. I’m all he’s got left. Just don’t make me choose sides. You’ll choose him,” he said, glancing away.
“Okay…,” she replied softly. Her voice betrayed a flicker of vulnerability she hadn’t meant to show.
They stared at each other for a beat too long. The awkward silence was loud, heavy, loaded with everything they hadn’t said in years. Jamie let it pass, taking a steadying sip of soda and forcing herself to focus elsewhere.
Her gaze drifted to Penny and Pete, who were bantering like they always did. It was familiar, comforting, and bittersweet, a reminder of how life used to be. Her dad’s lingering feelings for Penny were obvious but restrained, and it hit Jamie in a tender, sharp way, reminding her painfully of choices she had made and the distance they had created.
Jamie tried to tune it out, scanning the bar. The crowd of pilots that day was larger than usual. That’s when her stomach sank.
There he was.
Her heart slammed into her ribs. Instinctively, she jumped over the counter, ducking behind it. “Oh, my God. What is he doing here? No, no, no!” Her hands shook, her voice barely controlled. Pete and Penny exchanged bewildered glances, clearly thinking she’d lost it.
“Give me that!” she barked, snatching the mission files from her father’s hand. She rifled through the pages, heart hammering, until she froze.
There it was.
LT. JAKE SERESIN
CALLSIGN: HANGMAN
Jamie’s pulse raced. She pressed herself against the counter, hoping he didn’t see her. Years of unresolved pain, awkwardness, and unspoken words surged like fire behind her ribs.
“SHIT!” Jamie muttered under her breath, handing her father the files.
“What’s got you all riled up, kid?” Pete asked, raising an eyebrow.
Penny turned just in time to follow Jamie’s gaze. She knew the history of Hangman and Bluejay, knew how badly things had ended, but Mav had no clue. Penny gave Jamie a somber look, silently acknowledging the storm about to hit.
Jamie stayed crouched behind the bar, ignoring her father’s question. Her thoughts raced. How am I even going to do this? Am I ready to face him after all these years?
A bell chimed, the background music shifting. Slow Ride by Foghat started playing. Her chest tightened. That was his song.
“Dammit, Mitchell! Get it together, girl!” she muttered to herself.
“Hey, Penny, can I get a beer?” the voice of Bradley Bradshaw asked the lovely bartender, and Jaime was relieved.
“Yeah, coming right up.”
“BRADLEY! Oh, thank God!”
“Blue? What the hell are you doing—”
Jamie yanked him behind the counter. “He’s here.”
“Who’s here?” Bradley asked, confused. Before peaking over the counter and noticing the cocky blonde playing pool.
“Oh! Let me guess…you need a pep talk?”
“Yes!” she hissed.
“It’s been how long, and you still can’t get your shit together without me? You’re struggling, Jay.”
“Asshole. Can you just help me out?”
“Yeah, yeah. I don’t understand why you’re letting him ruin your night. You’re a badass Captain now. You outrank his narcissistic ass.”
“How are you so good at this?”
“I don’t know. Genetic. Now come on! I gotta kick your ass in pool.”
“Oh, you friggin’ wish.”
They slipped out from behind the bar toward the pool table. Jaime was trying to breathe in as much confidence as she could.
“Bradshaw! As I live and breathe.” Oh god, his voice made her whole spine shiver.
“Hangman, you look…good?”
“I am good, Rooster. I am good,” Jake replied, cool as ever.
Jamie stayed behind Bradley, trying not to be seen. Too late. She watched as Rooster tumbled when Phoenix jabbed him in the gut with a pool stick.
“So this is how I find out you’re stateside?” Phoenix teased.
“Good to see you too, Phoenix,” Rooster muttered.
“Oh my gosh, Blue! I thought you weren’t coming tonight!” Nat exclaimed.
Damn it, Nat. “Well, I seriously needed a break after the day I’ve had, and Rooster told me he was buying.”
“Sounds about right,” Nat grinned.
“Bluejay! What’s up, girl? I haven’t seen you since that mission in Hawaii,” called Coyote.
“Hey, Coyote.” She gave an awkward smile and nod.
Then his eyes met hers. Jamie’s stomach lurched. She did not want to feel the pangs of old longing. She had moved on, or thought she had. Hangman just stared at her with that same intensity, eyes full of words neither dared to speak.
“Hangman.”
“Bluejay.”
The tension was electric. Everyone around the pool table noticed it immediately. Lieutenant Reuben “Payback” Fitch broke the silence.
“So, anybody know what this ‘special detachment’ is all about?”
Jamie straightened instantly, remembering why she was here. Jake’s prideful voice cut through the noise as he winked at Rooster.
“A mission’s a mission. Don’t confront me. But I wanna know, who’s team leader? And which of y’all have what it takes to follow me?”
Bluejay's and Rooster’s eyes rolled. “Hangman, the only place you’ll ever lead anyone is an early grave.”
Jake’s stance shifted, walking up face-to-face with Rooster. “Anyone who follows you’s just gonna…run outta fuel. But then that’s you, ain’t it, Rooster? Snug on your perch, waitin’ for the perfect moment. That never comes.”
The music seemed louder, pounding in Jamie’s ears as she watched the two men clash. She knew Rooster had a run-in with Hangman after everything; it was a bad argument, and a lot of the word coward being tossed around. At least that is what Bradley had told her. But then Hangman’s gaze flicked to her, softening. Hurt, longing, and that familiar spark reflected in his eyes.
“I love this song,” he said, nodding to Slow Ride before walking off.
Rooster exhaled, and Phoenix stepped up, unimpressed by the posturing. Jamie stood at Bradley’s side, Nat at his left, both of them giving her a subtle shield.
“He hasn’t changed,” Phoenix whispered.
“No, he sure hasn’t,” Jamie muttered, unable to hide the edge of exasperation in her voice.
Jake walked to the jukebox, smiled, and made a selection. Johnny Cash’s Cocaine Blues began to blast. The energy shifted—Hangman’s energy, now, dominating the room. He was like before. Before her. Before them. A complete and utter ass.
The aviators’ attention snapped toward the door as Payback started naming incoming pilots. “Omaha, Halo, Harvard, Yale…shit, that’s Fritz.”
Phoenix chimed in. “A regular who’s-who. Everyone’s top graduate.”
Brows furrowed around the table—except Jamie’s. She already knew what was coming.
Fanboy looked anxious. “The hell kinda mission is this?”
Nat answered sharply. “That’s not the question you should be asking. Everyone here is the best there is. Who’s gonna teach us?”
Jamie’s face darkened. Bradley noticed immediately. She needed a distraction, and he knew exactly what to do.
He yanked the jukebox power cord from the wall and grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the piano. Jamie’s smile widened; she knew exactly what was coming. Bradley’s fingers pounded the keys, stealing attention, creating a bubble where it was just the two of them.
And just like that, they were back. Childhood memories, friendship, music—they sang together, voices weaving over the keys: “You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain…”
The party roared. A bell rang. The crowd yelled, OVERBOARD! Jamie tilted her aviators, watching Javy, Reuben, and Jake carry her father out of the bar. She giggled lightly, spinning back to the piano, her song with Bradley taking over her world.
She wished she could stay calm, wished she could pretend this was just another random encounter. But the second she saw him, everything inside her clenched. Her stomach twisted, her chest tightened, and a thousand memories hit at once—laughs, arguments, quiet mornings, and that stupid letter he had left behind.
Stay professional. Don’t let him see anything. You’re not that girl anymore. You’re a Captain now.
She leaned against her car, forcing her posture straight, her voice cold and steady. “Is there a problem, Seresin?”
His hesitation, the way his eyes searched hers, made her heart skip. Don’t let him do this. You’re not going to fall apart for him. Not again.
“I just…I just wanted to see you,” he said, words shaky.
Jamie let out a soft exhale she didn’t mean to, then sharpened her tone. “Well, you saw me. Can I go now?”
You’ve got this. You can walk away. You’re in control.
“Jamie, come on. Look, I know I messed up, but—”
Her eyes narrowed. Authority, ice, steel. “It’s Captain to you. Know your manners, Lieutenant.”
He blinked, surprised. “What? When did that happen?”
“It happened a few months after you left. Remember that pathetic letter you left me? And nothing else.”
Don’t cry. Don’t let him see you flinch.
“Darlin—”
She cut him off, voice tight with controlled anger. “It’s Captain Mitchell. I’m over it, Seresin. So please step away so I can go home.”
Her chest burned, a mix of anger and longing she refused to name. Every fiber of her wanted to reach out, to yell, to pull him close—but years of pride, heartbreak, and self-preservation held her firm.
Jake hesitated, then took a step back, and Jamie felt a pang of satisfaction. Control. She had it. Even as the memories threatened to overtake her, she was the one walking away.
Sliding into her car, she felt the knot in her stomach ease just slightly. She started the engine, eyes forward, pretending the ache behind her ribs didn’t exist.
You’re safe now. You’re in control. Don’t let him take that from you.
And as she drove off, the night air cool against her skin, a small, almost imperceptible part of her wondered if he’d ever truly understand what he’d lost.
Pete “Maverick” Mitchell’s reckless, sky-bound life ends the day an old flame leaves him a baby and disappears. Jamie grows up in hangars, raised by borrowed love—Maverick, Goose, and Carol—alongside Bradley, the two becoming inseparable. Then Goose dies, and fear takes root. Maverick loves hard, protects harder, and slowly turns that love into a cage.
Years later, Jamie earns her wings while Bradley is grounded by Maverick’s fear. The truth finally cracks open: love built on control still hurts. So Jamie leaves—choosing the Navy, choosing the sky, choosing herself.
What she doesn’t plan on is a southern smile and soft charm named Jake Seresin…
or how fate will bring him back when she least expects it.
(Jake Seresin x Mitchell!OC)
[word count: 1,651]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After Top Gun, they kept finding their way back to each other, even when distance tried to argue otherwise. Long-distance demanded everything—but they met it every time: late-night calls that blurred into dawn, stolen weekends, sometimes even crossing paths on the same missions like fate couldn’t help itself. What they had grew quietly at first, then all at once, until they were falling harder than either of them ever meant to.
No one would’ve guessed they’d work. On paper, they were all wrong. In real life, they fit—two halves finally clicking into place.
She never talked much about the blonde to her father; over the years, she’d learned distance in more ways than one. But Rooster, Bradley, knew. He always did. A childhood best friend, a brother in everything but blood—some things were impossible to hide from him.
Life with Jake felt… unburdened. Free in a way she hadn’t realized she was craving. He pulled a softer side from her, one even Rooster had never seen. Mornings felt quieter. Nights felt safer. He loved her gently, never trying to cage her, treating her independence like something sacred. He saw her strengths, her flaws, her sharp edges, and chose all of it, every single time.
To Jake, loving Jamie felt like standing in sunlight. She was his Blue, and he treated her like she’d hung the stars herself. They fought sometimes—of course they did—but they talked it through, learned from each other, met in the middle. Healthy. Real. Steady.
Jake had never loved anyone the way he loved her. After three years, he was ready—ring bought, future imagined, the question already resting on his tongue.
And still… There was that fear. The small, persistent ache just behind his ribs. The hesitation that made forever feel one step too close.
In their shared apartment in Austin, Texas, Jake lay awake as dawn crept in, sunlight dancing across Jamie’s bare skin as she slept beside him. She looked peaceful. Effortless. Beautiful in a way that made his chest tighten.
She was everything. Pure, joyful, loving, gifted. And he… wasn’t. Not like her.
The doubts came quietly at first, whispering in the back of his mind.
You’ll never be good enough to stand beside her.You’re holding her back.She deserves so much better.
Then they hit him all at once.
What made him enough for her? Why had she chosen him? She could have had better, someone lighter, someone unburdened. Someone like Rooster. Or hell, a prince. Anyone who wouldn’t weigh her down.
Jamie's sleeping form shifted, curling closer, her arm finding his bare waist like it always did. It should’ve steadied him. Instead, it broke him.
She deserved more than a life bent around his shadows. More than a future where she might be holding herself back just to stay with him.
So he did the only thing that made sense to his fractured heart.
He left.
Bags packed in the quiet hours of early morning, Jake slipped out before the sun fully rose. He left behind a letter, words he couldn’t bring himself to say out loud, and a Polaroid of them, smiling, frozen in a moment where everything still felt possible.
Walking away felt like tearing himself in half. But he told himself it was love. That letting her go was the right thing, that if this really was as it should be, fate would bring them back once more.
If only he’d known how wrong he was.
When Jamie woke, the other side of the bed was cold.
Not just empty…cold, like it had been that way for a while. She frowned, reaching out on instinct, her hand finding nothing but rumpled sheets. Jake must’ve gone on his morning run. He did that sometimes when he couldn’t sleep.
She rolled over, reaching for her phone.
That’s when she saw it.
A folded piece of paper sat neatly on the nightstand, placed with too much intention to be casual. Her name was written across the front in his handwriting.
Her heart lifted—just for a second.
A love letter, she thought.
She opened the letter with a sleepy, soft smile—expecting something sweet, something Jake.
Then the words registered.
Jamie,
Her breath caught. She sat up too fast, heart beginning to pound as the letter blurred and sharpened all at once. Each sentence landed heavier than the last, love braided with goodbye, affection dressed up as surrender.
I have to let you go.
By the time she reached the end, her hands were shaking.
“Your cowboy, Jake.”
Tears spilled over before she could stop them.
Jamie bolted out of bed, panic setting in as she moved through the apartment—too fast, too desperate. The closet was empty. Drawers bare. His boots, gone. His jacket, missing from the hook by the door. Every trace of him was erased as if he had never been there at all.
Her heart stuttered. For a terrifying second, she thought she might throw up.
“No—no, no,” she whispered, already grabbing her phone.
She called him. Once. Twice. Again.
Straight to voicemail. Every time.
Her chest felt hollow, like something vital had been ripped out and taken with him. He was gone. He was really gone.
And the worst part—the part that broke her clean in two—was knowing why.
He thought he wasn’t enough.
The realization crashed over her, sharp and cruel. This is my fault. She hadn’t loved him loudly enough. Hadn’t reassured him enough. Hadn’t made him see himself the way she saw him.
“Oh my God,” she breathed, sinking to the floor as the weight of it all crushed her. “He’s gone…”
The rest of the day dissolved into tears. She didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. Couldn’t move. Grief and anger twisted together inside her, suffocating, relentless.
She loved him.
He loved her.
And somehow, that still hadn’t been enough.
~
Jake didn’t make it out of Texas before it started to unravel.
The highway stretched on forever, sun glaring through the windshield, his duffel bag heavy in the passenger seat like a crime scene.
His phone buzzed.
He didn’t pick it up.
Then again.
And again.
Jamie.
Jamie.
Jamie.
His chest tightened painfully.
Don’t, he told himself. If you hear her voice, you won’t go through with it.
~
Later, hours later, Jamie sat alone on the bed.
The apartment felt wrong without him. Like the ghost of a life she’d woken up from too late.
She smoothed the letter out with trembling hands and started again.
I will always love you.
“Then why did you leave?” she whispered.
You deserve so much more than just a cocky cowboy pilot.
“I never asked for more,” she said, tears dripping onto the paper. “I asked for you.”
That life… is not with me.
Her chest tightened. “You don’t get to decide that.”
I could never be the man you say you see in me.
Jamie pressed the letter to her heart, shaking. “I saw you. I chose you. Why wasn’t that enough?”
Let it go.
She laughed once—broken, hysterical. “You didn’t even say goodbye.”
By the time she reached You were mine, her vision was completely gone.
“I was still yours,” she whispered to the empty room.
The rest of the day dissolved into nothing. Her phone stayed off. Time rotted around her as she drifted through the ghost of their once-shared apartment, aching, hollow, barely breathing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A week later
Rooster didn’t like the way Jamie wasn’t answering her phone.
She and Jake were supposed to pick him up from the airport. A full week together—no schedules, no missions, just time. By the third unanswered call, his gut was already screaming. By the fourth, he was in a rental, speeding across Austin with one hand on the wheel and the other gripping his phone as it might finally buzz back to life.
The apartment door was unlocked.
That’s what hit him first.
“Jamie?” he called, already stepping inside.
The place was too quiet. No music. No kettle warming on the stove. The house sat dark and slightly disordered, like it had been abandoned mid-life. An empty bottle of whiskey stood on the island.
His chest tightened.
Then he saw her.
Jamie was on the living room floor, back against the couch, knees pulled to her chest like she was trying to fold herself smaller. Her eyes were red and swollen, lashes clumped with tears that didn’t seem to stop coming. The letter lay crumpled in her lap, fingers clenched around it like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
Rooster crossed the room in three strides and dropped beside her.
“Hey, hey, hey, Jay,” he said softly, hands hovering, unsure where to touch without breaking her. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
She didn’t look at him. Just shook her head, breath hitching.
“He–he left,” she whispered. “He just… left.”
Rooster’s jaw tightened. “Who?”
She finally looked up, eyes glassy and wrecked. “Jake.”
Something dark and furious flashed across Rooster’s face.
“What?”
She shoved the letter into his hands as it burned. “He thinks he wasn’t enough. He thought he was holding me back. He didn’t even let me choose.”
Rooster read it fast, too fast. His hands started shaking halfway through, not with grief, but with pure, incandescent rage.
“That idiot,” he snapped. “That absolute—”
“Bradley,” she choked. “Please.”
He stopped. Took a breath. Then pulled her into his chest, tight, like a shield locking into place.
“He doesn’t get to decide your life for you,” Rooster said, voice low and trembling. “He doesn’t get to hurt you like this and call it love.”
Jamie shattered.
Sobs tore out of her as she clutched his shirt, fingers fisting like he was the only thing keeping her from disappearing.
“I loved him,” she cried. “I love him.”
“I know,” Rooster said, staring over her head, already burning Jake Seresin’s name into memory. “And that’s exactly why he’s gonna regret this.”
Pt.1? Maybe? We’ll see I guess
update...made a pt.2, pt.3, pt.4, pt.5
Pete “Maverick” Mitchell’s reckless, sky-bound life ends the day an old flame leaves him a baby and disappears. Jamie grows up in hangars, raised by borrowed love—Maverick, Goose, and Carol—alongside Bradley, the two becoming inseparable. Then Goose dies, and fear takes root. Maverick loves hard, protects harder, and slowly turns that love into a cage.
Years later, Jamie earns her wings while Bradley is grounded by Maverick’s fear. The truth finally cracks open: love built on control still hurts. So Jamie leaves—choosing the Navy, choosing the sky, choosing herself.
What she doesn’t plan on is a southern smile and soft charm named Jake Seresin…
or how fate will bring him back when she least expects it.
(Jake Seresin x Mitchell!OC)
[did I make the summary too long? I probably did. well…dang]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jamie kept her promise to herself. Every place she went, every base she touched down on, she wrote. A letter for Bradley. A note for Pete. Always with a Polaroid, sun-bleached runways, borrowed smiles, candid moments she never posed for. Maverick pinned every photo to a bulletin board in his workshop, a quiet shrine to the daughter who was always somewhere else. Bradley kept his tucked away in a box under his bed, folded paper and fading edges he could not bring himself to throw out.
Naval Aviation sharpened Jamie fast. Skills stacked, recommendations followed, and lieutenant came sooner than expected. Her callsign Bluejay was given by Admiral Kazansky himself, pulled from a nickname he had used years earlier when introducing her to a room full of rear admirals. It stuck. So did her reputation. Versatile, fearless, effortlessly bright, she flew mission after mission, building a name that made it harder to come home.
She showed up when it mattered most. Holidays, milestones, the days you do not miss if you still want to belong. Still, every visit felt heavier than the last, especially when it came to Maverick. She loved her father. She always would. But loving him up close hurt too much.
So she learned to love him from a distance.
~
When Jamie finally stepped onto Top Gun’s base, the world seemed smaller and bigger all at once. She was the highest rank in her class as a Lieutenant-Commander, a fact that made her chest swell with pride and her stomach tighten with nerves. Just as she was taking it all in—the roar of jets, the smell of burning fuel, the endless stretch of runway under a blazing sky—news hit that Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw had officially made it to the big reps.
The mustache man lived up to his bird callsign just like his father. Jamie’s heart lifted for him, proud and protective all at once, but a dull ache lingered. They weren’t here together, not side by side, not sharing this milestone. She could almost see him rolling his eyes at the chaos around him, and she missed it. She wished Roo was here, especially after running into a certain playboy pilot named Jake “Hangman” Seresin. He was tall, blond, perfectly ridiculous in a way that made her jaw ache with irritation and something else she refused to name. She would have paid good money to see Bradley knock his perfect teeth out.
Hangman made Jamie’s skin crawl from the moment he appeared, his stupid gorgeous face and easy grin a declaration of war. Bluejay was bombarded with flirtatious comments as if her very presence was a dare. Every smirk, every teasing remark made her blush and grit her teeth simultaneously. He treated it like a game, tossing pickup lines like missiles, cocky and confident, until training finally put them in a real arena.
Dogfight maneuvers were unforgiving, and Hangman and Bluejay were paired against Coyote and Redskin. The air hummed with engines and tension. True to his callsign, the life-size Ken doll left her hanging, and she got “shot down” in the simulation. Her fingers tightened on the controls, her teeth gritted, and the words came out like a weapon. She tore him a new one, and he had no idea whether he was more aroused or guilted by the firestorm of a female pilot raining fury down on him.
“SERESIN!” Jamie’s voice cut through the roar of engines. She was livid. Losing mid-air was bad enough, but being abandoned by Jake only to watch him crash infuriated her. She ripped off her helmet and stormed toward him as he climbed out of his jet.
Cornering him against the ladder, she finally unleashed the storm she’d been holding in. “What the hell was that?! Do you normally leave your wingman behind, or was your head too far up your ass to notice that you lost me?!”
Jake smirked, tilting his head like he’d just been complimented. “Look, doll. I had a plan. You should’ve just followed my lead.”
“Followed your lead? FOLLOWED YOUR LEAD?!” Jamie shouted, finger jabbing. “There’s this thing called communication! Maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess if you focused less on your stupid one-liners and flirtatious comments and more on keeping your wingman alive!”
Their faces were only inches apart. The heat of training, adrenaline, and raw frustration made the air between them almost visible. Breaths heavy, hearts hammering, eyes flicking dangerously close to lips.
Jake’s smirk softened into that infuriating grin. “Like what you see, Blue?”
Jamie whipped back, dusting off her flight suit. “You know, for such a handsome man, you are truly an asshole, Lieutenant.”
“Oh, you think I’m handsome?” he teased.
Jamie didn’t dignify him with an answer. She flipped him off and stormed inside, leaving Hangman to grit his teeth with a grin he couldn’t quite hide.
Even after the dust settled, the adrenaline lingered in her veins. She hated him, wanted to throttle him, and maybe, somewhere deep down, wanted to see him again.
~
The night settled over Top Gun like a velvet blanket, the hangar dim except for the faint glow of emergency lights and the occasional blinking panel. Jamie sat on a crate, helmet off, flight suit still warm from the day’s training. Normally she’d be scrolling through messages from Bradley, but tonight, the space beside her felt empty, quiet in a way that made the adrenaline from the day thrum through her veins.
“Mind if I sit?” Jake’s voice broke the silence. She hadn’t noticed him approach. Bluejay looked up, eyebrows raised, unimpressed.
“I do mind,” she said flatly, but there was a flicker in her chest she didn’t want to admit.
“Come on, doll,” he said, plopping down beside her anyway. “No one should drink alone.” He held out a bottle of water, smirk softening into something almost sincere.
Jamie laughed, a short, sharp sound. “You think this is some kind of charm offensive?”
“Nope,” he said, shaking his head. “Honestly, I think I’ve been… well, messing it up.”
Her brow furrowed. “Messing what up?”
“Us,” he said simply. “I pestered you, annoyed you, and now I realize… maybe I actually want to be around you for real. Not for the chase, not for fun. For real.”
Jamie blinked. The words felt heavy, grounding. She studied him, noticing the way the hangar lights caught the gold in his hair, the way his smirk didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was nervous. Vulnerable. And somehow, it made him dangerously human.
“You’re ridiculous,” she said, shaking her head, though the heat in her chest made her voice softer than she intended.
“Yeah, but you like it,” he countered with a wink. “And, uh… I mean, maybe I can prove it. Be a good wingman. Not just in the air.”
She studied him, suspicious. “And how do I know this isn’t just another one of your stupid plans?”
“You’ll see,” he said, leaning back, giving her space while somehow making it feel like the world had shrunk to just the two of them.
Days turned into weeks. Jake’s words weren’t empty—they came with actions. During drills, he covered her blind spots. In briefings, he quietly offered advice. He listened when she ranted about missions or Bradley, never teasing, never overstepping. Slowly, the wall she’d built around herself, the one she’d carried since leaving home, started to crack. She laughed more around him. She shared little things she didn’t say out loud.
And somewhere between a midair maneuver and the late-night quiet of the hangar, the teasing smirks gave way to something softer, something real. Their hands brushed over control panels, their eyes lingered too long on one another, and a tension built that wasn’t just adrenaline, it was unspoken, combustible, impossible to ignore.
Jamie tried to fight it, tried to remind herself that pride and discipline came first. But even in the quiet moments, even when they weren’t speaking, she felt him there, weightless, unavoidable, like the pull of gravity itself.
And Hangman? He noticed everything. The subtle glance at her jawline, the way her fingers tightened on the controls, the way her laugh hit him like a punch he didn’t mind taking. Every day, he reminded himself: This isn’t just fun. This is real.
But pride, as always, lingered, one wrong word, one misstep, and everything could fall apart.
~
It started like any other day of training, dogfighting, jets slicing through the sky, engines roaring like predators. But today, the pairings were different. Hangman and Rizz versus Bluejay and Coyote.
Bluejay had known Javy a little before Top Gun, stationed at the same base and running a few missions together. That familiarity came easy—laughs shared mid-mission, playful nudges, a hand draped casually across her shoulders. Jake noticed. And he didn’t like it.
Not one bit.
Every time he saw her smile at Javy, every little inside joke she shared with his best friend, his chest tightened. Jealousy bubbled in a way he couldn’t quite control. Mine, he thought, and he hated himself for thinking it. She wasn’t his yet. Hell, she wasn’t anyone’s. But the possessive streak was real, and he couldn’t shake it.
Back in the air, his thoughts barely registered against the chaos of dogfighting. Hangman pulled his signature move, leaving Rizz behind to chase Coyote mid-maneuver. Bluejay was not having it. Rizz went down first, taken out with ease, while Blue idle-watched Hangman spiral after Coyote like a man possessed.
Her patience snapped. Bluejay lined up, took aim, and shot Hangman down without hesitation. He flared, midair, but she’d made her point. Call it payback, call it justice, he’d gone too far.
Both Coyote and Bluejay were furious. The tension crackled in the air heavier than the jet engines, ready to explode.
But before Blue could storm over and let him have it, Javy was already on him, words cutting through the hangar like a blade.
And Jake? He just stood there, chest heaving, adrenaline mixing with something hotter, something sharper—because as much as he wanted to fight her, he couldn’t stop thinking about how fiercely she’d just taken him down.
“Dude! What the hell is up with you? You’ve never pulled crap like that before!”
Jake’s eyes were locked on Jamie, back behind Javy, adjusting her plane. His world narrowed to the curve of her neck, the way her hair caught the light, completely zoning out everything else. He only thought about how he was going to fix this. How he was going to apologize to her.
“Jake, are you even listening? What’s your deal?”
Javy finally turned, following Jake’s gaze, until it clicked. A soft laugh escaped him. “You got jealous.”
Jake snapped back to reality and glared. “Shut up. I know I messed up. But it bothered me, especially seeing her with you, and not knowing what she’s thinking right now.”
“Then go talk to her, dumbass! Not take me out with your plane!” Javy shoved him.
~
The hangar was quiet now, the engines cooled, shadows stretching long across the floor. Jamie could still feel the thrum of adrenaline from the dogfight, but it wasn’t just the maneuvers anymore. Her chest tightened every time she felt Jake’s proximity, every time his scent: vanilla, warm, familiar, hit her like a wave.
She wanted to pull away, to regain control, to remind herself he was Hangman, the cocky, impossible pilot who made her skin crawl. And yet, the way he looked at her now, so raw, so honest, made her knees go weak.
Why am I thinking about him like this? she scolded herself. He’s ridiculous. He’s impossible. He’s…
Her thoughts shattered when Jake’s hand tightened on her wrist, spinning her into him. Heat radiated off him, heart thumping against her chest, and suddenly, all her carefully constructed walls didn’t matter.
“Jamie… don’t do this to me,” he said, voice low, almost strained. “I just… I just lost my cool, okay? You have no idea how hard it is to see you around him sometimes… how badly I want to—”
Her breath caught. She could feel every word, every pulse, every unsaid confession vibrating through him.
“W-what?” she stammered.
“Dammit, woman!” And then, without thinking, without warning, he pressed his lips to hers.
The world fell away. Her hands went to his hair, tangling in gold strands, feeling the heat and strength beneath her fingers. His lips were firm, demanding, and when he pressed his body against hers, she felt dizzy with want and something she didn’t have a name for.
He’s so… wrong, but so right, she thought, every nerve ending on fire.
Jake’s own mind spun, a mix of chaos and clarity. She smelled like home and fire and something sweet he couldn’t place. He wanted this, her, all of her, and he wanted it to mean something. Not just a kiss, not just a thrill, but her.
When they finally broke apart, it was only slightly, just enough to breathe, though their foreheads stayed pressed together. The tension didn’t leave. It was thick, warm, and alive, wrapping around them like the hangar itself had paused to watch.
“Jamie Mitchell,” he whispered, every word weighted, “I fell for you. I fell for you hard. You’re beautiful, strong, talented. I wake up thinking about you. I fall asleep dreaming about you. You’re the moon on my night and the sun on my cloudy days. Please… just give me a chance.”
Her hands cupped his face, trembling. His vulnerability cracked something open inside her, something she didn’t know had been waiting. Her eyes shimmered, her lips parting. “Okay,” she whispered, softly, but with certainty.
“Okay?” he asked, breath hitching, hope laced with disbelief.
She smiled, sweet and fierce at the same time, and kissed him again, slower this time, letting him taste her, letting herself feel every heartbeat and thrill. “Okay,” she repeated, pressing closer.
Jake grinned against her lips, hands moving to her hips, pulling her impossibly closer, their bodies a perfect fit. Every brush of skin, every shared breath, was a promise unspoken. They stayed like that for a long moment, savoring it, letting the hangar fade around them, until finally, a shared laugh broke through—the tension softening into warmth, comfort, and something neither of them wanted to let go of.
Even as the world crept back in, the lights, the echoing footsteps, the distant voices, nothing else mattered. Not today, not the missions, not the chaos of Top Gun. Only this. Only them.
The school doors slammed shut with a loud thud, shaking on their hinges as Scott and Enzo held the handles with everything they had.
“Lock it! Lock it!” Scott shouted in panic.
Enzo, equally terrified, shot back, “Do I look like I have a key?”
Scott quickly turned to the others—Stiles, Emilia, and Ezra, with desperation in his voice. “Grab something—anything!”
Stiles raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“Anything!” Emilia yelled, her voice tense.
As Scott clutched the door handles, Stiles’ eyes caught sight of the bolt cutters, leaning against the wall outside. He gave them a long look.
Emilia, noticing his gaze, stared at him like he’d lost his mind. “No.”
Stiles responded with a simple, determined, “Yes.”
Scott, sensing the craziness of the idea, tried to intervene. “No, Stiles, don’t—” But Stiles was already pushing past Scott and Enzo, stepping into the cold night air.
The chill bit at his skin and his breath fogged in the cold, hanging in the still air. Holding his breath, he quickly scanned the darkness around him. Seeing nothing but shadows, Stiles made a break for it, dashing to the side of the building where the bolt cutters lay.
He grabbed them, heart pounding, and turned back to see the others staring out at him through the glass doors, their mouths moving frantically, trying to yell—run.
Stiles’ head whipped around just in time to see it—a massive, monstrous figure, emerging from the shadows. Its red eyes glowed menacingly as it loped toward him.
Stiles sprinted back to the door, bolt cutters in hand. “Move!” he yelled, crashing back inside.
Scott and Stiles fumbled with the bolt cutters, wedging the handles into the bars of the door to create a makeshift lock. They looked up, breathless, but the parking lot was eerily empty. A few leaves tumbled across the pavement, but the looming figure was nowhere to be seen.
“Is it gone?” Scott whispered, glancing at Stiles.
They both took a step back, then another—until they were sprinting, racing down the hall. The others followed, running until they burst into a dark classroom. Ezra was already moving a desk toward the door.
“The desk! The desk!” he shouted, pushing it forward with the others. The metal legs squealed across the tile floor, the noise piercing the quiet.
“Stop, stop!” Stiles hissed, motioning for them to hold still.
Everyone froze, the tension thick in the air.
Whispering, Stiles leaned toward Scott. “The door’s not going to keep it out.”
Scott’s eyes were wide. “I know…”
Stiles glanced around, his voice sharp. “It’s your boss. Deaton. He’s the Alpha.”
Scott shook his head, disbelief evident. “No…”
“Yes!” Stiles insisted. “Murdering, psycho werewolf. Who else could it be?”
“It’s not him,” Enzo interjected.
“He killed Derek!” Stiles shot back.
Ezra rolled his eyes. “Derek’s not dead. He’s just knocked out. Blood loss from an Alpha hurts like hell, but it’s not fatal.”
Stiles wasn’t convinced. “Blood spurted out of his mouth! That doesn’t exactly qualify as a minor injury. He’s dead, and we’re next.”
Scott exhaled shakily. “Okay, so… what do we do?”
Stiles, ever practical, leaned in. “We get to my Jeep. We get out of here. And you seriously think about quitting your job. Deal?”
Enzo and Ezra exchanged annoyed looks, clearly unimpressed by the lack of listening. Emilia muttered to them, “Now you know how I feel.”
Scott nodded, agreeing with Stiles. They all turned toward the classroom windows, cautiously peeking into the parking lot.
They spotted Stiles’ Jeep, sitting about twenty yards away in the lot. Scott pressed his hands against the window sill, eyeing the vehicle like a lifeline.
“They don’t open,” Stiles reminded him. “The school’s climate controlled.”
Scott was undeterred. “Then we break it.”
Ezra, always the pragmatist, added, “That’ll make a lot of noise.”
Scott’s voice was tight. “So then we run really fast.”
They glanced back at the Jeep, which now seemed a whole lot farther away.
“Really fast,” Scott added, swallowing hard.
Stiles began searching for something to smash the window when Enzo suddenly moved closer to the glass, his eyes narrowing. “Stiles… what’s wrong with the hood of your Jeep?”
Stiles looked confused. “What do you mean? Nothing’s wrong.”
“It’s bent,” Enzo replied, his tone grim.
“You mean dented?” Stiles asked.
“No… I mean bent.”
Stiles cupped his hands to the glass, squinting through the darkness. His heart sank. The hood of his Jeep was twisted, almost like it had been peeled open.
“What the hell happened to my—”
A sudden explosion of glass sent them all crashing to the floor, screaming. Ducking under the window, they peeked through raised arms to see—the Jeep’s battery, wires dangling, skidding across the tile to a stop.
Another explosion shattered more glass, and half of Emilia’s car engine came crashing through the window, landing near them in pieces.
They sat frozen, their eyes wide with disbelief.
“That’s my battery,” Stiles muttered.
Emilia’s eyes blazed with fury. “My friggin’ engine! That son of a—”
Scott nodded, still staring at the wreckage.
Stiles started to rise, but Scott pulled him back down.
“Don’t,” Scott whispered harshly.
Stiles shook his head. “We have to move.”
Scott’s grip tightened. “He could be right outside.”
Ezra’s voice was calm but certain. “He is right outside.”
Scott didn’t let go of Stiles. “Just let me check.”
Craning his neck, Scott carefully peered out the broken window. The parking lot was dark, silent, and empty.
“Anything?” Stiles whispered.
Scott shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Move now?” Stiles asked.
Scott nodded, his pulse quickening. “Move now.”
They scrambled to their feet, slipping out of the classroom and into the hallway. Glancing down the corridors, they began drifting forward, moving cautiously.
“This way,” Scott whispered.
“No, somewhere without windows,” Enzo muttered.
Scott sighed. “Every room in this building has windows.”
Stiles, ever helpful, added, “Somewhere with less windows.”
Scott’s face lit up with realization. “The locker room.”
The door to the locker room swung open, and the five of them hurried inside. Scott turned to Stiles, urgency in his voice. “Call your dad.”
Emilia and Stiles exchanged incredulous looks. “What?” they said in unison.
“Call. Your. Dad,” Scott reiterated, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Enzo frowned, glancing at Scott. “And tell him what?”
“Anything! There’s a gas leak, a fire, whatever! If that thing sees the parking lot fill with police cars, it’ll take off.”
Stiles crossed his arms. “What if it doesn’t? What if it goes full Terminator and kills every cop in sight, including my dad?”
“They have guns,” Scott defended, trying to instill some hope.
Ezra added, “And remember, Derek had to be shot with a wolfsbane-laced bullet just to slow him down. Regular bullets won’t do anything but piss it off.”
“Then we have to… find a way out and run for it,” Scott said, his voice firm.
Stiles sighed, “There’s nothing near the school for half a mile.”
“What about Derek’s car?” Scott suggested.
Stiles nodded, the idea gaining traction. “That could work. We can grab the keys from his body. Take his car.”
Emilia’s voice was steady. “And him.”
“Fine, whatever.” But as Stiles reached for the door, Scott stopped him.
“What?” Stiles asked confusion etched on his face.
“I think I heard something.”
“Like what?” Stiles pressed, anxiety creeping into his voice.
“Quiet,” Ezra urged, his own nerves on edge. They needed to stay calm, for the sake of the situation.
Still gripping Stiles’s arm, Scott strained to listen. The three werewolves focused their senses, breaths shallow and nervous. Stiles moved to release his grip on the doorknob, but Scott tightened his hold, signaling him to stay still.
A shadow passed by the mottled glass window of the door, mere centimeters away from them. Scott eased off Stiles’s arm, slowly stepping back.
“Hide,” Emilia whispered, barely audible.
Stiles instinctively drew back into the darkness. They glanced around, desperation etched on their faces. There was nowhere to hide. Stiles looked to Emilia, pleading with his eyes, but she seemed just as lost. Finally, he reached for a locker door and climbed right inside.
“No, Stiles—Stiles!” Scott protested, but a second later, the other four followed suit, slipping into the locker across from him.
Inside, Scott held still, struggling to control his breathing and quiet his racing heart. Emilia shut her eyes, holding her breath. Enzo, cramped and uncomfortable, tried to keep silent, while Ezra contorted himself to fit, hyperventilating in the cramped space.
The sound of the locker room door opening sent the werewolves’ ears perked up. A large, dark figure stepped in, an odd clicking echoing on the concrete floor. Through the air vents of the lockers, Scott watched as the shape passed by him. He could see Stiles through his vent holes, eyes wide with fear.
Inside the other locker, Stiles pressed a hand over his mouth, trying to stifle his breathing. Scott remained utterly still, blinking rapidly in the darkness when suddenly, the locker door yanked open.
The janitor stood there, eyes wide in shock. “Son of a bitch!” he screamed, staggering back.
Before Scott could explain, Stiles and the others stumbled out of their lockers, a flurry of panic.
“Quiet—quiet!” Scott urged, grabbing the janitor to steady him.
“Quiet, my ass! Are you five trying to kill me?” The janitor leaned against the lockers, looking like he was about to have a heart attack.
“All of you. Get out!” he shouted, panic lacing his voice.
“Just listen for half a second, okay?” Stiles insisted.
“No, not okay! Get the hell out of here. Right now!” The janitor’s voice boomed, echoing in the confined space.
Before they could argue, the door swung open into the hallway, and the furious janitor pushed them out.
“Just one second to explain—” Enzo started, but the janitor cut him off.
“Shut up and go!” Then, as if on instinct, he whipped back into the locker room, swinging the door shut behind him. The sudden movement left the five standing in utter confusion, staring at the closed door.
Moments later, the janitor’s face slammed against the door’s window, leaving Scott and Stiles staggered in shock as his body crashed forward again, rattling the door in its frame.
“Scott! Come on!” Stiles shouted, but Scott was frozen, grasping the doorknob, trying to get it open.
“Scott! He’s gone! We have to go! Now!” Enzo urged, his voice rising in urgency.
Realizing the truth, they turned and ran, racing down the corridor as the locker room door wrenched off its hinges, crashing into the hallway. The janitor’s lifeless body collapsed onto the door, and in one swift motion, it was dragged back into the darkness of the locker room.
“RUN!” Ezra yelled, panic surging through them as they sprinted away, the echo of their footsteps mingling with the chaos behind them.
Allison stood on the sidewalk outside her home, glancing anxiously down the street, waiting for Scott. The chill of the night air wrapped around her, but her focus was solely on the road ahead. Just then, her phone rang, and she quickly answered.
“Lydia says we’re coming to get you,” Jackson's voice came through.
“Please, don’t. I’m sure he’s on his way. He’s only…” She glanced at her phone screen. “26 minutes late.”
“You hear that? First it’s ‘He’s only 26 minutes late.’ A month later it’s ‘He only hits me when he’s drunk.’ Slippery slope, Allison. Slippery slope,” Lydia chimed in, her tone teasing yet serious.
“We’re picking you up,” Jackson added, his resolve firm.
“No,” Allison insisted, her voice steady.
“Too late,” Jackson replied, and just then, his Porsche pulled up alongside the curb, with Lydia in the passenger seat. He rolled down the window, a healthier glow returning to his cheeks, a stark contrast to his usual pallor.
“Lydia gets what Lydia wants,” he said, a smirk playing on his lips.
Allison’s gaze drifted back down the road. Still no sign of Scott. Jackson’s persistent invitation hung in the air, and she felt a reluctant sigh escape her lips.
“Come on, get in. We can stop by his place and see if he’s there,” Jackson urged.
With a heavy heart, she opened the door to climb into the backseat. Just as she did, her phone buzzed again, causing her to pause.
“Is that him with the best explanation ever of why he’s half a freaking hour late?” Lydia asked, her curiosity piqued.
Allison glanced at her phone, the screen illuminating her face with a soft glow. “Not exactly,” she replied, her heart sinking as she read the message.
~
Feet flew across the floor as the quintet raced toward the exit at the end of the hall. They reached the fire doors simultaneously, grabbing the handles and pushing down hard, shoving forward with all their strength. The doors creaked open, but only an inch, clanging against something solid behind them.
“What the hell?” Stiles exclaimed, peering through the narrow gap.
Scott squinted through the opening. “It’s a dumpster. A garbage dumpster.”
The group took a few steps back, uncertainty washing over them.
“He pushed it in front of the doors—” Stiles began, panic creeping into his voice.
“—to trap us in,” Scott finished.
Enzo, hiding his fear behind sarcasm, quipped, “Oh, that’s so cute; you finish each other's sentences. Move out of our way.” He exchanged a glance with his twin before charging at the door, determined to shift the dumpster. But nothing happened.
Emilia’s expression turned somber as Enzo continued to push against the door. “Boys, stop,” she urged gently.
The twins halted, concern etched on their faces. “I’m not dying here,” Enzo declared.
“Me neither! I’m especially not dying in school,” Stiles chimed in, his voice rising.
“We’re not going to die,” Emilia insisted, trying to bolster their spirits.
Stiles moved closer to her, a hint of panic in his eyes. “Then what’s it doing? What does it want? You’re an alpha too, Emilia. You should know!”
Emilia’s face hardened, and the twins instinctively stepped in front of their sister, growling lowly at Stiles. “Watch it, Stilinski?” Enzo warned.
“Guys, stop,” Scott interjected. “The alpha wants me. Derek says it’s stronger with a pack.”
“Great. A psychotic werewolf who’s into teamwork. That’s beautiful,” Stiles muttered, glancing nervously at the doors again, and back to Emilia guilt gnawing him away realizing he shouldn’t have snapped Emilia.
They stepped back, surveying the hallway, but their cautious movement came to a sudden halt when Scott paused. His gaze darted to the wall of windows lining the corridor, looking out onto the courtyard and the opposite side of the school.
On the roof, a figure crouched in the shadows, its red eyes locked onto them.
“Go!” Scott shouted as the Alpha leapt from one level of the roof to the next, a blur of speed and power.
They took off running, nearly tripping over each other as the glass behind them exploded into the hallway. The Alpha crashed back into the school, relentless in its pursuit.
“Stairs!” Scott yelled, grabbing Stiles and pulling him toward the adjacent stairwell. Emilia followed suit, ushering the twins along, their hearts racing as they dove into the darkness.
“Down, down!” Scott shouted as they raced into the lower level of the school, desperately seeking safety.
Meanwhile, in the parking lot, Jackson’s Porsche skidded into the lot. He jumped out of the driver’s side, pulling the seat forward to let Allison out. They both glanced over at the Jeep and Land Rover parked a few spaces away.
“What are they doing here anyway?” Jackson asked, furrowing his brow.
Allison held up her cell phone to show him a text that read: Meet me at the school - Scott.
“Lydia,” she added, “you know they lock the doors at night.”
“That one looks open,” Jackson replied, pointing to a door that stood ajar. The bolt cutters rested upright against it, almost as if they were inviting Allison inside.
“You don’t need me to state the obvious, right?” Jackson continued, concern edging his tone.
“That it looks like they broke into the school? No. Pretty obvious,” Allison replied, her voice steady.
“Do you want me to come with you?” Jackson asked, a hint of worry creeping into his voice.
“It’s okay,” Allison said, shaking her head.
“Allison...” he paused, searching her face for reassurance.
She turned back to him, sensing the weight of his gaze. “You have this look like you’re about to say ‘be careful.’”
“I am,” he admitted, a seriousness settling over him.
She smiled at him, a glimmer of warmth breaking through the tension. Jackson blinked in surprise.
“What?” he asked, momentarily caught off guard.
“That concerned look on you. I’ve never seen it before,” she teased gently.
“I am concerned,” he reiterated, his brow furrowing deeper.
“It’s a good look for you,” she said, her smile lingering a moment longer.
From the Porsche, Lydia watched the exchange, her expression darkening with disapproval.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be right back,” Allison reassured Jackson as she stepped into the dark corridor.
As she crossed the threshold, the bolt cutters slipped from their perch, clattering to the pavement and allowing the door to slam shut behind her with a finality that echoed through the night.
The group backed into the basement of the school, slipping around corners as fluorescent lights flickered above them, casting eerie shadows with an electric crackling sound.
“We have to do something,” Ezra urged his voice tight with urgency.
“Like what?” Scott replied, glancing around at the dimly lit space.
Stiles chimed in, his voice laced with desperation. “Kill it. Hurt it. Inflict mental anguish on it. Something!” He cast a nervous glance at the doors with mesh cage windows, and old and dirty lockers lying open inside. His mind raced, darting from one thought to the next when suddenly, a door slammed open behind them.
The five of them instinctively pulled back into the darkness, holding still. They could hear a strange clicking sound on the floor, claws tapping against the tile. Stiles’s gaze shifted from the thin corridor to several old administrative desks stacked against the wall. An idea sparked in his mind.
Scott caught the look in Stiles’s eyes and understood. Slowly, Stiles moved his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out his car keys, raising them high. They jangled softly, causing both boys to flinch. Emilia shot him a glare, her eyes wide with disbelief.
“Don’t!” she whispered fiercely, but it was too late. Stiles reared back and threw the keys. They landed in one of the cage rooms, clattering against the wall.
A massive shape blurred past, diving into the darkness after the keys. Without a second thought, Ezra leaped from the shadows and slammed the door shut behind it.
“Scott—get the desk! The desk!” Ezra shouted.
With barely a moment to comprehend the plan, Scott rushed to one of the steel desks, ramming it against the closed door. Ezra dodged out of the way as the door jerked forward, hitting the side of the desk with a violent thud. The Alpha roared from inside the cage room, slamming into the door, but the desk wedged firmly between it and the opposite wall.
Scott and Ezra exchanged a glance, their faces alight with triumph. They had trapped it.
~
Waiting behind the wheel, Jackson stared at Stiles’s Jeep, its outline barely visible in the darkness.
“You see that?” he said, his voice edged with annoyance.
“See what?” Lydia replied, peering out the window.
“The hood on that piece of crap Jeep looks crappier than usual.” Jackson swung open the door of the Porsche.
“Where are you going?” Lydia asked, a hint of concern in her tone.
“To take a look. Stay here.” Jackson’s tone was dismissive.
“I’m not staying in the car,” she shot back, determination in her voice.
“Just stay in the damn—”
“Don’t leave me alone in the car!” Her fierceness made him stop in his tracks.
“Fine. Don’t have a meltdown,” he muttered, stepping out as Lydia clicked her own door open, following him.
As they approached the Jeep, Jackson ran his fingers over the crumpled hood, Lydia by his side.
“Look at that. It is indeed a piece of crap. Can we get Allison and leave now?” she urged, glancing nervously toward the school.
Ignoring her, Jackson leaned closer, noting the strange grooves etched into the hood—claw marks. His heart raced as he shifted his gaze to the school’s doors.
“What are you doing? Are we getting Allison? Jackson?” Lydia pressed, her voice laced with worry as she watched him move toward the entrance.
~
The five of them stood on opposite sides of the desk, wedged tightly between the cage door and the wall. Enzo slowly gestured for Ezra and Scott to climb over, but both boys hesitated, fear evident on their faces. A heavy breath echoed from within the cage room, and they exchanged terrified glances, knowing the Alpha was lurking in the darkness.
Stiles, feeling the weight of the moment, twisted his head toward Scott, urging him to join him. With a reluctant sigh, the two finally moved, awkwardly sliding over the desk just as the Alpha’s massive hand slammed against the mesh wire window of the door. They flinched back, eyes wide as clawed fingers like talons reached through the openings, then slowly retreated back into the shadows.
Incredibly, Stiles took a step toward the cage room.
“What are you doing?” Scott hissed, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I want to get a look,” Stiles replied, determination edging into his tone.
“Are you crazy?” Ezra shot back, disbelief in his eyes.
“It’s trapped. It can’t get out,” Stiles insisted, trying to reassure himself as much as them.
Just then, the cage rattled ominously, seeming to respond to Stiles's words.
“That’s right. We got you,” he said, growing more confident.
“Shut up,” Enzo snapped, concern etched across his face.
“No, I’m not scared of this thing,” Stiles declared defiantly, turning to face the Alpha. “I’m not scared of you. Because you’re not going any—”
Suddenly, the Alpha leaped up, crashing directly into the ceiling. Panels burst away with a thunderous crash, scattering debris to the floor. The five of them looked up in horror as the ceiling shook, bending under the weight of the creature. No longer trapped, the Alpha was free, and they could only watch in dread as it made its escape.
Emilia shot Stiles an exasperated glare. “You and your smartass comments.”
~
Allison's heels clicked against the tiled floor as she peeked into one classroom after another, her voice echoing through the empty halls.
“Scott?” she called, the sound bouncing back to her. Shadows danced across the walls as she moved toward the stairwell, anxiety prickling at the back of her mind.
“Scott?” she called louder, her heart racing.
Meanwhile, in an adjacent corridor, Lydia hurried after Jackson.
“Hold on!” she called, darting toward the door of the girls' restroom.
“Are you kidding? You need to use the bathroom now?” Jackson shot back, disbelief etched across his face.
“Yes, now. Do you have a problem with a basic biological function?” Lydia snapped, frustration flaring.
“I’m starting to have a problem with all your functions,” he muttered, rolling his eyes as she pushed through the door.
Jackson stood in the empty corridor, arms crossed, when something caught his eye. A large silhouetted figure loomed at the end of the hall, standing eerily still and watching him.
“McCall?” he called out, stepping forward to catch a better glimpse. The figure remained an indistinct shadow, almost perfectly outlined against the dim light.
“Scott?” he tried again, unease creeping into his voice. Then, in a near whisper, he added, “Derek?”
Suddenly, the silhouette shifted from standing to all fours, then loped away, disappearing around the corner with an unsettling grace.
Short gasps escaped Jackson's lips as he stared down the long corridor, his heart pounding. Just then, the girls’ restroom door slammed open, nearly knocking him off his feet.
“Did you find them?” Lydia asked, her face flushed with urgency.
In the meantime, Allison was walking on the tile floor between the school’s two swimming pools when her phone began to ring. She paused, pulling it out to answer, her heart still racing from the search.
~
Still in the dim basement, Scott turned to Emilia, a frown creasing his brow.
“Do you hear that?” he asked, straining to listen.
Emilia tilted her head, her piercings glinting softly in the faint light. “Hear what?”
“A phone ringing,” Scott replied, his eyes widening as the realization hit him.
Stiles, glancing between them, raised an eyebrow. “What?”
Scott’s heart raced. “I know that ring. It’s Allison’s phone…”
~
In the dimly lit corridors of the high school’s swimming pool area, Allison held her phone to her ear, anxiety tightening in her chest.
“Hey, I can’t seem to find them,” she said, glancing around the empty space. “Okay, give me a second. I’ll be right there.” She clicked off, but just as she was about to tuck her phone away, it rang again, startling her. Frowning at the display, she answered.
“Stiles?”
“It’s me. Where are you?” Scott’s voice came through, urgent and clipped.
“In the school looking for you. Why weren’t you at my place?” she replied, confusion creeping in.
“Where are you right now?” Scott’s tone was sharp, and a chill ran down her spine.
“On the first floor—”
“Where? Where are you exactly?”
Allison hesitated, her voice catching in her throat under his urgency. “The swimming—uh, the swimming pools.”
“Get to the cafeteria. Go now.”
“Okay, okay, I’m going—”
She pushed through a door, stepping into the bustling first-floor lobby. Her heart raced as she spotted Scott, Stiles, and the Cadieuxs rushing toward her.
“What are you doing? Why’d you come here?” Scott demanded, a mix of concern and frustration in his eyes.
“Because you asked me to,” she replied, holding up her phone to show him the message: Meet me at the school - Scott.
Scott’s expression shifted to confusion. “I asked you to?”
“Why do I get the feeling you didn’t send that message?” she said, her brow furrowing.
“Because I didn’t.”
Stiles stepped closer, eyeing her. “Did you drive here?”
“Jackson did.”
“Jackson’s here too?” Scott exclaimed, looking around.
“And Lydia,” Allison added, worry flooding her voice. “What’s going on? Who sent this text—”
Just then, her phone rang again, interrupting her thoughts. She picked up, anxiety spiking. “Where are you?”
At that moment, Jackson and Lydia hurried around the corner.
“Finally. Can we go now?” Lydia asked impatience in her tone.
Before anyone could respond, an ominous rumbling echoed above them.
“Run!” Scott shouted, spinning on his heel and pushing them forward as something explosive burst through the ceiling panels behind them, showering debris and chaos into the air.
The cafeteria doors slammed open, and eight terrified teenagers rushed inside, the sound echoing through the vast room.
“Scott, wait—not here—” Stiles shouted, but Scott wasn’t listening. He swung the doors closed, turning to search for a way to barricade them.
“The vending machine. Help me push it in front of the doors,” Scott ordered, his voice tight with urgency.
“What was that? Scott, what was that?” Allison asked, panic rising in her chest.
“What happened to the ceiling?” Lydia added, glancing back toward the chaos they’d escaped. Scott didn’t answer; he was too focused on shoving one of the vending machines forward.
“Just help me!” he snapped, and Enzo and Ezra moved to assist. But Emilia raised a hand to stop them, a calm yet serious look in her eyes.
Jackson and Allison joined Scott, sliding the vending machine against the doors. The palpable panic seemed to spread among the group, heightening their fear.
“Chairs. Stack the chairs—” Scott commanded.
“Guys, hold on,” Stiles interjected, trying to keep the chaos from escalating. Even a frightened Lydia lent a hand, pushing chairs forward as quickly as she could.
“Guys, wait a second. Hello,” Stiles continued, looking around at the frenzy. Jackson and Allison grabbed chairs, working to create a barricade, but Stiles and the Cadieuxs lagged behind. Emilia stood close to him, whispering, “It’s not nice when someone blatantly ignores you when you’re right in front of them, is it?”
“Okay, nice work. Beautiful job, everyone. Now what do you think we should do about the twenty-foot wall of windows?” Stiles exclaimed, shaking his hands at the field of glass to his right. Everyone turned to look up at the looming threat. “Good point.”
“Can someone please explain what’s going on? I’m freaking out here, and I’d at least like to know why,” Allison pleaded, her voice edged with fear. Scott remained silent, avoiding her gaze.
“Someone killed the janitor,” Stiles said, his voice grim.
“What?” Lydia gasped.
“The janitor’s dead,” Stiles repeated.
Allison turned to Scott, desperation in her eyes. “What’s he talking about? Is this a joke?”
Scott shook his head, his expression grave.
“Who killed him?” Jackson asked, his voice low and tense.
“No, no, no. This was supposed to be over. The mountain lion—” Lydia started.
“Don’t you get it? That wasn’t a mountain lion—” Jackson interrupted.
“Who is it? What does he want?” Allison pressed, her panic rising.
Stiles glanced at Scott, then back to Emilia, who stood expressionless, avoiding the conversation. Scott seemed to shut down, shaking his head, overwhelmed by the situation as the group’s anxiety mounted.
“What’s happening? Scott?” Allison urged.
“I don’t know—it’s just—if we go out there, he’s going to kill us,” Scott finally said, his voice laced with dread.
“Us? Kill us?” Lydia echoed, disbelief in her tone.
Allison turned to Stiles, her voice urgent. “Who? Who is it?”
“Derek. It’s Derek Hale,” Scott revealed, his words hanging in the air like a death sentence. Shock rippled through the group, especially Stiles, who looked almost incredulous.
“Derek killed the janitor?” Jackson asked, incredulous.
“You’re sure?” Allison pressed, her heart racing.
Scott nodded, his expression grim. “I saw him.”
“The mountain lion—” Lydia started again, but Scott shook his head firmly.
“No. Derek killed them.”
“All of them?” Allison questioned, dread pooling in her stomach.
“Starting with his own sister,” Scott replied, the weight of his words settling heavily.
“And the bus driver?” Allison asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“And then the guy in the video store. It’s been Derek the whole time. He’s in here with us. And if we don’t get out... he’s going to kill us too.”
A tense silence fell over the group as the gravity of Scott’s words sank in, the reality of their situation bearing down on them like a storm.
Jackson turned back to Stiles, urgency etched across his face. “Call the cops.”
“No,” Stiles replied, his voice firm.
“What do you mean, no?” Jackson shot back, incredulous.
“I mean no. Want to hear it in Spanish? No. Derek killed three people. We don’t know what he’s armed with,” Stiles explained, glancing at Emilia and the twins, who scowled. They thought it was cheap to throw Derek under the bus like that.
“Your dad is armed with an entire Sheriff’s Department. Call him,” Jackson insisted, frustration bubbling.
“I’m calling,” Lydia said, already pulling out her phone.
“Hold on—Lydia, just wait—” Stiles started forward, but Jackson shoved him back.
Lydia pressed the phone to her ear, her voice steady. “Yes, we’re at Beacon Hills High School. We’re trapped in here and we need you to—” She paused, her expression shifting from determination to surprise. Slowly, she pulled the phone away from her ear.
“She hung up on me,” she said, disbelief coloring her tone.
“The police hung up on you?” Allison asked, incredulous.
“Yeah. She said they got a tip warning them there would be prank calls about a break-in at the high school. She said if I called again, they would trace it and have me arrested.”
“Then call again,” Allison urged, a mix of anger and fear in her eyes.
“They won’t trace a cell phone. They’ll send a car to your house before they send someone here,” Stiles countered, his voice calm but tense.
“What the... What is this? Why does Derek want to kill us? Why’s he killing anyone?” Allison asked, looking around the group, her gaze settling on Scott.
“Why are you looking at me?” Scott replied, his expression defensive.
“Is he the one who sent her the text?” Lydia pressed, her voice rising with urgency.
“No—I mean, I don’t know,” Scott said, frustration creeping into his tone.
“Is he the one who called the police?” Allison continued, her voice sharp.
“I don’t know!” Scott snapped, causing Allison to flinch noticeably. Behind her, Jackson couldn’t help but smile just a little at the tension between them.
Stiles stepped in, placing a hand on Scott’s shoulder to pull him aside. “Okay, everybody just ease back on the throttle, all right?” he said, trying to defuse the situation.
As they regrouped, the weight of the unknown hung heavily in the air, each teenager grappling with their own fears and questions. They all knew one thing for sure: they needed to figure out what was happening—and fast.
Stiles pulled Scott over to the kitchen area of the cafeteria, eager for a moment of privacy. “First off,” he muttered under his breath, “throwing Derek under the bus? Nicely done. I know Emilia and the twins are planning to tear you apart later.”
Scott ran a hand through his hair, his voice shaky. “I didn’t know what to say. I had to say something. And if he’s dead, it doesn’t matter. Except if he’s not...” His voice broke. “Oh God, I totally bit her head off.”
“And she’ll totally get over it. Bigger things to deal with. Like getting out of here alive,” Stiles reminded him, trying to keep the mood light.
“But we are alive. And it could have already killed us. It’s like it’s cornering us,” Scott said, his anxiety mounting.
“What? Like it wants to eat us all at the same time?” Stiles quipped, attempting humor again.
“No. Derek said it wants revenge,” Scott replied, a grim seriousness in his tone.
“Against who?” Stiles asked, his brow furrowing.
“I don’t know. Allison’s family?” Scott suggested.
“Maybe that’s what the text was about,” Stiles said, glancing around at their friends. “Someone had to send it.”
“So while loping through the woods, he stops to take out his Blackberry?” Scott shot back.
“Hey, hey, hey. I’m the sarcastic one in this friendship,” Stiles countered.
Just then, Jackson’s voice cut through the tension. “Okay, assheads. New plan. Stiles calls his useless dad and tells him to send someone with a gun and decent aim. We good with that?” No one spoke up to disagree.
Scott turned to Stiles, urgency in his eyes. “He’s right. Tell him the truth if you have to. Just call him.”
“I’m not watching my dad get eaten alive,” Stiles argued.
Jackson stepped forward, determination in his stance. “That’s it. Give me your phone.” He spun Stiles around, reaching for the phone in his pocket.
In a moment of pure instinct, Stiles reacted, clocking Jackson squarely in the jaw. The unexpected punch sent Jackson sprawling to the floor, and the twins stifled their laughter at the sight. Oddly enough, it was Allison who rushed to Jackson’s side, not Lydia.
“Are you okay? Jackson?” Allison asked, concern evident in her voice. Jackson, still on the ground, couldn't help but smile, secretly pleased with the chaos.
Stiles, cradling his trembling hand, glanced at Scott, who looked equally surprised. With determination, he reached into his pocket and fished out his cell phone.
As everyone watched with bated breath, he dialed. “Dad? Hey, it’s me... and it’s your voicemail. Um... I need you to call me back. Like now. Like right now—”
Suddenly, a loud SLAM echoed against the doors. Lydia screamed, retreating toward Allison.
“Dad—” Stiles continued, panic rising in his voice. “We’re at the school—” WHAM! A stack of chairs tumbled down as their barricade began to give way. Stiles backed away with the others as something pounded relentlessly at the doors.
“SMASHING, POUNDING, desperately trying to BREAK THROUGH.” The vending machine slid forward, and a chair flew past Allison like a projectile. She screamed, hands coming up defensively.
“Oh God, oh my God—” Lydia gasped.
The hinges at the top of the doors began bending and collapsing inward.
“The kitchen!” Stiles shouted, adrenaline fueling his words. “The door out of the kitchen leads to the stairwell!”
Scott’s face twisted in concern. “Which only goes up.”
“Up is better than here!” Stiles declared, the noise intensifying behind them.
With another deafening boom, the decision was made. They ran for the kitchen, the threat hot on their heels.
The stairwell door slammed open, and Scott led the others into the second-floor hallway. They quickly tried the nearby doors, all of them locked, until Lydia finally found an open one. They hurtled into the chemistry room, shutting the door quietly behind them. Scott grabbed a teacher's chair and wedged it under the doorknob just as they heard the stairwell door slam open.
Everyone pressed against the wall, trying to stay out of sight from the window of the door, each holding their breath. Jackson, Lydia, Allison, Ezra, Enzo, Emilia, Stiles, and Scott huddled together in terror. Closest to the door, Scott leaned out slightly, straining to listen. Stiles reached for him, trying to pull him back, but Scott remained still, focusing on the sounds outside. He heard the click of claws against the tile floor, the creature coming closer. The door rattled ominously, and Lydia covered her mouth, fighting the urge to scream as a breath steamed the window. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the sound of the creature’s lumbering body faded away.
After a moment of silence, the kids exhaled, but no one moved. Eyes still glued to the door, Scott whispered, “Jackson, how many people can fit in your car?”
“Five if somebody squeezes onto someone’s lap,” Jackson replied, glancing nervously around the group.
“Five? I barely fit in the back,” Allison said, shaking her head.
“It doesn’t matter. There’s no getting out without drawing attention,” Stiles chimed in, panic creeping into his voice.
“What about this?” Scott pointed toward a steel door past the teacher’s desk. “It leads to the roof. We could go down the fire escape to the parking lot in seconds.”
Stiles frowned, pointing to the door. “But that’s a deadbolt.”
“The janitor has a key,” Scott insisted.
“You mean his body has it,” Stiles shot back.
“I can get it.” Scott leaned closer, whispering to Stiles. “I can find him by scent. By blood.”
Emilia interjected, her voice low but firm. “You’re insane if you think you can get those keys and not have the alpha get to you first. You need backup, at least.”
Scott turned to her, frustration rising. “And what, take you with me? Don’t you think that’s going to look strange?”
“Take me then?” Enzo whispered, but Emilia shot him a look that clearly said absolutely not.
“Gee, that’s an incredibly terrible idea. What else you got?” Stiles asked, desperate for a solution.
Scott turned to the others, determination in his eyes. “I’m getting the key.”
“Are you serious?” Allison’s voice was incredulous.
“It’s the best plan. Someone has to get the key if we want to get out of here,” Scott replied.
“You can’t go out there unarmed,” Allison said, shaking her head.
Scott grabbed a teacher’s pointer from the chalkboard, gripping it like a baseball bat. Noticing the looks he was getting, he shrugged. “It’s better than nothing.”
“There’s got to be something else—” Stiles began, but Lydia interrupted.
“There is.” She nodded toward the cabinet full of chemicals.
“What? Like throw acid on him?” Stiles said, incredulous.
“No, like a firebomb. In there is everything you need to make a self-igniting Molotov cocktail.”
“Self-igniting... Molotov cocktail? What are you talking about?” Stiles asked.
“Well, we don’t have the key to that either—” Before he could finish, Jackson sent his foot smashing through the glass cabinet.
Moments later, several bottles lined the teacher’s desk. Lydia poured one bottle into a mixture already in a glass beaker.
“Jackson, hand me the sulfuric acid,” she directed.
Jackson turned each bottle, searching for the right one, then carefully handed it to Lydia.
“No. No, this is insane. You can’t do this. You can’t go out there,” Allison protested, her voice rising with fear.
“And we can’t sit here waiting for Stiles’s dad to check his messages,” Scott shot back.
“You could die. Do you get that? He’s killed three people,” Allison pleaded.
“And we’re next. Someone has to do something,” Scott insisted, easing the chair out from under the doorknob.
“Scott, stop,” Allison said, her voice breaking.
“I’ll be back—”
“Stop. Just stop.” Tears filled her eyes, a mix of fear and anger. “Remember how you told me you’d know whether or not I was lying? That I have a tell? So do you. You’re a terrible liar. And you’ve been lying all night.” The others watched in discomfort as Scott opened his mouth to respond but then fell silent.
“Don’t leave us,” Allison whispered.
In the back, Jackson had to bite his lip to keep from smiling at the emotional scene unfolding.
“Lock it behind me,” Scott said, turning to the door.
Before he could move, Allison stepped forward, pulling him toward her. She pressed her lips to his in a kiss full of desperation. Scott eased back, breaking the kiss with a tortured expression, then turned and opened the door, stepping into the unknown.
~
The door to the darkened stairwell creaked open, and Scott hesitated, acutely aware of his own frightened gasps. He stepped inside, peering cautiously down the dim corridor. No sign of movement met his gaze. He began his descent, inching his way down the steps to the first floor.
As he rounded a corner, he breathed in deeply, instinctively cocking his head to catch a scent that hung in the air. It was faint but distinct, pulling him forward. Just then, two double doors quietly clicked open, granting Scott access to the school’s cavernous gymnasium. The large, wide-open space was illuminated only by the flickering emergency lights mounted over the exits.
Clutching the makeshift Molotov cocktail in his hand, Scott took a steadying breath, scanning the gym. His gaze landed on the telescoping bleachers against the wall. Instead of climbing up to the safety of the seats, he maneuvered around and slipped underneath the bleachers, the darkness enveloping him.
Scott ventured deeper into the shadowy recesses, feeling his way along the cold metal supports. As he moved cautiously, he slowly peered up, his heart racing at what he discovered hanging in the gloom above.
The janitor’s keys. They dangled from the janitor’s lifeless body, which hung precariously from the metal supports crosshatching the underside of the bleachers. A chill ran down Scott’s spine as the reality of his situation set in, but he knew he had to act. The keys were their only chance of escape.
—
Enzo, Ezra, Emilia, Stiles, Lydia, Jackson, and Allison sat lined up against the wall, anxiety thick in the air as they waited for Scott’s return.
Allison whispered, her voice trembling, “I don’t get this. I don’t get why he’s out there, why he left, and… I can’t... I can’t get my hands to stop shaking. My hands—”
“It’s going to be okay,” Jackson reassured her, leaning closer, trying to project calmness.
Ezra turned to catch the whispers, his gaze flicking to Lydia, who seemed oddly composed. She wore a determined expression, as if refusing to let fear take hold. The contrast between her calm demeanor and the palpable tension around them struck him.
Allison’s hands shook as she spoke, her anxiety evident. “I can’t stop shaking.”
Jackson placed his hands over hers, intertwining their fingers in a gesture meant to comfort. “It’s okay,” he said softly, though his gaze lingered on her just a moment too long, betraying his own worries beneath the surface.
The group fell into an uneasy silence, each person lost in their thoughts, holding onto hope for Scott’s safe return.
—
Scott stood in the gym, his heart racing as he gently set the Molotov cocktail down on the floor. He reached for one of the metal supports beneath the bleachers, stepping gingerly as he began his ascent, inching closer to the keys that dangled from the janitor's belt.
Just as he stretched his arm toward the keys, a sudden clunk echoed through the empty space, freezing him in place. His eyes darted to the shadows, straining to listen. Silence hung heavy in the air, but unease settled in his gut. He tried again for the keys when—
Another clunk resonated, causing the supports to shudder. Turning back, Scott's eyes widened as he realized the source of the sound: the bleachers were collapsing inward. Someone—or something—was pushing the seats in from the gym floor, forcing the bleachers to telescope in on him.
With adrenaline surging, Scott made a well-aimed swipe, snatching the keys from the janitor’s lifeless body. He jumped back to the floor, squeezing into the narrow space between the bleachers and the wall. Panic surged as the bleachers closed in fast, threatening to crush him.
With one last burst of energy, he lunged for the light just beyond the encroaching structure. He grabbed the Molotov cocktail from the floor and tumbled out to safety, rolling into the open space as the bleachers crashed shut behind him. Breathing heavily, he clutched the keys tightly, knowing the real danger was still lurking nearby.
—
At the teacher's desk, Lydia's eyes darted to the bottles of chemicals they had used to concoct the Molotov cocktail. Anxiety gnawed at her as she turned to Jackson.
“Jackson, you handed me the sulfuric acid, right? It has to be sulfuric acid. It won’t ignite if it’s not…” Her voice trailed off as she looked back at him, only to find him glaring with an unnerving intensity.
“I gave you exactly what you asked for. Didn’t I?” His stare was unblinking, sending a chill down her spine. Lydia swallowed hard, her heart racing.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure you did,” she replied, forcing confidence into her tone, though doubt crept into her mind. She returned her gaze to the bottle, second-guessing everything. The weight of the situation pressed down on them, the impending danger looming like a shadow over their fragile plan.
—
Standing at the edge of the collapsed bleachers, Scott shakily raised the Molotov cocktail, desperation fueling his resolve.
“Come on. Come and get me,” he challenged, his voice barely above a whisper.
Then, something lunged forward. Scott hurled the cocktail, squeezing his eyes shut, bracing for the fiery explosion. But all he heard was the sound of breaking glass. Confused, he snapped his eyes open to see harmless chemicals spilling across the floor.
“Oh damn,” he muttered, dread washing over him.
In an instant, something latched around his ankle, sending him crashing to the ground. The keys slipped from his grasp, clattering away as he was hurled to the center of the gym. A clawed hand clamped down on the side of his head, forcing his face into the floor. The sharp tips of the claws grazed his cheek, threatening to draw blood, and he opened his eyes wide in terror.
Suddenly, the silhouette of the Alpha leaned down toward him, its sharp teeth visible in the dim light. It let out a roar—earth-shaking, powerful, reminiscent of a T-Rex.
Pinned and helpless, Scott felt a surge of energy. His eyes blazed with a yellow glow, a primal response to the Alpha's challenge. He opened his mouth, revealing fanged teeth as he began to shift, the beast within him awakening to fight back.
—
The others turned, startled by the echoes of the bizarre sounds reverberating from the school below. All except for Jackson, who suddenly fell to his knees, wincing in pain. A moment later, he was screaming, his hands clutching the back of his neck as he crumpled to the floor.
The Cadieux siblings stared at him, wide-eyed, their expressions a mix of concern and confusion. Stiles rushed to Emilia's side, his voice low and urgent. “Can you hear him?”
Emilia shook her head, her brow furrowed. “No, but Scott’s scent is still strong. He’s not dead.”
Stiles let out a relieved sigh, glancing back at Jackson, who continued to lurch in agony on the floor. The tension in the air was palpable as the others exchanged worried glances, their instincts screaming that something was very wrong.
—
Scott twisted up from the floor, his body still trembling as he realized the Alpha was no longer holding him down—no longer anywhere in sight. His eyes glowed a fierce yellow as he cried out, the transformation into a werewolf taking hold of him. This time, however, the shift was agonizing, wracking his body with spasms of pain. His clawed hands pressed into the floor, digging in as if seeking refuge from the torment.
With one final, intense convulsion, his head whipped up as the transformation completed. But something was different. The innocent Scott McCall was gone, replaced by a primal, predatory force. Teeth bared and lips pulled back in an animalistic snarl, he scanned the shadows, searching with a feral intensity for something—anything—to kill. The school gym, once a familiar place, now felt like a hunting ground, and he was the apex predator, unleashed and ravenous.
—
Allison and Lydia hurriedly pulled Jackson to his feet as he brushed them off, muttering under his breath. "I’m fine. Seriously, I’m okay."
Allison shot him a skeptical glance. “That didn’t sound okay at all.”
Before Jackson could respond, Stiles’ voice cut through the air. "What’s on the back of your neck?" His question immediately piqued the Cadieux siblings’ attention. Their eyes barely caught a glimpse of the claw marks etched into Jackson’s skin.
Jackson tensed, quickly stepping back into the shadows, avoiding their gaze. The door slammed open in the stairwell, the noise echoing through the corridor. Scott appeared, his figure hunched and shadowed, claws flexing at his sides as he slowly descended the stairs. His head snapped to the side, his sharp gaze drawn by Jackson’s voice in the distance: “I said I’m fine!”
As Lydia moved closer to Jackson, her expression was filled with concern. “It’s been there for days, and he won’t tell me what happened—”
“As if you actually care,” Jackson shot back bitterly.
Suddenly, a shadow fell across the floor. Scott emerged from the darkness, stepping into the corridor with deliberate slowness, his head lowered, and his glowing eyes glaring with a murderous intent. Before anything could escalate, Ezra quickly moved in between Lydia and Jackson.
“Can we not argue for half a second here?” Ezra’s voice was calm but laced with warning.
Jackson glared at him, his voice dripping with contempt. “And what are you gonna do about it, pretty boy?”
Ezra’s brow twitched, his anger barely concealed. “Do you really want to play that game with me, Whittemore?”
The tension in the air was thick, everyone on edge. Enzo and Emilia, surprised by their brother’s sudden burst of anger, hurriedly pulled him away, trying to defuse the situation. Allison, distracted, scanned the room and frowned. “Where’s Scott? He should be back by now.”
No one noticed the silhouette creeping in front of the door.
Outside the classroom, Scott’s breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling as low growls bubbled up from his throat. His clawed hand gripped the janitor’s master key, fitting it into the lock. His eyes squeezed shut, fighting back the beast threatening to overtake him. With a sudden snap, the key broke off inside the lock.
Inside, Allison’s eyes widened as she caught sight of a shadowy figure by the door. “Scott?” she called out, moving quickly to the door.
She grabbed the knob and twisted it, but the door wouldn’t budge. Frustrated, she pressed her face to the small window, only catching a glimpse of the back of Scott’s head. "Scott? What are you doing?" she called out, her voice laced with worry. But Scott remained silent, his head bowed as he slowly walked away.
Behind her, Lydia's voice was barely a whisper. "Where’s he going?"
Allison pounded on the door, panic creeping into her chest. "Scott! Scott!" Her fists hit the door harder, desperation growing with each passing second. She yanked at the handle again, her voice breaking as she screamed his name, the echoes fading into the empty hallway.
Suddenly, Lydia’s sharp cry pierced through the noise. "Stop! Stop! Do you hear that?" Her voice trembled, fear clutching at her words.
All three of them froze, listening.
The unmistakable sound of sirens blared in the distance.
They rushed to the windows, pressing their faces against the glass. In the school parking lot, Deputy Sheriffs’ cars raced in, red and blue lights slicing through the dark. The wailing sirens grew louder, closing in fast.
As they watched in shock, Scott suddenly collapsed onto the floor inside, trembling violently. Sweat glistened on his forehead, his body shuddering. But as quickly as it came, the shaking stopped. His breathing evened out, his body still.
He was himself again.
~
Amid the chaos of flashing police lights and a flurry of activity in the school parking lot, Sheriff Stilinski stood with Scott and Stiles, questioning them about the night's events. The rest of the group was scattered, each separated and speaking to different officers for questioning. Emilia, Enzo, and Ezra huddled together, answering questions while also straining to hear the conversation happening between the Sheriff, Scott, and Stiles across the lot.
Sheriff Stilinski’s brow furrowed, skepticism flickering across his face. He couldn’t quite believe what he was about to say. “You’re sure it was Derek Hale?”
Scott nodded. Stilinski then turned to Stiles for confirmation.
“I saw him too,” Stiles added quickly.
Scott’s mind raced as he asked, “What about the janitor?”
“We’re still looking for him,” the Sheriff replied.
“You checked under the bleachers? Under them?” Scott pressed, his voice edged with frustration.
“There was nothing there, Scott. We pulled out the bleachers just like you asked,” Stilinski explained.
“I’m not making this up,” Scott said, his tone shifting from frustrated to pleading.
“I believe you. I do,” Stilinski reassured him, though his expression betrayed doubt.
“No, you don’t,” Scott countered. “You have that look—like you feel sorry for me. Like you want to believe me, but you don’t.”
Stilinski sighed. “I hear you. We’re going to check the entire school, I promise.”
Just then, a voice called from across the parking lot. “Sheriff! Sheriff, we need you here!”
Stilinski looked back at Scott and Stiles. “Stay put. Both of you.”
As the Sheriff hurried off, Stiles turned to Scott, trying to lighten the mood. “We survived, dude. We outlasted the Alpha. That’s got to count for something, right? Being alive?”
Scott shook his head, sinking onto the school steps. “We were in the Chemistry room, Stiles. It walked right past us. You don’t think it heard us? You don’t think it knew exactly where we were?”
Stiles frowned, confusion washing over him. “Then why are we still alive?”
Scott’s voice dropped to a grim whisper. “Because it wants me in its pack. But first, I think I have to get rid of my old one.”
Stiles' confusion deepened. “What old pack?”
“You. Allison. Jackson and Lydia,” Scott said, pausing for a breath. “And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but... Emilia, Enzo, and Ezra too.”
Stiles' eyes widened as realization hit. “The Alpha doesn’t want to kill us...”
Scott nodded. “He wants me to do it.”
For once, Stiles had no reply. The gravity of Scott's words left him speechless.
“That’s not the worst part,” Scott muttered.
“How is that not the worst part?” Stiles asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Because when he made me shift,” Scott said, his voice breaking slightly, “I wanted to do it. I wanted to kill you. All of you.”
As the weight of Scott’s confession sank in, Stiles' eyes flickered past him. Scott followed his gaze, noticing someone being helped into an ambulance. Deaton. Relief washed over Scott's face.
Deaton looked up, catching sight of him. “There you are.”
“How... How did you—” Scott began, astonished.
“Get out?” Deaton smiled faintly. “Not easily. And from what I hear, I’m alive because of you.” His smile widened, warmer. “I think I owe you a raise.”
Before Scott could respond, Sheriff Stilinski appeared, gently pressing Scott back. “We’ll let you talk to him later. Let the EMTs check him out first.”
Scott stepped back reluctantly, his attention still on Deaton. But then he saw someone else moving between the police cars.
“Allison?” Scott called out, his voice filled with concern.
She glanced over her shoulder, seeing him approach. “Are you okay?” Scott asked, his tone soft, almost pleading.
Allison nodded. “My dad’s on his way.”
“Do you need me to do anything? Want me to come back with you—”
“No, I don’t,” she cut him off sharply, her words coming quickly.
Scott blinked, confused. “Okay…”
“I don’t know what happened to you in there, Scott. I don’t know what you were thinking. Maybe you weren’t,” Allison continued, her voice cold. “But right now… I don’t feel like I trust you.”
Scott’s heart sank. “I can explain.”
“I don’t care—” Allison started, but Scott interrupted.
“Okay. Don’t say anything else. Please. Just don’t say anything yet.”
“Scott—”
“Stop. Please,” he begged. “Stiles’ dad is taking me home. I have to make sure my mom isn’t freaking out. And then, I’m going to get a new phone first thing in the morning—”
“Scott—” Allison tried to interject.
“I’ll call you after—”
“Don’t,” she said firmly, cutting him off for the final time. “Don’t call. Just don’t.”
Scott’s mouth opened, but the words wouldn’t come. He drew a short, painful breath, bracing for the sting of rejection. Allison turned, walking away under the flashing red and blue lights, leaving him standing alone.
Across the lot, Stiles approached the Cadieux siblings, having witnessed the entire scene. Emilia glanced at the fading figure of Allison, then murmured softly, “It’s probably for the better…”
Stiles looked at her, surprised by the bluntness. “Ouch. No remorse at all?”
Emilia side-eyed him. “Scott’s strong. We all have anchors to control ourselves. His anchor is love—for Allison, for his friends. He’ll be okay. He needs this. Not just to protect himself from hunters, but to protect her from himself.”
Stiles’ expression shifted as he processed her words. “Oh…” He hesitated, guilt weighing on him from earlier. “Hey, I’m sorry about earlier…”
Emilia shrugged it off. “Don’t worry about it,” she said before turning to glance at her totaled SUV. “I’ll have to call for a tow tomorrow.”
Enzo groaned. “I really don’t feel like running all the way home.”
Ezra sighed dramatically. “I’m too mentally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually exhausted to walk.”
Stiles had a sudden idea. “I can get my dad to escort you guys back home?”
Enzo raised a brow. “No offense, Stilinski, but no one’s allowed to know where we live. There’s a reason you’re the first outsider who’s ever been in our house.”
Emilia smiled at Stiles. “It’s sweet, but we’ll tough it out.”
“CADIEUX!” Sheriff Stilinski’s voice cut through the air.
“Shit,” Ezra muttered under his breath.
“What’s wrong?” Stiles asked, confused.
Enzo sighed. “How about the fact that three minors are living alone, with no record of their parents ever being seen since we moved here, and now we’re tied into this mess at school?”
Emilia stayed calm. “Relax.”
As they approached the Sheriff, Stiles’ face twisted with guilt. It was his fault they were even there. He had called Emilia, and now, he might have just gotten them into serious trouble.
Sheriff Stilinski looked at his son, then at the Cadieux siblings, standing tall next to each other. “You three okay?”
“Yes, sir,” Emilia answered. “A few car issues, but we’re fine.”
The Sheriff nodded, then asked, “Is there a parent or guardian I can speak with?”
“No, sir,” Emilia replied calmly.
The Sheriff’s brow furrowed. “And where are your parents?”
Emilia didn’t flinch. “Lafayette Cemetery in New Orleans, sir. They’ve been there for six years.”
Enzo and Ezra’s eyes widened in shock. Why wasn’t she lying?
Stilinski looked equally surprised. Emilia continued, “We became emancipated minors when we turned fourteen.”
Sheriff Stilinski glanced between them, then sighed. “I’m going to need you three to come down to the station so we can sort this out.”
Emilia nodded, motioning to her brothers. As they walked, Ezra leaned down and whispered, “What the hell are you doing?”
“Keeping us safe,” Emilia whispered back.
~
Now in the patrol car, the three siblings sat silently in the back, Stiles in the passenger seat, watching his father’s face twist between concern and frustration as they neared the station. Enzo and Ezra, too tired to stay awake, were slumped on either side of Emilia, their heads resting against her shoulders. She stared blankly ahead, her thoughts a storm, while Stiles kept glancing back, noticing how hollow and emotionless she seemed.
As they pulled into the station, the twins woke with a jolt, the clock on the dashboard reading 10:30 PM. They were still groggy as they followed Emilia inside, their exhaustion evident in their every step. The siblings sat on a faded couch across from the sheriff’s desk, while Stiles was made to wait just outside his dad’s office. He sat stiffly, his foot bouncing with nerves, and leaned in, trying to eavesdrop on the conversation through the half-open door.
Sheriff Stilinski sat heavily at his desk, shuffling through their records before setting them aside. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and let out a deep sigh, his tone softer than before. “Look, I’m just trying to understand the situation here. You’ve been on your own since you were twelve, taking care of your brothers who were eleven? That’s... a lot. But how did you manage to get settled here in Beacon Hills without anyone raising an eyebrow?”
Emilia took a deep breath, exhaustion weighing down her words. "I know it sounds complicated, and you’re probably not going to like the answer, but Talia Hale—Derek’s mother—helped us when we first arrived."
Stiles' eyes widened from his spot just outside, pressing his ear closer to the door, straining to catch every word.
The sheriff raised his brows but didn’t jump to anger as Emilia had expected. Instead, he leaned forward, his voice more gentle. “Talia Hale? And you’ve had no contact with Derek for six years?”
Enzo, feeling the weight of the sheriff’s suspicion, sat up straighter. "None. We’ve been on our own since then. Stiles called us to the school tonight, not the other way around."
Ezra chimed in, his voice a mix of exhaustion and frustration. "We’re not involved with the Hales anymore. We’ve had no ties with Derek or anyone from his family."
Stilinski rubbed the back of his neck, sighing. "Alright, I believe you. But you have to understand, from where I’m sitting, three minors living alone with no sign of their parents... it raises a lot of questions. Especially when something like tonight happens." His eyes softened. "You’ve done a hell of a job taking care of your brothers. That’s not easy. But I need to make sure everything checks out. And with your records showing you’re emancipated and your income clean, I won’t press you on it. But there’s one thing I need you to do for me."
Emilia tilted her head slightly, curious. "What’s that, Sheriff?"
Stilinski looked past her at his son, who was visibly trying to listen in through the doorway. He shook his head with a soft chuckle. "Keep him out of trouble."
A small smile played at Emilia’s lips. "I’ll try. Stiles tends to find trouble all on his own, though."
The sheriff laughed lightly, glancing toward his son again. "Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of. But seriously, Emilia, I can see you’ve been through a lot. I’m not here to make your life harder. If you ever need help… real help, you come to me. You’re not alone in this, alright?"
Emilia blinked, a little surprised by the kindness in his words. She had always seen Sheriff Stilinski as someone to respect, but hearing this made her realize just how much he cared about those around him. “Thank you, Sheriff. I appreciate that. Really.”
Stilinski gave a nod, then motioned toward the door. "You three should head home, get some rest. We’ll file everything and make sure no one gives you a hard time."
As they stood to leave, Enzo muttered under his breath, “What’s the catch?”
Emilia shot him a look, but the sheriff smiled knowingly. "No catch, kid. Just don’t make a habit of running into situations like tonight, alright?"
Ezra stretched, yawning as they followed Emilia out of the office. "Trust me, that’s not on my to-do list."
Stiles, still lingering in the hallway, quickly stood up straight as they approached. "So? What happened? Are you guys in trouble?"
Emilia gave him a tired but amused look. "No, Stiles. You’re the one who needs to stay out of trouble. Apparently, I’m your babysitter now."
Stiles grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, well… I guess I could use the help."
As they all walked out of the station together, Stiles glanced at Emilia, still trying to shake the guilt gnawing at him. "Hey, Em, about tonight, I’m really—"
"Don’t worry about it," she cut him off with a soft smile. "Just make sure you stay safe next time."
Stiles nodded, feeling a weight lift slightly off his shoulders as they headed into the night, the faint flicker of street lights casting shadows on the quiet streets ahead.
A.N - This was probably the most chaotic writing I have ever done. The multiple POVs to deal with was a bit of a struggle but I hope everything was understandable.
Scott dragged plastic bags full of groceries into the dimly lit parking garage. The overhead lights flickered intermittently, casting eerie shadows as he maneuvered through the maze of parked cars. After a few moments of walking, he suddenly paused. Confusion clouded his face. He glanced around, realizing with growing dismay that he couldn’t remember where he had parked.
“Crap,” he muttered under his breath. Frantically, he looked from car to car, his gaze growing more desperate with each passing second. He retraced his steps, hoping to jog his memory, but it was no use. With a sigh of frustration, he set the bags down and fished out his mother’s car keys. He held them up, clicking the alarm button in hopes of hearing a beep.
As he listened intently, a plastic bottle of milk rolled out of one of the bags and slipped under a car. “Dammit,” Scott cursed, crouching to reach it. His fingers fumbled blindly beneath the car. Just then, something strange happened—the bottle rolled back, milk spurting out from punctured holes in its side. Scott watched in disbelief as the bottle came to a stop. His hands trembled as he stood up, turning to run.
Pounding the pavement, he cast a terrified glance back. A dark shape hurtled from behind a parked car, moving on all fours and closing in on him. Heart racing, Scott tore around the next corner, diving into the shadows between columns. He held perfectly still, peering out with wide eyes.
The garage was eerily silent except for his erratic heartbeat. He tried to calm his breathing, but the pounding in his chest only grew louder. Suddenly, a low, guttural growl pierced the quiet. The ominous sound grew nearer, moving between cars with a menacing intensity.
Scott darted out of the shadows, his mind racing. He spotted a plan and jumped onto the hood of a car, bouncing off it and slamming into another. Car alarms blared to life, their wailing sounds filling the garage and masking the sound of his frantic heart. He continued to run, slamming into cars to set off their alarms, creating a cacophony of beeps and shrieks. He finally squeezed between two vehicles, straining to hear over the din of horns and sirens.
It seemed to work—at least until his phone rang. Scott pulled it from his pocket just as something grabbed him, lifting him off the ground and slamming him onto the pavement. He looked up to see Derek, scowling down at him with disappointment.
“You’re dead,” Derek said, his voice cold and unyielding.
“What the hell was that?” Scott demanded, his voice laced with frustration.
Derek shrugged, “I said I was going to teach you. I didn’t say when. Also, be prepared because I have the twins helping with the spontaneous training sessions too.”
Scott groaned, “You scared the crap out of me.”
Derek sniffed the air, “Not yet.”
Scott, feeling a mix of curiosity and pride, asked, “Well... I was fast, right?”
Derek knocked down his ego with a dismissive wave, “Not fast enough.”
Scott defended his tactics, “But the car alarms. That was smart, right?”
Derek pointed to Scott’s phone, “Until your phone rang.”
Defeated, Scott said, “But that was... I mean... Would you just stop? Please?” His voice broke slightly as he continued, “What happened the other night... Stiles’s dad getting hurt. It was my fault. I should have been there to do something. I need you to teach me how to control this.”
Derek sighed, “I’m what I am because of birth. The Cadieuxs the same way and more. You were bitten. Teaching someone who was bitten takes time. I’m not even sure I can teach you. Why do you think I roped the twins in on this?”
Scott’s frustration boiled over, “What do I have to do?”
Derek answered honestly, “Get rid of distractions.” He grabbed Scott’s phone, turning it around to show the display: MISSED CALL: ALLISON. “This is why I caught you. You want me to teach you? Get rid of her.”
Scott argued, “What? Just because of her family?”
Derek lifted the phone to throw it, and Scott protested, “Woah, wait, wait–”
But it was too late. Derek hurled the phone, and Scott flinched as he heard the crash and crunch of plastic hitting the cement. His eyes blazed with fury as he turned to Derek.
Derek noticed, “Getting angry? That’s your first lesson. You want to learn how to control this? How to shift? You do it through anger. By tapping into a primal, animal rage. You can’t do that with her around.”
Scott gritted his teeth, “I can get angry.”
Derek’s response was nonchalant, “Not angry enough. This is the only way I can teach you. Can you stay away from her at least until after the full moon?”
Scott hesitated, then said firmly, “If that’s what it takes–”
Derek cut him off, “You want to live? You want to protect your friends? Yes or no?”
“Yes,” Scott replied, determination in his voice. “If you can teach me, I can stay away from her.”
~
The next night, Scott slipped quietly down the side of the Argent house, landing softly on the grass. From above, Allison gave him a quick wave. He responded with a half-hearted smile, his mind elsewhere.
On the sidewalk, Scott fumbled with his mother’s car keys, but something made him pause. His ears perked up as he heard rustling from the shadows beneath the trees.
“Derek?” he called out, his voice laced with unease. The rustling continued—quick, subtle movements that suggested something was lurking nearby. “Okay, I know I said I’d stay away, but you broke my phone, and I had to let at least her know I wasn’t going to be answering…” His voice trailed off as he received no response.
Scott stood perfectly still, scanning the darkness. His eyes focused on a vague shape emerging from the blackness—an enormous silhouette with glowing red eyes.
Instinctively, he took a step back, then turned and bolted. The sounds of something massive and menacing pursued him, its heavy steps echoing in the night. Scott sprinted to his car, leaping inside and slamming the door shut. His hand shook as he pounded the lock and shoved the keys into the ignition.
Before he could turn the key, he glanced up in the rearview mirror. The glowing eyes of the Alpha were closing in. The dark shape moved deliberately around the car, and Scott’s breath quickened.
“What do you want?” he whispered, his voice trembling. The Alpha approached the driver’s side window, its breath fogging the glass before Scott could get a good look at it.
“What do you want from me?” Scott’s heart raced as he saw something press against the steamed window—a clawed fingertip. The claw began to move, drawing something in the condensation. Scott’s gaze was fixed on the window, watching as the hand retreated into the darkness.
Moments later, the Alpha was gone. The only evidence of its presence was a simple yet eerie symbol left in the condensation on the glass—a perfect spiral.
Scott rushed into his room, slamming the door behind him and locking it in one swift motion. His breath came in heavy bursts as he moved to each window, securing the locks and pulling the shades down tightly. Finally, he spun around—only to be met by Derek, standing right in front of him.
Scott let out a startled scream. "You seriously need to stop doing that!"
Derek’s expression didn’t change as he asked, "What happened? Did he talk to you?"
Sarcastically, Scott shot back, "Yeah, we had a nice conversation about the weather."
Derek just stared, unmoving, unblinking, waiting.
Scott rolled his eyes, exasperated. "No. He didn’t talk."
"Did you get anything off him? An impression?" Derek pressed.
Scott looked confused. "What do you mean?"
"Remember, your other senses are heightened. Communication doesn’t have to be spoken. What kind of feeling did you get from him?" Derek’s voice was steady, as if teaching something Scott should already know.
Scott thought hard, recalling the encounter. "Anger."
"Focused on you?" Derek asked.
"Not me," Scott said slowly, piecing it together. "But definitely anger. I could feel it, especially when he drew the spiral."
Derek stiffened. "The what? What did you say?"
"He drew a spiral onto my car window. In the condensation." Scott’s eyes narrowed as he watched Derek’s reaction. "What? You’ve got this look like you know what it means."
Derek’s expression grew cold, his eyes distant. "It’s nothing," he muttered, turning toward the door. As his hand gripped the handle, his other slipped into his pocket, pulling out his phone. Without breaking stride, he typed a quick message: We need to talk. He sent it to the one person he trusted with the truth—Emilia.
"Whoa, wait a second." Scott stepped forward, blocking his path. "You can’t do that. You can’t ask me to trust you and then keep things to yourself."
"It doesn’t mean anything," Derek insisted.
Scott’s frustration boiled over. "You buried your sister under a spiral. What does it mean?"
Derek paused, his hand hovering on the door handle, looking as if he might finally say something. His eyes darkened. "You don’t want to know."
With that, he left.
This time, Scott let him go. Alone again, he collapsed onto his bed, the weight of everything dragging him down. Exhausted, he stared at the ceiling for a moment before closing his eyes and letting sleep claim him.
~
As Derek drove home, his phone rang. He answered quickly, "Hey, we gotta talk."
Emilia’s voice came through the speaker, sharp and biting. "I’m surprised you didn’t send my brother as your messenger like last time."
Derek sighed, already frustrated. "This isn’t the time or place for that. Are you home?"
Emilia huffed on the other end. "Yeah, but you’re not coming here."
Derek's lip twitched in irritation. "Are you serious?"
"Deadly. You’re not allowed over here, and you know exactly why."
Derek’s patience thinned. "Emilia, that was years ago."
Her voice turned cold. "Time won’t erase the distrust or the pain you caused—not just to me, but to my family."
Derek clenched the steering wheel, his frustration palpable. "How many times do I have to apologize? I never meant for anyone to get hurt. That wasn’t even my fault."
Emilia sighed, exasperated. "This isn’t a conversation I’m having over the phone. What’s so important you had to call me?"
Derek’s tone shifted, sounding more defeated. "The Alpha paid Scott a visit... and drew a spiral on his car window."
There was a brief silence before Emilia muttered under her breath, "Vengeance?"
"Yeah. I don’t know why, but Scott said all he felt was pure anger coming from it."
Emilia sighed again, softer this time. "He’s targeting these deaths. There has to be a connection. You should look into it."
"It would be nice to have your help with this," Derek said, his frustration barely contained.
"I told you—I’ll help with the McCall situation, but this Alpha is your problem, not mine. My family is safe, and that’s all that matters."
"Emilia—" Derek started, but the line went dead before he could finish.
~
Scott slipped into the classroom, exhaling with relief. His eyes quickly found Stiles, who, upon noticing Scott, immediately looked away. Scott sighed, approaching the desk behind his friend. "You still not talking to me?"
Stiles remained silent, resolutely facing forward. Scott sat down, frustration bubbling up. "Can you at least tell me if your dad’s okay? It was just a bruise, right? Soft tissue damage?"
No response.
Emilia, sitting beside Stiles, broke the silence with a casual remark, “He’s not going to talk to you.”
Scott glanced at her, confused. "Since when are you his precursor?"
Without missing a beat, Emilia shot back sarcastically, "Since when did you start using vocabulary outside your brain’s capacity?"
Stiles let out a small snort, which earned a brief smile from Emilia. Scott frowned, clearly irritated. "So what? You two friends now?" He turned back to Stiles, desperate for some kind of acknowledgment. "You know I feel really bad about it, right?"
Still no reaction.
Scott leaned in, lowering his voice. "Okay, what if I told you I’m trying to fix this? I even went to Derek for help."
Stiles' eyes widened, darting to Emilia for confirmation. She gave a subtle nod, and Stiles, visibly annoyed, turned in his seat to face Scott. "If I were talking to you, I’d tell you that you’re an idiot for trusting Derek. But clearly, I’m not talking to you."
The room quieted as the teacher entered, signaling the start of class. Stiles opened his notebook, pen in hand, ready to take notes. The silence stretched on, but Stiles, unable to resist, whipped his head around. "What did he say?"
As soon as class ended, Scott hurried after Stiles, weaving through the bustling hallway. Emilia followed close behind, her usual calm presence unnoticed amidst the rush of students. Moments later, the twins, Ezra and Enzo, caught up with her, having just gotten out of their own class.
Ezra shot a suspicious glance toward Scott and Stiles, his eyes narrowing. “What’s going on with them?”
Emilia sighed, rolling her eyes. “Stiles is about to attempt teaching Scott how to control his wolf.”
Enzo snorted in disbelief. “Wait, seriously?”
“Apparently,” Emilia huffed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Anyway, I’m starving. Let’s go.”
The twins exchanged amused looks before Enzo spoke up. “You go ahead. I’ll catch up later—gotta run through some drills with the guys on the team.”
Ezra chimed in, “Actually, I’ve got photos to process, so I’ll be busy during the break.”
Emilia, left standing alone in the crowded hallway, blinked in disbelief. “What the hell?” she muttered under her breath, watching as her brothers disappeared in opposite directions, leaving her to fend for herself.
Now in the cafeteria, Emilia spotted Allison and Lydia sitting together and made her way over. “Mind if I sit with you guys? The twins bailed to go do their own thing,” she said casually.
Allison immediately smiled and gestured for her to sit. “Of course!” she said warmly, while Lydia barely glanced up, offering a small, pointed glare. Ah, the sweet echo of their childhood rivalry.
As Emilia sat down, Allison leaned in, her expression bright with curiosity. “Have you ever heard of the Beast of Gévaudan? Listen to this…”
The mention of the name sent an icy chill down Emilia’s spine. She had nearly forgotten about Allison’s connection to the world of hunters, so focused on building a friendship that she’d let that terrifying side of Allison’s life fade into the background. The part where, one day, Allison might turn her crosshairs on Emilia’s family.
Allison flipped through one of her books, her voice serious as she read aloud, “A quadruped, wolf-like monster that prowled the Auvergne and South Dordogne areas of France from 1764 to 1767. La Bête killed over 100 people, becoming so infamous that King Louis XV sent his best hunter to track it down.”
Lydia, bored, inspected her nails. “Yawn. Boring.”
Emilia, mid-bite, nearly choked on her food. “Where did you find this book?” she asked, masking her discomfort with curiosity.
Allison continued as though she hadn’t heard either of them. “Even the Church declared the creature a messenger of Satan.”
“That’s... a bit dark,” Emilia said cautiously, trying to keep her tone neutral.
Lydia gave a dismissive wave. “Still boring.”
Allison remained undeterred. “Some cryptozoologists think it may have been a sub-species of a hoofed predator, like the Mesonychid—”
“Slipping into a coma from boredom,” Lydia interjected with exaggerated exasperation.
Allison pressed on. “—while others believe it was a sorcerer who could shapeshift into a man-eating monster.”
Emilia shifted in her seat, uncomfortable but careful not to let it show. She kept her expression neutral as Allison read on, her voice unwavering.
Lydia glanced between them, suddenly curious. “Does this have anything to do with your family?”
Allison paused, her tone softening with an odd mix of pride and gravity. “Yes. It’s believed La Bête was finally killed by a renowned hunter whose family was among the first victims. His name was Argent.”
Both Emilia and Lydia peered at the book as Allison flipped to a page depicting the Beast. The illustration was haunting—a monstrous figure, its red eyes glowing from the shadows, sharp claws poised over the bodies of women and children. Terror was frozen on their faces, twisted in death.
Lydia stared at the macabre scene, barely blinking, as if transfixed. Emilia’s stomach turned, though she kept her composure, her disgust concealed behind a mask of indifference.
Allison’s voice broke the spell. “Lydia? Emilia?”
They both blinked, exchanging glances before looking back at Allison with carefully neutral expressions.
“It looks like a big wolf,” Lydia said, her tone flat. “See you in History.”
Emilia, fighting the unease rising in her chest, stood up gracefully. “Yeah... I’ve got to run. Catch you later.”
Without another word, she walked away, her composure intact, but her mind racing with thoughts of what Allison might do if she ever learned the full truth.
They both stood up, leaving Allison at her table and passing by Stiles, who sat at another, quietly munching on his lunch. Scott, trying to hide behind a large book propped up on the table, caught Emilia’s attention as she slid into the seat next to Stiles.
"I think the book is making it more obvious," she whispered over the edge of it. "Besides, she's reading."
Scott peeked over the top of the book and directed his attention to Stiles. “Do you have a plan yet?”
Emilia also turned toward him, raising an eyebrow. "What’s your plan, Stilinski?"
Stiles leaned back with a hint of pride. "I think I’ve got a good one, actually."
Scott perked up, hopeful. “Does this mean you don’t hate me anymore?”
Stiles, unimpressed, shrugged. “No. But your crap has infiltrated my life, so I have to do something about it. And let’s be honest, I’m definitely a better Yoda than Derek.”
Scott chuckled, relieved. "Okay, good. You teach me."
Stiles nodded seriously. "Yeah, I’ll be your Yoda."
Scott leaned in, smiling. "You be my Yoda."
Stiles smirked, leaning into the bit. "Your Yoda, I will be."
They exchanged amused glances before Stiles broke the moment, still grinning. "I was saying it backwards like—"
"I know," Scott interrupted, still amused.
Stiles’s smile lingered, but he added, "Definitely still hate you, though."
Emilia, clearly confused, glanced between them. "What’s a Yoda?"
Stiles nearly dropped his sandwich in shock. "What? I seriously need to educate you werewolves on Star Wars."
Emilia blinked, unimpressed. “That’s a movie, right? The one with the glowing sticks?”
Stiles's jaw dropped further. "This is worse than I thought."
Emilia rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath. "I don't have time for weird space religions."
Stiles dramatically put his hand to his chest. "Blasphemy! Okay, I’m bringing the DVDs over. We're fixing this—now."
Scott chuckled again. "Just wait until you see the movies, Emilia. Stiles has an entire sermon prepared for this."
"Prepare yourself," Stiles added, already mentally arranging an educational evening.
~
Later during free period, the Cadieux siblings watched from a distance as Stiles and Scott walked out to the field, lacrosse equipment in hand. At the benches, Stiles pulled out a black strap with a digital display at its center and handed it to Scott.
“Put this on,” Stiles instructed.
Enzo tilted his head. "Isn't that one of the heart rate monitors for the track team?"
"Yeah, I borrowed it," Stiles replied nonchalantly.
Scott frowned, "You mean you stole it?"
Stiles shrugged, "Temporarily misappropriated. Coach uses it to monitor his heart rate while he jogs. You’re going to wear it for the rest of the day."
Ezra, watching closely, noticed the phone in Stiles’s hand. "Isn't that Coach’s phone?"
"Now that," Stiles admitted with a grin, "I stole."
Scott blinked. "Why?"
"Your heart rate spikes when you wolf out, right? During lacrosse, around Allison, when you’re angry. Maybe learning to control it is tied to learning how to control your heart rate."
Ezra muttered approvingly, "He’s got a point. Nice work, Stiles."
Scott looked intrigued. "Like the Incredible Hulk?"
"Kind of like the Incredible Hulk," Stiles replied.
A grin spread across Scott’s face. "I’m the Incredible Hulk."
Stiles rolled his eyes. "Shut up and put the strap on."
Nearby, Enzo snorted while Ezra and Emilia made disgusted faces. "Please never say that again," Emilia muttered.
Moments later— Scott stood with his hands awkwardly behind his back as Stiles duct-taped his wrists together.
"This isn’t exactly how I planned to spend my free period," Scott muttered, glancing at the lacrosse balls at Stiles's feet.
Stiles smirked, lacrosse stick in hand, and glanced down at the heart monitor on his phone. "Ready?"
"No," Scott replied, uneasily shifting his weight.
"Remember, don’t get angry," Stiles reminded him.
Stiles dropped a handful of lacrosse balls at his feet and casually picked up one with his stick. Scott started to protest, "I’m starting to think this is a really bad–"
A lacrosse ball shot straight into Scott’s leg. He flinched. "Ow."
Stiles grinned, picking up another ball, which nailed Scott in the shoulder. "You should be thinking about your heart rate. About staying calm," he said, glancing at the rising heart rate on his phone.
"Okay, okay... staying calm... totally calm..." Scott muttered, trying to control his breathing.
Ezra laughed from the sidelines. "I’ve got to get in on this." He grabbed a spare lacrosse stick, aimed, and sent a ball flying that whacked Scott in the knee.
"Son of a—" Scott gritted his teeth, stumbling as he tried to steady himself.
From across the field, Jackson watched, hiding under the bleachers, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he took in the scene.
Stiles, twirling the lacrosse stick, couldn’t help but boast. "I think my aim’s improving."
Scott, wincing from the barrage of hits, growled, "I wonder why."
Enzo chimed in teasingly, "Don’t get angry."
"I’m not getting angry–" Scott began, just before another ball struck him in the stomach, doubling him over.
Enzo, Stiles, and Ezra took turns launching balls at him while Emilia tried (and failed) to suppress her laughter. Another shot hit Scott square in the thigh.
"All right, hold on! Just stop!" Scott cried, but the next ball smacked him right in the neck, sending him crashing to his knees, hands still taped behind him.
Under the bleachers, Jackson's smirk grew as he watched Scott get pummeled, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. Stiles was about to wind up for another shot when a gravelly rumble echoed through the field, a low, threatening growl that immediately grabbed everyone’s attention.
Ezra and Enzo stiffened, stepping forward instinctively, while Emilia’s eyes narrowed, scanning for the source of the noise.
Then, the unmistakable beep of the heart monitor sounded from Stiles’s phone. He glanced down, his expression shifting to concern as the numbers skyrocketed. "Scott?"
Stiles looked up from his phone to see Scott kneeling in the grass, his hands digging into the dirt, torn duct tape hanging from his wrists. His breathing was heavy, his body trembling with tension.
"Stay back," Scott warned, his voice tight with strain.
From behind the bleachers, Jackson's curiosity turned to shock as Scott’s form seemed to shift ever so slightly, sweat glistening on his brow.
"You’re starting to change?" Stiles asked, taking a step closer.
Scott nodded, wiping sweat from his forehead. "From anger. But it was more than that... the angrier I got, the stronger I felt."
Stiles’s eyes widened. "Then Derek was right?"
Scott’s voice dropped, burdened with realization. "I can’t be around Allison."
Stiles stared at him, confused. "Why? Just because she makes you happy?"
Scott shook his head, sinking down onto the grass. "Because she makes me weak."
The weight of the admission hung in the air, as Scott sat there, eyes fixed on the ground, knowing the sacrifice he might have to make.
~
After the free period, the group all went their separate ways to their respective classes—the twins headed to chemistry, while Scott, Emilia, and Stiles made their way to economics. As the day passed and classes flew by, they reconvened in the hallway. Stiles, clearly preoccupied, hurried over to Scott and blurted out, “It’s her.”
Scott furrowed his brow, confused. “What do you mean?”
Stiles’ eyes lit up with realization. “It’s Allison. Remember what you told me about the night of the full moon? You were thinking about her, about protecting her.”
Scott, still uncertain, replied, “Okay…”
Stiles continued, “So remember the first lacrosse game? You said you could hear her voice out on the field.”
“Yeah, I did,” Scott admitted, his confusion slowly turning into curiosity.
Stiles pressed on, “That’s what brought you back so you could score. And then in the locker room, you didn’t kill her. At least not like you were trying to kill me. She brings you back.”
Scott hesitated, his voice softer. “But it’s not always true. Because literally every time I’m kissing her or touching her—”
Stiles cut him off, shaking his head. “That’s not the same. When you’re doing that, you’re just another hormonal teenager thinking about sex. See, you’re thinking about sex right now. Aren’t you?”
Scott gazed off into the distance, a slight, contemplative smile playing at his lips. Emilia watched him with a look of disdain, while the twins remained lost in their own thoughts. Abruptly, Scott snapped back to reality, his expression shifting to one of mild embarrassment. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
Stiles smirked, not missing a beat. “Now when she was holding your hand in class, that was different. I don’t think she makes you weak. I think she actually gives you control. It’s like she’s a kind of anchor…”
Scott’s eyes widened slightly. “You mean because I love her.”
“Exactly,” Stiles affirmed.
Suddenly, Scott stopped walking, stunned by his own words. “Did I just say that?”
Stiles grinned. “You just said that.”
“I love her,” Scott repeated, the weight of the realization hitting him.
“That’s great. Moving on—” Stiles began, but Scott cut him off.
“No, I do. I really do. I think I’m totally in love with her.”
Stiles rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “That’s lovely and all, but before you go off and write a sonnet, can we figure this out? You can’t be around her all the time, you know.”
Emilia, who had been silent until now, interjected with a dry tone. “I’m not here for McCall to suddenly realize he’s in love. I’m here for you to get your shit together, Scott.”
Scott’s expression turned serious again. “Okay, what do I do?”
Stiles started pacing, lost in thought. Before he could respond, Scott blinked at Emilia’s bluntness but quickly turned back to Stiles. “You’re getting an idea, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” Stiles replied with a sly grin.
Scott hesitated. “Could this idea get me in trouble?”
“Maybe,” Stiles said with a shrug.
“Is this idea going to cause me physical pain?”
“Definitely.”
~
At the end of the day, Scott followed Stiles through the school, eventually reaching the edge of the parking lot, where a cluster of large dumpsters concealed a group of seniors. Meanwhile, Emilia and the twins made their way to the Land Rover, deliberately ignoring whatever scheme Stiles had concocted. The seniors hung out nearby, laughing and smoking, one of them emerging from a smoke-filled truck to join the others.
“Over here,” Stiles called to Scott, who looked confused. “What are we doing?”
“You’ll see. Just stand right here. Do you have your keys?” Stiles prompted.
Scott pulled out his house keys, holding them up. “Like this?”
“Exactly. Now, whatever happens, I want you to think about Allison. Remember how you found her voice during the game? Got it?”
Scott nodded determination in his eyes. “Good. Keep holding the keys.” Stiles then walked over to the senior’s truck, taking out his own car keys. In one swift motion, he dragged his key across the side of the truck, leaving a deep scratch that screeched through the air.
The sound snapped the Cadieux siblings’ attention, their heads turning in unison at the horrifying noise. Scott’s eyes widened in horror as Stiles pocketed his keys and turned to him with a devilish grin. “Dude, what do you think you’re doing to that truck?”
The seniors whipped around, spotting Scott holding his keys aloft. “What the hell?” one of them yelled, and in an instant, they closed in on him.
Scott instinctively raised his arms to shield himself, but it was no use. They started to mercilessly pummel him, the siblings wincing from across the parking lot as they watched the brutal scene unfold. Stiles glanced at his phone, noting the alarming spike in Scott's heart rate while Scott crumbled to the pavement under the onslaught.
Just then, another voice broke through the chaos.
“Stop! Stop right now! What do you idiots think you’re doing?” Mr. Harris bellowed, rushing in to break up the fight.
As the seniors dispersed, Scott lay on the ground, blood dripping from his nose. He turned slowly to Stiles, who held up his phone.
The screen displayed a steady, normal heartbeat. “It worked…” Stiles said, a mix of relief and satisfaction in his voice.
~
At the hospital, Peter Hale sat in his wheelchair, his face half-illuminated by the warm afternoon sunlight while the burn scars on the other side remained cloaked in shadow. He gazed vacantly out the window, lost in his unresponsive silence. Suddenly, a hand gently turned his chair around. Derek was there, sitting down on the bed, his piercing eyes searching his uncle’s empty stare.
"Peter?" Derek's voice was steady but edged with urgency. He waved a hand in front of Peter’s eyes, hoping for any flicker of recognition. There was none—not even a blink.
“I need your help,” Derek said, lifting Peter’s limp hands and placing them on the wheelchair's armrests. “If you can hear me, I need you to give me a sign. Anything. Blink, raise a finger, anything to point me in the right direction.”
Peter remained as still as stone, staring straight through him.
“Someone killed Laura. Your niece, Laura.” Derek’s voice softened, coming closer to his uncle. “Whoever did it is an Alpha now. But they’re alone—without a pack. That means they’re not as strong. I can take him. But I need to find him first.”
Still, Peter didn’t respond. Not a single movement, not even the smallest twitch. Frustration crept into Derek’s voice. “If you know something, just blink. Raise a finger. Anything…”
He waited, eyes locked onto Peter’s face. Silence. Peter stared ahead, giving nothing.
"Say something!" Derek's voice thundered through the room as he gripped his uncle’s hands, almost shaking him in desperation.
A sharp voice rang out from the doorway. “Let him go.”
Derek spun around, startled, and saw Jennifer, Peter’s nurse, standing there with a stern expression.
“You think after six years of this, yelling at him is going to get a response?” she asked, unimpressed.
“You have a better method?” Derek shot back, his frustration evident.
“Patience,” Jennifer replied firmly. “He’ll respond if you give him time.”
Derek rose, his body taut with impatience. “I don’t have any more time.”
Without another word, he stormed out of the room, the sound of his footsteps echoing down the hospital corridor. Jennifer watched him leave but didn’t notice as, behind her, Peter’s hand slowly, shakily lifted a single index finger off the chair.
Outside, Derek made his way to his Camaro in the parking lot, moving with purpose. As he reached for the door, something caught his eye—a piece of paper tucked under the windshield wiper. He pulled it out, unfolding it carefully. His eyes scanned the note, and a dark realization settled in his gaze.
He glanced back toward the hospital, scanning the area as though expecting someone to be watching him. Without hesitation, he crumpled the paper in his fist, moving faster now. A second later, his Camaro roared to life, and Derek sped out of the parking lot, disappearing into the street.
~
In the quiet detention room, Scott and Stiles sat in two of the many empty desks, while Mr. Harris sat at the front of the classroom, engrossed in his newspaper. The ticking of the clock echoed in the stillness. Scott pulled a wad of tissues away from his nose, wincing slightly before turning to Harris.
"Excuse me, sir," Scott began cautiously, "I know it's detention and all, but I’m supposed to be at work. And I don’t want to get fired.”
Harris didn’t even glance up from his paper. Scott sighed, resigned, and sat back in his seat. He turned his head toward Stiles, lowering his voice to a whisper.
"You knew I would heal," Scott murmured.
“Yep,” Stiles replied without looking at him.
“So you did that to help me learn,” Scott continued, piecing it together.
“Yep.”
"But partially to punish me," Scott pressed, narrowing his eyes at his friend.
“Yep,” Stiles said again, this time with a faint smirk.
Scott paused, his voice softening, “For not being there the other day. When your dad got hurt.”
This time, Stiles didn’t respond. He stared straight ahead, his expression unreadable. The silence between them thickened, filled with the weight of unsaid things.
Scott shifted in his seat, his tone more earnest now. “You’re my best friend. I don’t want you to be angry at me.”
Finally, Stiles turned to face him, his eyes serious. “You have something, Scott. Whether you want it or not. You can do things other people can’t. That means you don’t have a choice anymore. It means you have to do something.”
Scott met his gaze, his voice firm. “I know. And I will.”
Mr. Harris, who had been subtly eyeing them over the top of his newspaper, finally put it down. His voice broke the tension. “All right. Both of you. Out of here.”
Scott and Stiles exchanged glances before quickly grabbing their bags, eager to escape the stifling room. They hurried out, side by side, leaving detention—and the unspoken weight between them—behind.
~
At the animal clinic, Deaton was busy going through paperwork when the familiar chime of the front door rang.
“Scott, you’re late again," Deaton said without looking up. "I hope this isn’t getting to be a habit.”
When no response came, Deaton lifted his head, expecting to see Scott but instead finding Derek stepping through the doorway.
Deaton’s tone shifted slightly. “Can I help you?”
Derek's gaze was sharp, intent. “I hope so. I want to know about the animal you found with the spiral in its side.”
Deaton furrowed his brow. “Excuse me? What animal?”
Derek reached into his jacket and unfolded a piece of paper. It was a report, with a photograph of a dead deer bearing a spiral carved into its side. He held it up for Deaton to see.
“Three months ago. The deer.” Derek’s voice hardened. “See that mark? You remember that?”
Recognition flickered across Deaton's face. “Ah, yes. It was just a deer. And I didn’t find it. They called me because they wanted to know if I’d seen anything like it.”
“What did you tell them?” Derek pressed.
“I told them no,” Deaton replied evenly.
Derek’s expression shifted. His head tilted slightly, his eyes narrowing. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Deaton asked, confused.
“The sound of your heartbeat rising,” Derek said, stepping closer.
Deaton tried to remain composed. “Excuse me?”
“It’s the sound of you lying.”
In a flash, Derek grabbed Deaton by the coat, pulling him violently forward, the force knocking Deaton unconscious as his body slumped against the desk.
---
Moments later, Deaton blinked his eyes open, groggy and disoriented. A dull ache throbbed under his eye, where a bruise and cut had formed. He quickly realized he was bound to a rolling chair, hands tied down. His heart raced.
“Oh God…” he muttered.
From the shadows, Derek emerged, his eyes locked on him.
“Are you protecting someone?” Derek demanded.
Deaton, still dazed, stammered, “Okay, all right. The key to the drug locker is in my pocket.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about–” Deaton tried to explain, but Derek’s patience snapped. He grabbed Deaton by the jacket again, lifting him—chair and all—off the floor. Deaton’s feet dangled uselessly beneath him as Derek hoisted him up.
“You’re not healing,” Derek noted, his voice low.
“What?” Deaton’s confusion deepened.
“An Alpha could control that,” Derek said, almost to himself. “What are you doing to me? What do you want?”
“I want to know who you are, or who you’re protecting,” Derek barked.
Deaton, his voice shaking, insisted, “I swear, I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about–”
“Then I guess I’m going to have to make myself very, very clear,” Derek snarled, pulling Deaton even closer. But before Derek could make another move, the door slammed open.
Scott stood in the doorway, his eyes wide with shock at the scene before him.
“What are you doing?” Scott shouted, stepping inside.
Deaton tried to warn him. “Scott, get out of here–” But before he could finish, Derek swung his fist down, landing a brutal blow on Deaton’s face, knocking him out cold again.
“Stop!” Scott yelled, rushing forward.
Derek turned to Scott, his voice grim. “He can stop himself from healing when conscious. But unconscious…”
Scott, his anger rising, snapped, “Are you out of your mind?”
“You want to know what the spiral means?” Derek countered, not backing down. “It’s our sign for a vendetta. For revenge. It means he won’t stop killing until he’s satisfied.”
“You think Deaton’s the Alpha?” Scott asked incredulously.
“We’re about to find out,” Derek said, raising his hand, claws out, ready to strike. But before he could, a clawed hand grabbed his wrist.
Derek’s head whipped around to see Scott—fully transformed—gripping him with a vice-like hold. Scott’s mouth opened, revealing his fangs as he let out a vicious snarl, his yellow eyes glowing with fury.
For the first time, Derek blinked in surprise. Scott’s grip tightened, then, with extraordinary control, he began to transform back. The claws retracted into his fingers, his fangs withdrew, and the yellow glow in his eyes faded to his usual brown. It all happened with stunning fluidity, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Scott stood before Derek, calm but unwavering. “Hit him again, and then you’ll see me get angry.”
Derek stared at Scott, something like respect flickering in his eyes. He was learning.
Scott knelt by his unconscious boss, gently blotting the blood from Deaton’s cheek with a towel. He looked up at Derek.
“You have a plan?” Derek asked, still tense.
Scott nodded, standing up. “Just give me one hour.”
“And then what?” Derek questioned, still on edge.
Scott turned, tossing the bloodied towel into the trash. “Meet me at the school. In the parking lot.” Without another word, he left, leaving Derek to watch him go, thoughts churning as he processed everything that had just happened.
~
It was pitch black in the high school parking lot, the cool night air hanging heavy with tension. Stiles's Jeep roared into the lot, pulling up alongside the familiar bulk of a Land Rover Defender. Emilia was the first to step out, dressed in all-black scrubs with a fitted gray long sleeve beneath. Her expression was calm, but her eyes betrayed the exhaustion of someone who had just come off a long shift. Behind her, Enzo and Ezra emerged, dressed down in crew necks and athletic shorts, both looking more inconvenienced than concerned.
Stiles and Scott stepped out of the Jeep, tension palpable between them. Stiles was the first to speak.
“This is a terrible idea,” he muttered, folding his arms and surveying the group.
“I know,” Scott replied, glancing at him before shifting his gaze to the others.
Emilia raised an eyebrow, adjusting her scrubs with an air of impatience. “Is there a reason I was asked to come here immediately after my shift at the hospital?” Her voice was calm, and controlled, but the underlying annoyance was evident.
Enzo, never one to miss a chance for commentary, crossed his arms. “Yeah, we were in the middle of a match I was about to win!” Ezra rolled his eyes, shooting back, “No, you weren’t.”
Stiles ignored the banter, his focus still on Scott. “And we’re still going to do this?”
Scott ran a hand through his hair, visibly stressed. “Can you think of something better?”
Stiles grinned, though it was more of a grimace. “Personally, I’m a big fan of ignoring a problem and hoping it goes away.”
Ezra snorted, his sarcasm cutting through the tension. “Yeah, because that’s healthy.”
Scott shook his head, not bothering to engage with the quip. “Just make sure we can get inside.”
Without another word, Stiles pulled out a set of bolt cutters. Before they could make their move, a pair of headlights swept across the lot. Derek’s Camaro pulled into a nearby space, the engine dying as he stepped out, his expression unreadable.
Ezra wrinkled his nose in distaste. “What’s he doing here?”
Emilia didn’t respond, simply shrugging as if she were too tired for Derek’s drama. She leaned against the hood of her car, her posture relaxed but her eyes watchful.
Scott and Stiles approached Derek, stopping just shy of the Camaro.
“Where’s my boss?” Scott demanded.
Derek’s response was curt. “In the back.” He gestured toward the car.
Scott and Stiles peeked inside, their faces darkening as they saw Deaton—bound, gagged, and blindfolded, slumped against the back seat. Emilia followed them, her eyes narrowing in disbelief as she took in the scene.
“Oh my God!” she exclaimed, her voice still steady, though her tone carried a sharp edge. “What did you do?” She turned her cold gaze on Derek, her scowl deepening. “Why am I here?”
Stiles, quick to explain, said, “Derek thinks Scott’s boss is the Alpha.”
That set off the twins, who burst out laughing.
“Dude!” Enzo chuckled, shaking his head. “You think Deaton is a werewolf?”
Derek’s glare darkened, but he remained silent, jaw clenched. “He knows too much. That’s the only thing that makes sense.”
Emilia muttered quietly, but not so quietly that Derek couldn’t hear. “Wow. You really are an idiot.”
Scott and Stiles, ignoring the growing tension, headed toward the school building.
Derek called after them, his voice tense. “Where are you going?”
Scott didn’t stop walking. “You said I’m linked with the Alpha. I’m going to see if you’re right.”
Emilia let out a long sigh, rubbing the space between her brows as she leaned back against her car. She wasn’t one for unnecessary theatrics, and this whole situation had already drained the last of her patience.
“Can we just get this over with?” Ezra muttered, leaning against the vehicle beside her.
Enzo rolled his eyes. “Yeah, before someone gets hurt. Again.”
Emilia didn’t respond. She stared out into the night, her calm exterior hiding the storm of irritation beneath. All she wanted was for this ordeal to be over, so she could return to something that made sense—anything but this chaos.
~
The principal’s office was bathed in an eerie glow as moonlight bled through the horizontal blinds, casting long, thin stripes of light across the room. The silence was shattered when the door suddenly smashed inward, and Scott and Stiles stumbled inside, barely keeping their footing.
Stiles, always quick with words, glanced at Scott and quipped, "One question: What are you going to do if the Alpha doesn’t show up?"
Scott, visibly tense, responded, "I don’t know."
"And what are you going to do if the Alpha does show up?" Stiles pressed, his voice tinged with sarcasm.
"I don’t know," Scott repeated, clearly not thrilled with either scenario.
"Good plan," Stiles deadpanned, folding his arms.
Scott took a deep breath, trying to focus. "You told me a wolf howls to signal its position to the rest of the pack, right?"
Stiles nodded. "But if you bring him here, does that make you part of his pack?"
Scott looked uneasy. "I hope not."
Determined, Scott pulled the PA microphone over to his mouth. He hesitated for a moment, fingers hovering over the button on the mic’s base, then glanced at Stiles. His best friend gave him an encouraging nod, trying to convey confidence despite the absurdity of the situation.
Scott took another deep breath, cleared his throat, and leaned into the microphone.
---
Out in the parking lot, Derek stood in front of his Camaro, his eyes still locked on Deaton’s unconscious form through the windshield. Emilia and the twins idly waited nearby, the night air thick with tension. Then, out of nowhere, a pitiful, almost laughable howl echoed through the PA system. It was high-pitched and weak, more like a toddler imitating a dog than a werewolf.
Derek slowly turned around, shock and disbelief on his face. “You gotta be kidding me…” he muttered under his breath.
The twins, however, couldn’t hold it together. They practically collapsed to the ground, laughing so hard their stomachs began to hurt.
“Awooo! He said!” Ezra mocked through tears of laughter, clutching his side.
Enzo was doubled over, gasping between laughs. “Are we sure he’s a werewolf?”
Emilia stood there, jaw dropped, torn between laughter and sheer disbelief at the absolute stupidity of what she had just heard. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh with her brothers or be thoroughly annoyed.
---
Back in the principal’s office, Scott released the button on the mic, looking up at Stiles for reassurance.
"Was that okay?" Scott asked, his voice uncertain. "That was a howl, right?"
Stiles had his head buried in his hands, groaning. "Technically."
Scott frowned. "What did it sound like to you?"
"Like a cat being choked to death," Stiles replied, dead serious.
Scott’s frustration was palpable. "Well, what do I do? How am I supposed to do this?"
Stiles, sensing Scott’s growing anxiety, moved behind the desk, grabbed Scott by the shoulders, and leaned in close, staring him down. “You’re calling the Alpha. Be a man. Be a werewolf. Not a teen wolf. A werewolf!”
Scott nodded, trying to muster the confidence. He grabbed the microphone again, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Then, with newfound determination, he let out a powerful howl.
The sound that blasted through the PA speakers was nothing short of earth-shaking. Lockers rattled, desks trembled, and it felt as though the entire school was experiencing an earthquake. The howl was deep, commanding, and reverberated across the school grounds, echoing through the trees and into the night sky.
---
In the parking lot, Derek stopped in his tracks, this time impressed. Though his expression remained stony, it was clear the howl had made an impact.
The twins, previously lost in laughter, quickly shut up, the roar of Scott’s howl making them exchange wide-eyed glances. Even Emilia straightened up, her earlier exhaustion giving way to cautious curiosity.
Derek, however, was still far from happy. This was only the beginning.
~
Scott and Stiles burst through the school doors, barreling into the parking lot. The tension was immediate. Derek, already seething, stormed up to them, his voice low but deadly serious.
"I'm going to kill the two of you myself," he growled. "Are you trying to attract the entire state to this school?"
Emilia wasn’t far behind, her frustration just as palpable. "What were you thinking? Are you trying to give us away? For all we know, hunters could be on their way right now!" Her arms crossed tightly, eyes narrowed.
Scott, mildly embarrassed, rubbed the back of his neck. "I didn’t know it would be that loud."
"It was loud," Stiles said, eyes wide with awe. "And it was awesome."
"Agreed," the twins chimed in, slapping a low-five with Stiles, clearly still entertained.
But Scott was no longer paying attention. His focus had shifted, eyes locked on Derek’s Camaro. The door was wide open, and ripped bindings lay strewn across the pavement.
Derek, noticing Scott's stare, stepped forward, confusion flashing across his face. "What did you do with him?" Scott asked, his voice tight.
Derek frowned. "I didn’t do anything—"
Before Derek could finish, his body jerked violently forward. Blood spurted from his mouth as he was lifted off the ground, held aloft by something dark and enormous lurking behind him. The sight was horrifying. Whatever held Derek was barely visible, a hulking shadow with glowing red eyes, its grip tightening around him.
The scream tore from Stiles first, followed quickly by Scott, Emilia, and the twins as they stumbled backward in terror. With a sickening thud, Derek’s body was flung across the lot, slamming into the brick wall of the school before crumpling to the ground in a lifeless heap.
Panic set in. They tripped over themselves, racing for the school doors as the monstrous figure loomed behind them.
Inside the high school, Scott and Enzo yanked the double doors shut, their breaths ragged. They pressed their backs against the doors, struggling to hold them closed. The terror in their eyes said it all.
From the shadows, the dark shape approached, huge and menacing, its glowing red eyes cutting through the dim light. It moved with deliberate slowness as if savoring their fear. The group barely had time to react, hearts pounding in their chests as the monster closed in.
In a quiet video store, a clerk replaces a flickering light bulb while Jackson, outside, argues with Lydia about movie preferences before entering the store. Searching for The Notebook, Jackson finds the store seemingly abandoned. As he browses the aisles, he discovers the clerk's dead body, surrounded by blood. Panicking, he accidentally knocks over a ladder, causing the lights to go out. A growling creature lurks in the shadows, cornering Jackson.
Meanwhile, Lydia sits in her car, recording herself on her phone. The store’s window shatters as something dark rushes past. Inside, Lydia finds Jackson standing eerily, with blood-soaked carpets beneath her feet, triggering her terrified screams.
Sheriff Stilinski drove through the quiet night, his eyes focused on the road as Stiles rifled through a pile of fast food bags.
“Did they forget my curly fries?” the sheriff asked, glancing at the empty packaging.
“You’re not supposed to eat fries. Especially the curly ones,” Stiles said, digging deeper into the bags.
“I carry a lethal weapon. If I want curly fries, I will have curly fries,” Stilinski replied, matter-of-fact.
Stiles shot him a look. “If you think getting rid of contractions makes your argument sound more legitimate, you're wrong.”
Before Stilinski could retort, the police radio crackled to life.
“Unit One, do you copy?” came the voice from dispatch.
Father and son both reached for the CB at the same time, their hands knocking into each other. Stilinski raised an eyebrow in silent reprimand.
“Force of habit,” Stiles muttered, withdrawing his hand.
Stilinski pressed the button on the CB. “Unit One, copy.”
“Got a report of a possible 187,” dispatch informed.
Stiles froze, mid-bite, shoving a handful of curly fries into his mouth. He knew exactly what a 187 was.
“A murder?” he said, crumbs tumbling from his lips.
~
The flashing lights of Stilinski’s patrol car lit up the parking lot as they pulled in beside two other sheriff cruisers. The store’s window was shattered, and the scene beyond looked like chaos. Stilinski threw the car into park and turned to Stiles. “Stay here.”
Stiles watched his father hurry over to confer with the deputies, but he wasn’t about to sit idly by. His eyes scanned the wreckage—shattered glass, overturned shelves, and then… Lydia and Jackson are being led out by officers.
“No way,” he muttered under his breath.
Sheriff Stilinski barked orders to his deputies. “Get this place locked down.”
But Stiles had already slipped from the car, weaving through the small crowd of onlookers. “Lydia?” he called, trying to get her attention. She didn’t seem to hear him. A female deputy was guiding her, and Jackson, visibly irate, was protesting.
“I don’t need to go to the hospital. I’m fine,” Jackson insisted angrily.
Sheriff Stilinski noticed the commotion and headed over, leaving his deputies to keep the crowd back.
“Why the hell can’t I just go home?” Jackson continued, voice rising in frustration.
“I’m sorry,” the sheriff said calmly, “but the EMTs say you hit your head pretty hard. They need to make sure you don’t have a concussion.”
Jackson clenched his fists, seething. “What part of ‘I’m fine’ are you failing to grasp? I want to go home.”
“I understand–”
“No, you don’t understand!” Jackson snapped, cutting him off. “Which blows my mind, honestly. It’s a pretty basic concept, even for a minimum-wage rent-a-cop like you. I just want to go home!”
The outburst drew stares from everyone nearby, pitying eyes settling on Jackson. Even Stiles glared at him, clearly offended by the “rent-a-cop” jab—until something else caught his attention.
“Hey, is that a dead body?” Stiles blurted.
The crowd surged forward in excitement. Sheriff Stilinski shot a withering glare at his son, who immediately shrank back into the shadows, hoping to avoid further trouble.
While everyone’s attention remained fixed on the video store, no one noticed Scott perched on the roof above, peeking over the ledge. He turned away, slumping down as Derek stepped forward.
"Starting to get it?" Derek asked.
Scott sighed. "I get that he's killing people, but I don’t understand why. This isn’t normal, right? We’re not supposed to just roam around at night, killing everyone. And why aren’t Emilia and her brothers helping us track down The Alpha?"
Derek’s voice was calm but firm. "No, we’re predators, not killers. And Emilia has bigger concerns than playing cat and mouse with this Alpha."
Scott frowned. "What does that even mean? And why is the Alpha killing?"
Derek glanced out across the rooftop. "Emilia is something you'll have to figure out for yourself. As for the Alpha, that's what we're here to find out."
As they moved toward the opposite edge of the roof, they failed to notice the strange, ominous pattern carved into the gravel below them—a spiral.
~
Scott trails Derek into the dimly lit Hale home, frustration evident in his voice as he vents about his struggles and responsibilities. Derek cuts him off, emphasizing the urgency of their situation. He insists that Scott’s unique connection to The Alpha makes him the only one capable of tracking him down. Derek stresses that to survive, Scott must embrace and endure pain, showing that resilience is key. To illustrate, Derek forcibly breaks Scott’s hand, and then watches as it heals, reinforcing the lesson that their survival depends on their ability to work together and understand their strengths.
The next morning, Allison is hurrying to leave for school when her aunt Kate arrives, apologizing for her behavior the previous night. As a gesture of goodwill, Kate gives Allison an early birthday gift—a necklace featuring a mysterious symbol that hints at family secrets. Later at school, Allison tries to conceal birthday balloons in her locker when Scott notices. She admits it's her birthday but requests that he keep it a secret, explaining that she’s only 17 because she had to repeat a year due to frequent relocations. Scott proposes they skip class for the day, and although Allison is hesitant, she considers his offer.
~
In Chemistry class, Stiles takes his seat next to Emilia and scans the room for Scott, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Mr. Harris, at the front of the room, lights the Acetylene Torch and announces, “Just a reminder: Parent/Teacher conferences are tonight. If you have a grade below a C, you’re required to attend. No names—let the shame be your punishment. Also, has anyone seen Scott McCall?” The room falls silent. Emilia nudges Stiles and whispers, “Where’s McCall?” Stiles shrugs, uncertain.
The door swings open, and Jackson walks in, appearing somewhat disoriented. All eyes shift to him. Mr. Harris approaches, “Jackson, if you need to leave early, just let me know.” Jackson glares back, clearly irritated by the scrutiny. Mr. Harris continues, “Everyone, read Chapter Nine. And Stilinski, maybe put the highlighter down occasionally. This is Chemistry, not a coloring book.”
Stiles caps his highlighter and leans toward Danny, seated in front of him. “Danny, can I ask you something?” Danny, without looking up, replies, “No.” Stiles presses on, “I’m going to ask anyway. Did Lydia show up in your homeroom today?”
“No.”
“Can I ask you another question?”
Danny sighs, “Still no.”
Stiles ignores him, lowering his voice. “Do people know what happened to her and Jackson last night?”
Danny glances at Jackson before shaking his head. “He wouldn’t tell me.”
“But you’re his best friend.”
Danny just shrugs, tired of Stiles’ persistence.
“One more question?”
Danny, now visibly irritated, snaps, “What?”
“Do you find me attractive?”
Emilia, overhearing the last part, lets out a quiet laugh at Stiles’ antics.
~
In the corridor, Emilia stands by her locker, rummaging through her books when she notices Stiles racing down the hall, phone pressed to his ear. Out of breath, he paces, his frustration evident as he speaks into the phone.
"Finally! Are you getting any of my texts?" Stiles demands. There's a brief pause before he continues, "Do you have any idea what's going on? Lydia’s missing, Jackson looks like he’s been hit with a bomb, another random guy’s dead, and you need to do something about it!"
As Stiles stops abruptly, his gaze meets Emilia's, his frustration palpable. He groans as he realizes Scott has hung up on him. Emilia, closing her locker with a sigh, walks over to Stiles.
"Go talk to Lydia," she suggests, her voice carrying a note of reluctance.
Stiles looks at her, puzzled. "What?"
Emilia rolls her eyes. "If you're so worried about her, go see her. Maybe she’ll appreciate someone caring about her well-being."
With that, Emilia pulls out her earbuds, immersing herself in her meticulously curated playlist. She walks away, her demeanor tinged with a touch of bitterness.
~
At the Martin home, Lydia, heavily medicated, lies in bed with a glazed look. Her mom, Mrs. Martin, informs her that Stiles is there to see her. Lydia, confused and lethargic, asks what a Stiles is. Mrs. Martin explains that Lydia has had something to calm her nerves and lets Stiles in. Stiles checks on Lydia, who is in a groggy state, and asks if she's okay. She responds with a slurred, "I feel ffffffantastic." Stiles tries to lighten the mood with a tongue twister, but Lydia’s gaze drifts and she whispers about seeing "something," which she later identifies as a mountain lion. Stiles, skeptical, grabs a teddy bear and asks if it's a mountain lion too. Lydia says yes, and Stiles, frustrated, decides to leave. Lydia asks him to stay, and though Stiles is initially excited, his mood deflates when he realizes she's asking for Jackson. As he checks Lydia's phone, he discovers a disturbing image of a dark, monstrous figure with glowing red eyes—the Alpha.
~
Stiles paced his room, the tension in his shoulders palpable as he pressed his cell phone to his ear. “It’s me. Again. I found something, and I don’t know what to do. If you don’t turn your phone back on, I’m going to kill you. I’m too pissed off to come up with a witty description of exactly how I’m going to kill you. I’m just going to kill you.” He hung up, frustration evident in his voice.
A sudden knock at the door made him jump. The door creaked open, and his father, Sheriff Stilinski, stepped into the room with a weary expression.
“Please tell me I’m going to hear good news at the parent-teacher thing tonight,” the Sheriff said, attempting a hopeful tone.
Stiles looked up, his irritation barely masked. “That depends on how you define good news.”
“I define it as you getting straight A’s with no behavioral issues,” the Sheriff replied, his tone earnest.
Stiles gave his father an incredulous look. “We clearly have different definitions of good news.”
The Sheriff sighed, acknowledging the point. “Say no more.”
“Dad—” Stiles began, but his father was already halfway out the door.
“Did you guys find out what attacked Lydia and Jackson last night?” Stiles asked, his voice urgent.
“You know I can’t talk about that,” the Sheriff responded firmly.
“It’s the best we’ve got at the moment. We’re setting traps, and talking to Animal Control. You don’t have to worry,” the Sheriff said reassuringly.
Stiles shook his head, dismissing the reassurances. “It’s not that. It’s... forget it.”
“Are you sure?” the Sheriff asked, pausing at the door.
Stiles nodded, and his father let the door close behind him. Alone, Stiles pulled Lydia’s phone from his jacket pocket, tapping the screen to bring up the video footage. The Alpha’s menacing silhouette flashed on the display, sending a chill down his spine.
Stiles muttered to himself, “Come on, Scott. Where the hell are you?” An idea struck him—Emilia. He fumbled for his phone, scrolling through his contacts until her name appeared. Hesitating briefly, he pressed it and listened to the distant rings.
After a pause, her voice answered, quiet and composed, yet distant. "Stiles?"
The background was muted, just the faint hum of music. No laughter, no noise, just her presence. "You okay?"
"Uh, yeah. I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?" He found himself straining to read her tone.
A beat passed before her soft reply. “No. What's going on?"
Stiles ran a hand through his hair, pacing as he spoke. "I found something on Lydia’s phone—there’s a video of the Alpha."
There was silence on the other end, the quiet so pronounced it made his heart pound. Finally, Emilia spoke, her voice almost a whisper. "And what do you want to do about it?"
Her calmness unsettled him. "I don’t know," Stiles admitted, glancing at the phone screen again. "I thought maybe... you'd have an idea."
"You already know," she replied, her words cryptic but firm. "You wouldn’t have called if you didn’t."
Stiles exhaled sharply, closing his eyes. There was no laughter in her voice now, no playful teasing, just that eerie calm. "Emilia..."
"Goodnight, Stiles." She hung up without waiting for a response, the finality of the click lingering in the air.
Stiles stared at the phone for a moment, her words echoing in his head. His gaze drifted back to Lydia’s phone, the screen still showing the prompt: “Are you sure you want to delete?”
His thumb hovered over the button, indecisive. After a long moment, he tapped it, watching as the video vanished.
Alone, the silence felt heavier.
~
The Cadieux siblings had just wrapped up their sparring session when Enzo’s phone buzzed with a message from Derek Hale. The text read: *"Kate and her group showed up. Argent says they didn’t kill Laura. Something else is going on."* Ezra peered over Enzo’s shoulder and remarked, “Weird and oddly vague.”
Before Enzo could respond, Emilia’s phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID, her expression shifting to one of mild curiosity as she raised an eyebrow. With an elegant swipe, she answered, her voice calm but laced with amusement. “Miss me already, Stilinski?” But her lighthearted tone quickly shifted to concern. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Stiles, breathe.”
Enzo and Ezra exchanged glances, sensing the change in her demeanor. Emilia listened, her brows knitting ever so slightly as Stiles breathlessly explained the chaos at the high school parking lot—about the mountain lion, Argent shooting it, and how his dad had been knocked down in the panic.
“Stiles, where are you? Where’s Scott?” she asked, her voice still steady but with a gentle urgency.
Stiles, clearly distraught, confessed that he was at home, and he didn’t know where Scott was.
“Okay,” Emilia reassured softly, her tone composed. “Your dad is going to be fine, I promise.”
But Stiles’ panic only grew, his voice wavering as he admitted, “Emilia, I’m freaking out.”
She took a quiet breath and stepped outside, distancing herself from her brothers, her voice lowering into something softer, more intimate. “Stiles, why call me? Out of everyone you know?”
His voice faltered, “I-I don’t know, maybe because I trust you? Because you’re my friend?”
Emilia’s eyes flickered with surprise, though her expression remained poised. “I thought you didn’t trust me? Thought I was too mysterious and spooky for you?” Her words were light, almost teasing, yet her gaze was intent, waiting for his response.
Stiles’ frustration cut through the panic, grounding him for a moment. “You can act distant if you want, but deep down, you’re kind, Emilia. You’ve always put others first. Even back in sixth grade.”
Her brow furrowed slightly. “What are you talking about?”
“That day—I used to have panic attacks after my mom died. The day we met, I had one in the hallway. You must’ve noticed because you just held my hand and talked to me until I calmed down.”
Her voice softened, the memory distant but familiar. “How do you even remember that?”
“Because, Emilia… Even though we haven’t really talked since then, I’ve always noticed how smart and kind you are. You think you’re this lone wolf, but I know better. And right now, my best friend is missing, and you’re the only person I can rely on.”
Her calm façade cracked for just a second as his words hit her. She wasn’t one to be moved by sentiment easily, but Stiles’ earnestness, his vulnerability, tugged at something deep inside her. There was a pause, the weight of his words lingering between them.
Emilia straightened, her voice soft but decisive. “Alright, Stilinski. I’m on my way.”
There was a stunned silence on the other end of the line. “What?”
“I’m coming over. We’ll go to the hospital together,” she said firmly. And without waiting for a response, she hung up.
Moments later, a car horn blared outside Stiles' house. He rushed to the window, only to see Emilia standing beside her sleek car, her posture composed, and a confident, knowing smirk gracing her lips.
extra~
As they drove to the hospital, Emilia couldn’t shake one nagging question. “How did you find out my middle name?”
Stiles glanced at her, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “School records.”
Emilia raised an eyebrow. “Were you stalking me, Stilinski?”
“Not stalking—just doing a bit of research,” he replied a hint of defensiveness in his voice. “It’s not every day you find out a classmate is a werewolf.”
Emilia teased, leaning in slightly. “If you wanted to know more about me, all you had to do was ask.”
Stiles chuckled, his cheeks flushing a little. “Ha. Ha. Very funny.” He tried to play it cool, but the blush on his cheeks gave away his embarrassment.
On a dark, empty road, shrouded in quiet as night settles in. Suddenly, the distant rumble of a car engine breaks the silence, and a pair of headlights pierce the horizon. Inside the car, a radio host’s voice rattles off the news, “In other news, local authorities remain perplexed by the animal attacks plaguing Beacon Hills—”
A blonde woman in her twenties, her expression bored, quickly switches the station. Music blasts through the speakers, and she taps her fingers on the steering wheel, matching the rhythm. But then, something catches her eye. She eases her foot onto the brake, bringing the car to a halt in the middle of the deserted road.
The radio falls silent as she turns it off, her gaze flicking to the rearview mirror. The road behind her is empty, nothing but darkness stretching out. Shaking off the creeping unease, she cranks the radio back on and accelerates. But that uneasy feeling lingers, gnawing at her nerves.
As she nods to the beat, a pair of glowing red eyes suddenly appear in the rear windshield, glaring at her from the darkness. The eyes surge closer as if preparing to strike. But just as quickly, they vanish, swallowed by the shadows, leaving only the echo of the music and the thrum of her heartbeat in the quiet night.
Through the passenger window trees flit by, deep woods flanking the right side of the car The red eyes reappear, this time keeping pace with the speeding car. A dark shape lurks just out of sight, moving alongside the vehicle. Kate, sensing something is off, glances out the window, but the eyes vanish again as quickly as they appear. Her focus lingers too long on the empty road behind her—she doesn’t notice the stop sign rushing toward her until it’s almost too late.
She snaps her attention back to the road and slams on the brakes, screeching to a halt just in time. “Nice, Kate. Nice driving,” she mutters to herself, switching off the radio. The silence that follows is thick with tension as she waits at the stop sign, her breath catching in her throat. She nervously taps a finger on the steering wheel, trying to steady her nerves.
Just as she’s about to lift her foot off the brake, a loud thump reverberates from the roof of the car, startling her. Her eyes dart upward as she inhales sharply, but no other sound follows. Her gaze shifts downward to the passenger window, where inky black shapes seem to move among the dark woods. She squints, trying to determine if it’s just trees swaying in the wind—or something else entirely.
Kate leans closer to the window, her eyes straining to see into the darkness when, without warning, the driver-side window explodes inward. She screams as a clawed hand reaches down from the roof, grabbing at her. The claws dig into her jacket, pulling her toward the shattered window.
“No, no—” Kate yells, frantically reaching behind her seat, her fingers desperately searching for something. The Alpha continues to pull her up, but just as she’s about to be dragged out, her hand finally closes around her Mossberg pistol grip shotgun.
In one swift motion, she whips it up and pulls the trigger, blasting a hole through the roof of her car. The passenger door slams open, and Kate rolls out, landing in a crouched stance with her shotgun primed. The move is fluid, and practiced—Kate is no ordinary young woman. She’s a hunter.
But as she scans the area, there’s nothing on the roof, no sign of movement. Kate spins around, shotgun aimed, her eyes scanning the darkness. “Come on…” she mutters, frustration and adrenaline coursing through her veins. She raises the shotgun and fires a shot into the sky, her voice rising with the echoing blast.
“COME ON!”
—
The Cadieux siblings lie restless in their beds, each one tossing and turning under the covers, unable to find sleep. Their shared unease hangs thick in the air, but the sudden, thunderous boom jolts them all upright. In an instant, they’re out of bed, flinging open their doors to find one another standing in the hallway, eyes wide with worry.
Before they can speak, an eerie, echoing howl slices through the night, sending a shiver down their spines. Without hesitation, they rush back into their rooms, hastily pulling on clothes. Within moments, they’re all racing toward the source of the noise, fear, and determination driving their every step.
—
Kate crunched over the shattered glass, her boots grinding it into the pavement as she tossed her shotgun into the trunk of her battered car. From a black bag, she pulled out a rifle with a scope, her movements methodical as she loaded it with bullets from an intricately engraved wooden case.
Meanwhile, atop an industrial building, Derek, in human form, knelt to inspect a smear of blood in the loose gravel. Movement caught his eye—a dark silhouette just ahead. The Alpha paused, its red eyes locking onto Derek’s for a brief moment before it turned and bolted. Derek sprang into action, launching himself after it, his speed building as he leaped from the roof across the alleyway, soaring through the air—until a gunshot rang out.
The blast from the alley below sent Derek crashing to the gravel, tumbling to a halt. Kate, hidden behind her rifle scope, curled her lips into a satisfied smile.
Headlights swept around the corner as a black SUV pulled up beside her, Chris Argent at the wheel. He began conversing with Scott, who was hiding behind a nearby building, straining to listen. But as Scott focused on the conversation, he didn’t notice the trio approaching behind him. Startled, Scott almost yelped, but Emilia’s eyes widened as she quickly placed a hand over his mouth, her other finger pressed to her lips in a silent command. The teen wolves, now huddled together, listened intently to the conversation.
Kate’s voice was sharp, her tone grating in Emilia’s ears. “I know there are two. And one of them just attacked me.”
As the Argents moved toward Kate’s car, their voices carried across the alley. “One of them is going to lead us to the other,” Mr. Argent said, his voice clear and cold. “He can’t do that if he’s dead.”
“And I can’t help kill either of them if one of them kills me first,” Kate retorted, her voice rasping with irritation.
“How long will it take?” Chris asked.
“I’d give him 48 hours. If that,” Kate replied.
With that, the Argents climbed into the vehicle and sped off. Emilia turned to Scott, her voice a whisper. “48 hours before what?”
Scott could only shrug, just as baffled as she was.
In another alley, Derek slid down the side of a building, collapsing onto the pavement. Leaning back against the brick, he inspected the gunshot wound on his left arm. It wasn’t healing, but that wasn’t the most unsettling part. Thin tendrils of smoke curled up from the wound, which glowed with an eerie light. This was no ordinary bullet...
That morning in history class, Scott's knee bounced nervously under his desk as he watched the teacher return graded tests, getting closer and closer to him. Behind him, Stiles leaned forward, whispering urgently, “If Derek’s not the Alpha—if he’s not the one who bit you, and Emilia already said she’s not the one who bit you—who did?”
Scott whispered back, frustration creeping into his voice, “I don’t know.”
Stiles sat back, thinking, then leaned forward again, “Did the Alpha kill the bus driver?”
Scott, now more agitated, snapped, “I don’t know.”
Stiles flopped back in his seat, but only for a moment before leaning forward once more, “Does Allison’s dad know about the Alpha?”
Finally, Scott lost his patience. “I DON’T KNOW!” he yelled, startling the entire class. He quickly slunk down in his seat, realizing all eyes were now on him. The teacher, unfazed, dropped his test onto his desk. Scott turned it over to see a big, red D- and a note scribbled at the bottom: *Not like you! What’s happening? See me after class.*
Stiles peered over Scott’s shoulder at the grade and quipped, “Dude, you need to study more.”
Scott buried his head in his hands, overwhelmed. Sensing his friend’s distress, Stiles softened, “Okay, that was a joke. It’s just one test.”
Stiles then glanced back at Emilia, who was seated behind him. She raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on her lips. “You know it’s my favorite thing when you two talk about me like I’m not here.”
Stiles rolled his eyes, “Whatever. How’d you do on your test?”
Glancing down, he noticed the large ‘A’ on her paper. Stiles frowned, “How did you get an ‘A’? No one else in the class did.”
Emilia smirked, her voice laced with teasing superiority. “Because, Stiles, I actually study. Speaking of… Scott, if you need help, you and Stiles are welcome to join the twins and me in the library after school.”
Scott shook his head. “I’m studying with Allison at her house after school.”
Emilia shrugged as Stiles shot Scott a knowing grin. “That’s my boy.”
Scott brushed off Stiles’s enthusiasm. “We’re just studying.”
Stiles wasn’t convinced. “No, you’re not.”
Scott turned, confused. “No, I’m not?”
Stiles grabbed him by the collar, his tone mock-serious. “Not if I’m forced to live vicariously through you. If you go to her house and squander that colossal opportunity, I’ll have you professionally de-balled. Got it?”
Emilia grimaced, muttering, “Gross.”
Scott sighed, exasperated. “Yes, fine. Just stop with the questions.”
Stiles released his friend, satisfied. “Done. No more talk of Alphas or Derek. Especially Derek.”
Oh, how Stiles was going to regret those words.
In the high school corridor, a wave of colorful sneakers rushed through the hall as students hurried to their next class. As the hallway cleared of people, a dark figure emerged—Derek. His pale skin contrasted sharply with the black circles under his eyes, and bloody bandages peeked out from beneath his jacket sleeve. A few lingering students stared at him, but Derek paid them no attention, moving with a determined focus toward one teenager still at his locker.
Jackson turned, eyes widening as he saw Derek coming right for him. He instinctively took a step back.
Derek’s voice, rough and drained, cut through the silence, “Where’s Scott McCall?”
Jackson squared his shoulders, trying to regain some semblance of control. “Why should I tell you?”
“Because I asked you politely. And I only do that once,” Derek replied, his voice carrying an edge of warning.
Jackson smirked, trying to play it cool. “Okay, tough guy. How about I help you if you tell me what you’re selling him?”
Derek frowned in confusion. “What is it? Dianabol? HGH?” Jackson pressed, eyes narrowing.
“Steroids,” Derek muttered, realization dawning.
“No, Girl Scout Cookies. What do you think I’m talking about? And by the way, whatever else you’re selling, I’d stop sampling the merchandise. You look wrecked,” Jackson shot back, his words laced with sarcasm.
Derek eyed Jackson, practically sensing the desperate need for power emanating from him. “I’ll find him myself,” he said, turning to leave.
But Jackson wasn’t done. He grabbed Derek by the shoulder, “Hey, we’re not done—”
Derek spun around, his hand snapping up to grab Jackson by the neck. Jackson’s eyes bulged in shock as he struggled to pry Derek’s fingers off, but the grip was too strong. He gasped, choking until—Derek suddenly realized what he was doing and released him. Jackson doubled over, sucking in the air. As he bent forward, Derek noticed something that sent a chill down his spine—punctures on the back of Jackson’s neck from the claws that had extended from his fingertips.
Derek stared at the punctures in alarm, his hand trembling slightly. Jackson, still gasping for breath, looked up just in time to see Derek vanish around the corner. Reaching to the back of his neck, Jackson’s fingers came away bloody.
Derek slumped against the lockers in the adjacent corridor, weakened and losing control. Closing his eyes, he tried a different tactic—he listened.
Sounds filtered into his head: teenagers gossiping, teachers lecturing, the click of cell phone buttons, and then—
Lydia glanced over at Allison as they descended the stairs, heading for their next class.
“Scott’s coming over? Tonight?” Lydia asked, her tone curious.
“We’re just studying together,” Allison replied, trying to keep it casual.
Lydia gave her a knowing look. “Just studying never ends with just studying. It’s like getting into a hot tub. Somebody eventually cops a feel.”
Allison looked at her, unsure. “So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying make sure he covers up.” Lydia paused, noticing Allison's confused expression. “Hello, Snow White, I’m talking about a condom.”
Allison’s eyes widened. “Are you kidding? After one date?”
“Well, don’t be a total prude. You have to give him a little taste,” Lydia insisted.
“How much is a little taste?” Allison asked, genuinely puzzled.
Lydia sighed dramatically. “Oh God. You really like him, don’t you?”
Allison hesitated before admitting, “Well, there’s just something different about him. When I first got here, I had this plan: no boyfriends until college. I move too often. But when I met him, he was different. I can’t explain it.”
Lydia smirked knowingly. “I can. It’s your brain flooding with phenylethylamine.”
Allison frowned. “What?”
Lydia waved it off. “I’ll tell you what to do. When’s he coming over?”
“Right after school,” Allison replied, her nerves starting to show.
Down the hall, the crowd parted to reveal Derek, his gaze fixated on the clock: 2:30 pm. As the bell rang and students poured out of classrooms, Derek slipped out an exit, determined to find Scott before things spiraled further out of control.
~
Students poured into the parking lot, racing to their cars at the end of the day. Stiles hopped into his Jeep, revving the engine before pulling out. As he swung around to the exit, Derek suddenly stepped in front of him. Stiles slammed on the brakes, causing a chain reaction as cars screeched to a halt behind him, nearly causing a pile-up in the school lot. The driver of the Land Rover directly behind Stiles also noticed Derek. Meanwhile, Scott, standing by the bike rack, heard the sudden commotion and looked up. His eyes widened as he saw why. “No. Not now. Not here.”
Scott took off running just as Derek collapsed in front of the Jeep. Stiles and the Cadieux siblings jumped out of their vehicles, rushing over. Emilia’s sharp senses picked up on his paleness and the unmistakable scent of death clinging to him. “What the hell happened to you?” she demanded. Enzo and Ezra covered their noses, catching the same scent.
Scott, exasperated, asked, “What are you doing here? Get up.”
Stiles, noticing Derek’s frail condition, added, “Dude, he’s not looking too good.”
Derek, his voice strained, managed to say, “I was shot.” He struggled to push himself up as Enzo and Stiles knelt beside him. Ezra leaned in close, whispering, “Why aren’t you healing?”
Derek’s reply was weak, “I can’t. It was a different kind of bullet—”
“A silver bullet?” Stiles quipped, earning an exasperated look from Emilia.
“No, you idiot—” she started, but Scott cut her off as realization dawned on him. “Wait a second. That’s what she meant when she said 48 hours.”
Fear flashed in Derek’s eyes. “What? Who said 48 hours?”
Enzo interjected, “The one who shot you—” But Derek sucked in a sharp breath, a wave of pain wracking his body. His eyes flickered bright blue. Emilia grabbed his face, forcing him to focus. “Stop that! Control it.”
Sweat dripped down Derek’s face, his eyes sunken. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I can’t.” He began to collapse, and Emilia struggled to keep him from hitting the pavement. The situation drew the attention of other students, and horns started blaring behind Stiles and Emilia’s cars.
“It’s killing him. We need to get him out of here now,” Emilia urged as she, Enzo, and Stiles tried to lift Derek.
Horns blared louder. Jackson, impatient, got out of his Porsche, leaving Lydia in the passenger seat. Allison also stepped out of her car to see what was causing the gridlock. Emilia commanded Stiles, “Put him in your Jeep.”
Stiles balked, “Him? My Jeep? No way.”
“Stiles!” Emilia snapped. Reluctantly, he helped the twins lift Derek to his feet. As they pushed him into the Jeep, both Jackson and Allison saw Scott, Stiles, and the Cadieuxs trying to get Derek inside. But just as Derek slumped into the passenger seat, he latched onto Scott’s arm, refusing to let go. “I need you to find the same kind of bullet. I have to know what they used.”
Scott raised an eyebrow. “How am I supposed to do that?”
Derek, gritting his teeth against the pain, hissed, “She’s an Argent. She’s with them—”
Scott shot him a deathly glare. “Why should I help you?”
“Because you need me,” Derek retorted.
Emilia rolled her eyes. “Bullshit. Scott, just find it. I know he’s an ass, but he doesn’t deserve to die.”
Stiles slammed the driver’s side door shut. “I hate you for this,” he muttered as people started shouting from their cars for him to move. Shaking his head, Scott relented, “Fine, fine. I’ll try. Get him out of here.”
As Scott pushed Derek’s door shut, Emilia jumped into the back seat of the Jeep. Stiles did a double take. “What are you doing?”
“I’m here to make sure he doesn’t accidentally shift and kill you, and to keep him alive. The twins are going to follow.”
Stiles, exasperated, grumbled, “Why didn’t we put the corpse in your car?”
“Because I don’t want him getting anything on my seats,” Emilia replied matter-of-factly.
Stiles groaned as he pulled out of the parking lot, with the twins following close behind in Emilia’s Land Rover.
~
Scott rushes to the Argent home, arriving at the same time as Allison, who notices his strange behavior. He brushes it off as stress from school. Inside, as they start to get close to Allison's room, Scott's anxiety spikes when his claws begin to appear. He pulls back, worried, but Allison reassures him. Just as they’re about to continue, Scott’s phone rings with a text from Stiles, reminding him of the urgent situation they’re dealing with.
As Stiles drives the Jeep, he glances at his phone when Scott's text comes through: *Need more time.*
In the passenger seat, Derek slumps down, cradling his wounded arm, his face etched with pain.
“Try not to bleed out on my seats, okay? We’re almost there,” Stiles says, his tone laced with condescension.
Derek groans, barely able to muster the energy. “Almost where?”
“Your house.”
Derek shakes his head weakly. “No. You can’t take me there.”
Stiles furrows his brow. “I can’t take you to your house?”
“Not when I can’t protect myself,” Derek mutters, wincing.
From the back seat, Emilia chimes in, her voice calm but assertive. “The twins and I can go with you. You’ll be fine.”
“No!” Derek snaps, his voice strained. “Not my house.”
Stiles slams on the brakes, the Jeep screeching to a halt as the twins skid to a stop behind them. “What happens if Scott doesn’t find your magic bullet? Are you dying?”
“Not yet,” Derek groans, glancing at his arm. “I’ve got a last resort.”
Emilia raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean? What last resort?”
Derek pulls back his sleeve, exposing the gunshot wound. It’s no longer bleeding, but blackened veins are crawling up his arm like vines, spreading toward his elbow.
Stiles recoils, pressing against the driver’s door. “What is that? Is it contagious? Maybe you should just... get out.”
Emilia rolls her eyes and quickly texts the twins to stay on standby, then turns her attention to Stiles, who is visibly losing patience with Derek’s demands. “You really think you’re in any position to give orders? With the way you look right now, I could probably drag your werewolf ass out into the middle of the road and leave you there.”
Derek leans in close, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous glint. “Start the car,” he growls, “or I’ll rip your throat out with my teeth.”
A low growl escapes Emilia, her eyes narrowing at Derek, who raises a brow, surprised by her reaction. His gaze locks back onto Stiles, and reluctantly, Stiles starts the engine.
—
After Scott's call with his friend ended, he noticed a photograph of Allison's aunt, Kate, among her belongings. Allison explained that Kate, who recently arrived due to vague "car trouble," was more like a sister to her. Scott also discovered Allison's past attempts at photography and painting, which she dismisses as failures. However, Allison reveals that she's skilled at archery, having been nationally ranked before losing interest. In the garage, Scott is surprised to find firearms and ammunition but reassured by Allison that her family is not overly obsessed with guns. When Allison’s father, Argent, arrives, Scott is anxious about Derek's condition and tries to leave. However, Kate insists Scott stay for dinner, which Argent agrees to. Scott, feeling a mix of anxiety and resolve, follows Argent inside, hoping to find a way to help Derek.
—
Stiles sat in the parked Jeep, talking on the phone with Scott while the twins and Emilia were crammed in the back seat, listening intently. Stiles, clearly on edge with the number of werewolves in the vehicle, was frustrated with Scott's vague instructions.
“What am I supposed to do with him?” Stiles asked, glancing at Derek, who was slumped in the passenger seat, wincing in pain.
“Take him somewhere. Anywhere,” Scott replied on the other end.
Stiles grimaced. “By the way, he’s starting to smell.”
“Like what?” Scott inquired.
“Like death,” Emilia shouted from the back seat.
“Okay. Take him to the animal clinic,” Scott advised.
Ezra frowned. “What about your boss?”
“He’s gone by now. There’s a spare key in a box behind the dumpster in the back,” Scott explained.
Stiles looked at Derek. “You’re not going to believe where he’s telling me to take you.”
Derek snatched the phone from Stiles. “Did you find it?”
“How the hell am I supposed to find one bullet in a house full of them? It’s like a Walmart for guns,” Scott protested.
“If you don’t find it, I’m dead,” Derek replied flatly.
“I’m starting to think that might not be such a bad thing,” Scott muttered through the phone.
“Then think about this,” Derek said, his tone sharp. “The Alpha is going to call you out again. Next time, you either kill with him or you get killed. You need me. Find the bullet.”
Derek hung up, leaving Stiles visibly troubled. “Is that true? If Scott doesn’t kill with the Alpha, will he die?”
Derek nodded, while Emilia shook her head. The twins sensed the rising tension. “The Alpha will kill Scott if he doesn’t!” Derek shouted at Emilia, who looked visibly annoyed.
“You don’t know the rules of being an Alpha, Derek,” Emilia countered. “The Alpha isn’t going to force Scott to kill anyone. He’ll try to divide him from his current pack instead.”
Stiles looked puzzled. “Scott doesn’t have a pack?”
Emilia leaned back in her seat with a victorious air, while Derek, visibly irritated, leaned against the passenger door.
—
Back at the Argent house Scott, while pretending to look for the bathroom, sneaks into the guest room and finds Kate’s black bag hidden under the bed. Inside, he discovers a steel case filled with bullets, with one missing. As he examines the bullets, his eyes glow yellow, confirming their significance. Noticing an engraved flower on the case, Scott uses a phone app to identify it, but just as the results come up, Allison walks in. He quickly hides the phone, claiming he was just using the bathroom, and leaves while the unfamiliar search results appear on his phone.
—
In the pitch-black night outside, the pack of wolves plus Stiles stood in the dimly lit examination room of the animal clinic. Stiles, distracted by a text message, finally looked up and asked aloud, “Does northern blue monkshood mean anything to you?”
Derek, propped against the wall and barely conscious, opened his eyes slowly. “It’s a rare form of Wolfsbane. Scott has to bring us the bullet.”
“Why?” Stiles asked, his concern evident.
“Because without it,” Derek replied, “I’m dead.”
—
After dinner, Scott tries to leave, but Kate insists he stay for dessert. The conversation turns to animal attacks, with Argent asking Scott about his work at a veterinary clinic and discussing rabies in unsettling detail. Argent describes how rabid dogs go through gradual behavioral changes, eventually becoming uncontrollably vicious. He emphasizes how dangerous these animals become, stating that something so out of control is better off dead. As Scott listens, he notices Kate’s amusement and the tension in the room, making him increasingly uneasy.
—
Derek switches on a light and slowly removes his shirt, revealing a gunshot wound that has worsened significantly. The infection has spread, with veins branching out from the open sores and his arm now a sickly yellow. Stiles, barely holding back his nausea, remarks, “That doesn’t look like something Echinacea and a good night’s sleep will fix.”
Ezra and Enzo frantically rummage through drawers, searching for something, while Emilia, equally desperate, says, “If the infection reaches my heart, it’ll kill me.”
Stiles, trying to lighten the mood, comments, “Positivity must not be in your vocabulary, huh?”
Emilia mutters, “Not really. He’s always been a brooding bat. He’d make a better vampire than a wolf.” Stiles chuckles, but Derek’s annoyance and fatigue grow evident.
“If he doesn’t get here with the bullet in time,” Derek says, “we’ll have to resort to last measures.”
Stiles asks, “Which are?”
Enzo, pulling a heavy Electric Bone Saw from a drawer, says grimly, “I’m going to have to cut off his arm.”
—
After a painfully awkward dinner, Allison apologizes to Scott, but their moment is interrupted by Kate, who accuses Scott of taking something from her bag. As tensions rise, Kate demands Scott prove his innocence by emptying his pockets. Before things escalate, Allison steps in, claiming it was her who went through the bag, not Scott. She pulls out a condom, shocking everyone, including her father, Argent. Scott, bewildered by the situation, leaves the house, but as he pedals away on his bike, he starts to realize what Allison had in mind, and it makes him smile.
—
Back at the clinic, Emilia tightens a tourniquet around Derek’s arm as Enzo prepares the saw, ready to cut at any moment. Ezra, on the brink of sickness, exits the examination room, unable to handle the sight of the anticipated blood. Stiles, still inside, begins to panic. “What if he bleeds to death?”
Derek, with a strained look, responds, “It’ll heal if it works.”
Stiles, growing increasingly nauseous, says, “I don’t know if I can handle this.”
Emilia, trying to calm him, says, “Stiles, you don’t have to be here. Enzo and I can manage. You should sit in the hall with Ezra.”
Stiles, visibly shocked, asks, “How can you be so calm? Cutting through flesh, sawing bone, and all this blood—it’s incredibly traumatic.”
Derek, with a smirk, retorts, “You faint at the sight of blood?” earning a painful jab from Emilia and Enzo.
Ignoring Derek’s groan, Stiles replies, “No, but I might at the sight of a severed arm.” Derek threatens, “Either you shut up or I’ll rip off your head.”
Before Emilia can respond, Stiles shoots back, “I’m not scared of your threats anymore.” Derek then grabs Stiles by the collar. “Okay, okay, I’ll do it. I’ll do it.” Derek releases him but starts gasping, choking, and coughing. He doubles over, and instead of vomit, an inky black liquid spills across the floor.
Enzo, dismayed, says, “Great, I really liked these shoes,” as he looks at his white sneakers covered in the dark liquid.
Stiles, horrified, exclaims, “What the hell is that?”
Emilia, her face filled with worry, explains, “His body is trying to heal.”
Stiles, troubled by the sight, responds, “It doesn’t look like it’s doing a very good job.” Derek, with glowing blue eyes, looks up at Emilia and says, “You have to do this now.” He drags himself up and places his infected arm on the examining table.
Stiles, sickened by the spreading infection on Derek’s arm, mutters, “Oh God…”
Enzo, sweating and with a deep breath, places the edge of the blade just above the furthest-reaching infected vein. He squeezes his eyes shut, ready to start, when Scott’s voice is heard outside the room.
Scott bursts through the door, his eyes widening in shock as he sees Enzo preparing to saw off Derek’s arm. “What the hell are you doing?”
Stiles, visibly relieved, exclaims, “You just saved us from a lifetime of nightmares.”
Derek, groaning in pain on the table, asks, “Did you get it?”
Scott holds up the bullet. Derek grabs it, examining it in the light. “What are you going to do?” Scott starts to falter, “I’m going to… I’m going to…” He collapses, the bullet slipping from his hand and rolling across the floor.
Scott scrambles after it. “No, no, no–” The bullet falls through a metal grate and into a drain. Kneeling, Scott tries to reach it but can’t get his fingers around it. Meanwhile, Emilia desperately tries to rouse Derek.
“Derek? Derek, wake up! Scott, what the hell are you doing?”
“I don’t know— the bullet— I can’t reach it—” Scott’s frustration is palpable as Emilia, holding Derek’s limp body, is overwhelmed with distress. Enzo, hearing his sister’s racing heart, calls out, “Ezra!”
Ezra bursts through the door, his face tense with worry. “Help Emilia get out of here.”
Emilia, shaking, takes a deep breath. “I’m fine. I’ve got him.”
Stiles, seeing Emilia’s trembling hands, moves to her side. “I’ve got him. You go.”
He gently pries her hands from Derek as Ezra pulls her away. Once Emilia is out of the room, Stiles yells at Scott, “He’s not waking up!”
Scott, still trying to reach the bullet, struggles as the metal grate obstructs his efforts. Enzo, battling the growing infection, shouts, “Scott! He’s dying!”
“Just hold on,” Scott grits his teeth and pushes down. His fingernails begin to sharpen into claws, giving him just enough reach to retrieve the bullet. “I got it!” Scott exclaims triumphantly.
Stiles, glancing at Derek, mutters, “Please don’t kill me for this,” and punches Derek in the face. As Stiles reels back, clutching his hand, Derek’s eyes flutter open.
“Give it to me,” Derek demands. Scott tosses Derek the bullet, who then cracks it open. He pulls out a lighter and ignites the contents. As the wolfsbane burns, Derek grinds the smoldering ashes into his wound, wincing in pain.
Derek collapses back to his knees, revealing his sharpened fangs. Stiles, Enzo, and Scott step back, their faces filled with concern. Down the hall, the dogs bark wildly, adding to the chaos.
Derek tilts his head back and unleashes an ear-piercing, earth-shattering scream of agony. Emilia and Ezra burst through the door just as Derek collapsed, his sweat-soaked body hitting the cold cement floor. His arm falls limply at his side. Within moments, the open sores close, and his wounds begin to heal, returning to normal.
Scott and Stiles exchange incredulous glances. Stiles, still stunned, says, “That. Was. Awesome.”
Derek’s eyes blink open, and he pushes himself up from the floor, catching his breath. Enzo and Ezra help him to his feet. Scott asks, “Are you okay?”
Derek groans, “Aside from the excruciating pain.”
Stiles interjects, “Sarcasm must mean you’re feeling better.”
Derek grabs his shirt and pulls it back on. Scott narrows his eyes. “We just saved your life. That means you’re going to leave us alone. Got it? Or I’ll go back to Allison’s dad and tell him everything.”
Derek, menacingly close to Scott, retorts, “You trust them? You think they can help you?” His reference is to the Argents.
The Cadieuxs and Stiles watch the tense exchange between McCall and Hale. Stiles chimes in, “Why not? They’re a lot nicer than you.”
Derek’s anger flares. “I can show you just how nice they are.”
Emilia, sensing the rising tension, interjects, “Okay, I think that’s our cue to leave.” She grabs Stiles by the back of his collar.
“Wait—” Stiles begins, but Emilia pulls him toward the door, signaling their need to exit.
~
The Cadieuxs pile into Stiles' Jeep, and the twins pass out in the back seat, exhausted from the day’s chaos. Emilia sits in the passenger seat, staring out the window.
“So…” Stiles breaks the silence, his voice low.
“Don’t,” Emilia cuts him off sharply, her gaze fixed outside.
“Are we really not going to talk about it?” Stiles presses, a hint of annoyance in his tone.
Emilia starts bouncing her leg and fiddling with the pendant around her neck.
“No.”
“Emilia, come on. I just want to know if you’re okay.”
“I’m fine, Stiles.”
“You’re not.”
“How would you know?” she retorts, condescendingly.
“Your leg is bouncing, and you keep fiddling with your hands. I know the signs better than anyone.”
Emilia stops her movements, trying to shake off her anxiety.
“Stiles, please, drop it.”
Stiles glances at her as he pulls up next to the Land Rover parked on an abandoned road. He sees the fear in Emilia’s eyes, though she tries to mask it.
“Okay. I’m dropping it,” he says.
Emilia turns to face him, relief in her eyes. “Thank you. We can talk about this later.” She then glances at the twins in the back seat, a small smile touching her lips.
“Guys! Let’s go,” she commands, startling the twins awake. They grumble as they exit the Jeep and head toward the other SUV.
“See you later, Stilinski!” Emilia calls out as she gets into her vehicle and drives away.
~
That night, Stiles was overwhelmed with questions about the Argents, Ezra's fear of blood, and Emilia’s connection to Derek. Meanwhile, Emilia struggled with her haunting memories.
At Beacon Hills Hospital, Derek leads Scott to a dark room where Peter Hale, Derek’s uncle, is in a wheelchair with severe burn scars. Derek reveals that Peter was the sole survivor of a fire caused by the Argents, who knew about their werewolf family. Derek blames the Argents for the fire, despite their claims of only targeting adults with proof. As they discuss Peter's tragic fate and the threat to Allison, a nurse named Jennifer interrupts them. Derek and Scott leave, with Jennifer watching them curiously.
~
Chris Argent sits in the living room, his gaze fixed on Kate as she paces in front of the fireplace, flicking a lighter in her hand, her expression intense.
“The one that attacked me was big. It had width and power,” Kate says, her voice measured. “The one I shot was lean and fast—"
"That would be Derek Hale," Argent interrupts.
Kate pauses, considering. "Are we sure?"
Argent nods slightly. "Mostly."
Without lighting it yet, Kate twists the pilot valve on the fireplace, letting gas hiss out into the room.
"And we’re sure it’s just the two of them?" she asks.
"Not yet," Argent replies. "But if Derek’s alive, he’ll lead us to the Alpha."
Kate smirks, her eyes glinting with the firelight she has yet to ignite. "Take the pack leader, then take the pack."
The gas continues to hiss ominously as Kate holds back from striking the lighter. Argent’s voice cuts through the tension.
“And we do it according to the code.”
Kate rolls her eyes, her patience thin. "You and the code."
"It’s there for a reason," Argent insists, his voice firm.
Kate sighs, finally striking the match and tossing it into the fireplace. The gas ignites in a fiery explosion, casting an eerie glow around the room.
“I always play by the rules,” Kate adds with a twisted smile, her face illuminated by the fireball, her tone anything but reassuring.
Lightning cracked and thunder boomed outside the old, elegant home as rain slid down the windows. Inside, the Cadieux siblings wrestled in the living area, their playful energy filling the room. Selene, seated on the piano bench, gently tapped the ivory keys, a soft melody echoing through the house. The music caught her children's attention, their heads suddenly peeking over the armchair, captivated by the serene sight of their mother playing.
As Selene lifted her hands, the music stopped. "Come sit. I’ll show you," she invited. Enzo, curiosity blooming, quickly ran over and sat on her right, with Ezra on her left. Emilia stood beside the piano, watching intently. Bright eyes focused as their mother carefully pressed a few keys, creating a simple tune. “Watch closely, Enzo,” she said, repeating the melody. “Now, you try.”
Nervous but eager, Enzo placed his small hands on the keys, hesitating before attempting to mimic the tune. “It’s all right, dear. Try again.” On his second attempt, he got it right. “Very good, pup! Now play that again, and I’ll join in.”
As Enzo’s hands played the melody repeatedly, Selene began to weave musical pieces around it. The siblings’ eyes sparkled as the melody grew into what they considered a masterpiece. Just then, another bolt of lightning echoed through the night.
~
Enzo awoke with a scream, pressing the heels of his palms into his tear-filled eyes as the remnants of a dream played over in his mind. The sound of barreling footsteps echoed down the hall, and the door burst open to reveal Emilia and Ezra, both messy-haired and half-awake, breathing heavily. Ezra was in his signature silk pajamas, and Emilia wore athletic shorts and an oversized tee.
“Oh, thank goodness, you’re okay,” Emilia gasped, clutching her chest as she caught her breath.
“Another bad dream?” Ezra asked, walking over to turn on the lamp on Enzo’s nightstand.
“No, it was a good one, but... I don’t know, it hurts to remember. It feels like there’s always going to be this emptiness.”
Emilia grabbed a shirt hanging on the back of Enzo’s door and tossed it to him before settling beside him on the bed. “What was the dream?”
Tears welled up in Enzo’s eyes again. “She was teaching me piano. I can still smell her—vanilla and shea—and feel her soft hands guiding mine on the keys.”
Emilia leaned her head on his shoulder, while Ezra lay horizontally across the bed, looking at his twin with sad eyes. “I’m sorry, Zo. I miss them too. We all do. It will get better, I promise. We’ll go home soon.”
Enzo squeezed his sister’s hand tightly. “Don’t make a promise you don’t know if you can keep.”
The siblings fell silent, each lost in thoughts of home. It had been so long since they’d seen it. They wondered if the mansion was still standing if it had been destroyed during Katrina, or if it was now occupied by others. The thought of home weighed heavily on their minds, but they tried to stay hopeful.
“It’s late,” Emilia said softly, “let’s try to get some sleep.”
But before they could settle, a howl echoed in the night.
“Nope, nope. I’m going back to bed. That bullshit is a tomorrow thing,” Ezra declared, pointing dramatically out the window as he headed to his room. “Goodnight!”
Emilia chuckled. “He’s serious when it comes to sleep.”
Enzo laughed. “Have you seen him take a nap in class and get woken up by a teacher? I thought he was going to shift right there and kill the poor guy.”
Emilia shook her head with a sigh. “I can't deal with you two. Goodnight, Enzo. And remember, it's okay to miss them. You don't always have to be the strong one—you can let yourself cry.”
Enzo smirked. “Says the pot to the kettle.”
“Whatever,” Emilia chuckled, giving him a playful nudge before crawling back into her bed.
~
That morning in the school parking lot, the Cadieux siblings climbed out of the Land Rover. Enzo’s head hung low, his mood somber after the events of the previous night, a stark contrast to his usual self. Ezra, with a sad smile, patted his back as they walked toward the school. Suddenly, the sharp scent of blood filled Ezra’s nose.
“Lia,” he whispered, his face tightening with worry.
Emilia followed his gaze to the bus lot, where police tape cordoned off one of the school buses. Enzo’s eyes widened as he caught the scent too. “Blood. Everywhere.”
The siblings rushed over, watching Sheriff Stilinski and his deputies oversee a lab tech examining the bus’s rear door, which hung precariously from its hinges.
“There’s so much,” Ezra murmured, his body shivering as anxiety gripped him. Noticing his twin’s sudden distress, Enzo quickly grabbed Ezra’s arm, nodding to Emilia before pulling him away from the scene.
Emilia scanned the crowd, catching sight of Scott and Stiles, their faces pale with fear before they hurried inside. She would deal with them later; right now, Ezra was her priority.
In a secluded corner of the high school’s corridors, Ezra sat on the floor with his back against the wall, struggling to catch his breath. Enzo sat beside him, worry clawing at him as his brother’s panic spiraled. This wasn’t the first time Ezra had reacted this way to blood—it triggered memories of the massacre they’d survived. Enzo looked up, relief washing over him as Emilia came rushing down the hall.
“I’ve tried everything,” Enzo said, his voice edged with fear. “His usual grounding techniques aren’t working. He’s about to lose it.”
Emilia knelt in front of Ezra, gently pulling his hand away from his face where he’d been hiding. “Ezra, it’s me. It’s Lia. You’re going to be okay.” She brushed her fingers across his palm, trying to anchor him. “See? I’m right here. Enzo is right here. I need you to take a deep breath for me.”
But Ezra remained trapped in his panic, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Enzo’s eyes were filled with fear as he looked at Emilia, desperate for her to find a way to help.
Out of ideas, Emilia glanced down the hall before cupping Ezra’s face in her hands, forcing him to look directly at her. Her eyes flashed red as she spoke in a low, commanding voice, “Breathe. Please, Ezra. Breathe, dammit.”
Ezra’s eyes flickered yellow, then returned to their usual dark hazel as he took a deep, steadying breath. His siblings exhaled in relief, and Enzo quickly pulled him into a tight hug.
“Dude! You scared the hell out of me.”
Ezra, sweat beading on his forehead, hugged his brother back. “It’s never been this bad before.”
As Enzo released him, he turned to Emilia, hoping she could explain what had just happened.
“Ezra,” Emilia began, her voice gentle but firm, “you have PTSD. Blood triggers you, and seeing that massacre brought back those memories.”
Exhausted from the emotional strain of the morning, the trio stood together, drained. Emilia glanced at her black leather watch before making a decision. “You’re both going home.”
The twins looked at her in surprise. “What?”
“Enzo, you’re going to drive both of you home,” Emilia said, tossing her keys to him.
Ezra rolled his eyes, still visibly shaken. “Emilia, I’m fine.”
“You are absolutely not fine,” Emilia snapped, her voice sharp with concern. “Neither of you are. Enzo, you’re exhausted and depressed from last night, and Ezra, you just had a full-blown panic attack. I don’t need either of you losing control today. So, please, go home and rest.”
The twins exchanged a look before nodding in agreement. They grabbed their bags off the floor and headed for the exit, leaving Emilia to drag her hands over her face in frustration as she made her way to class.
~
In chemistry class, Emilia sits at a lab table behind Scott and Stiles, her usual lab partner absent, still recovering from an episode. Mr. Harris, the teacher, writes chemical reactions on the board while Scott and Stiles whisper urgently to each other, trying to keep their voices low so Emilia doesn’t overhear—but she does.
“Maybe it was my blood on the door?” Scott whispers.
“Could be animal blood,” Stiles suggests. “Like maybe you caught a rabbit or something?”
“And did what?” Scott asks, incredulous.
“I don’t know. Ate it,” Stiles replies.
“Raw?”
“No, you stopped to bake it in a little werewolf oven. How should I know? You’re the one who can’t remember anything.”
Mr. Harris's sharp voice cuts through their conversation. “Mr. Stilinski, if that’s your idea of a whisper, you might want to pull the earphones out once in a while. I think you and Mr. McCall would benefit from a little distance. Yes?” He points to two empty seats on opposite sides of the classroom. With a sigh, Scott and Stiles stand and move to their new spots. Scott ends up at a lab desk in front of Jackson, while Stiles finds himself next to Emilia. He shoots her a quick smile, which she greets with an eye roll.
Mr. Harris continues, “Let me know if the separation anxiety gets to be too much.”
As he turns back to the board, Harley, a girl from their class, suddenly exclaims, “Hey, look! They found something!”
The entire class rushes to the window, even Mr. Harris, to see what’s happening outside. An ambulance is parked by the edge of the woods. Two EMTs emerge from the trees, pushing a gurney with a man’s body strapped to it.
“That’s not a rabbit,” Emilia says, her voice low. Scott and Stiles turn to her, wide-eyed, realizing she has been listening the entire time.
Outside, just as the gurney rolls toward the ambulance, the body on it suddenly lurches upright, and the entire classroom erupts in screams. As the EMTs hurriedly restrain the man, Scott steps back from the others, stunned and devastated.
“This is good. He’s not dead. He got up. A dead guy can’t do that,” Stiles says, trying to reassure himself as much as Scott.
Scott, his voice trembling, says, “Stiles... I did that.”
Emilia's eyes widen in shock. “What do you mean you did that?”
**Lunch trays in hand,** Emilia, Stiles, and Scott navigated the crowded cafeteria, searching for an open table. Scott’s frustration bubbled over as they sat down. “Dreams aren’t memories,” he insisted.
“That’s not true,” Emilia interjected, irritation seeping into her voice. Scott ignored her, which only annoyed her more. “Then it wasn’t a dream,” he said, his voice tense. “Something happened last night, and I can’t remember what.”
As they settled at the table, Stiles leaned in. “How are you so sure Derek has all the answers?”
Scott lowered his voice, glancing around before speaking. “Because, on the full moon, he wasn’t changed. He was in total control. Meanwhile, I’m out there attacking some innocent guy.”
Emilia, sitting across from Stiles, shot Scott a pointed look. “Excuse me! Someone else knows how to control themselves, too. Who, you ask? Oh, right—me!”
Ever the peacekeeper, Stiles asked, “Why are you sitting with us again?”
“The twins aren’t feeling well, so it’s just me,” Emilia explained, leaning back in her seat. “And Allison invited me to join you guys for lunch anyway.”
Stiles furrowed his brow. “So, werewolves can get sick?”
“Of course, we can get sick,” Emilia replied, rolling her eyes.
Scott, desperate to steer the conversation back to his problem, sighed. “Look, I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t go out with Allison. I have to cancel.”
“No, you don’t,” Stiles countered firmly. “You can’t cancel your entire life. We’ll figure this out.”
Emilia shrugged, taking a bite of her food. “He has a point.” Then she made a face as if surprised by her own words. “Did I just say that?”
Stiles grinned at her, a bit too pleased. “Yes, yes you did.”
At that moment, Lydia slid into the seat next to him, her tray clattering onto the table. Stiles froze, a French fry halfway to his lips. Lydia was sitting with them. Voluntarily. He leaned over to whisper to Scott, “Why is she sitting with us?”
Scott could only shrug as Allison approached, prompting him to quickly remove his backpack from the seat he’d been saving for her.
Stiles still held the French fry, now watching with growing disbelief as Lydia’s friends, one of Jackson’s lacrosse teammates, and Danny joined them at the table. Looking at the pretty girl sitting to his left, Stiles flashed her a broad smile. She smiled back. Then, turning to his right, he offered the same smile to Danny, who gave him a look that clearly said, “In your dreams.” Emilia, observing Stiles’s antics, rolled her eyes but couldn’t help a small smile at his goofiness.
Everyone was content, enjoying their food until Jackson appeared, his expression dark. He glared at his teammate. “Get up.”
“Why don’t you ever ask Danny to get up?” the teammate challenged.
“Because I don’t stare at his girlfriend’s coin slot,” Danny quipped, causing the teammate to grab his tray and move.
Jackson took his seat next to Lydia and Danny, his gaze fixed on Emilia. “Since when did you start hanging out with normal people, Cadieux? Where’s that security detail that constantly follows you around?”
Emilia met Jackson’s stare with an emotionless expression, her silence making him squirm in his seat.
“She’s my lab partner. I invited her to lunch,” Stiles said, trying to defuse the tension.
Jackson made a dismissive sound, and Danny quickly attempted to change the subject. “So, they’re saying it’s an animal attack. Probably a cougar.”
“I heard mountain lion,” Jackson muttered.
“A cougar is a mountain lion, isn’t it?” Lydia corrected him, pretending to be uncertain.
“Who cares?” Jackson said with a sneer. “The guy’s probably some homeless tweaker who’s going to die anyway.”
Stiles, scrolling on his phone, suddenly spoke up. “Actually, I just found out who he is.”
Everyone turned to him, curious. “Check this out,” Stiles said, showing them a news report on his phone. Only Lydia and Emilia stayed where they were, indifferent. The news anchor’s voice filled the air, “--identified the victim of the possible animal attack as Garrison Meyers–”
“I know that guy,” Scott said, his voice tinged with shock. “He was my bus driver back when I lived at my dad’s place.”
Lydia interrupted, clearly bored with the conversation. “Can we talk about something more fun, please? Like where we’re going tomorrow night?”
Scott and Allison snapped their heads towards Lydia. “You said you and Scott were hanging out tomorrow, right?” Lydia asked, her tone casual but her words causing alarm bells to ring in Scott’s head. He glanced over to see Stiles shaking his head emphatically and Emilia stifling a laugh.
Allison, caught off guard, stammered, “We were thinking of… what were we going to do?”
“We hadn’t decided,” Scott answered, trying to play it cool.
“Well, I’m not sitting at home watching lacrosse videos again,” Lydia declared. “If the four of us are hanging out, let’s pick something fun.”
“Hanging out? The four of us?” Scott repeated, his voice tinged with disbelief.
Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “When the hell were you going to tell me about this?”
Scott turned to Allison, his confusion evident. “You want to hang out? The four of us? You and me? And them?”
Allison, trying to salvage the situation, nodded. “Sure. Sounds fun.”
Scott glanced at Stiles and Emilia, both still shaking their heads in warning. Jackson then muttered loudly, “You know what else sounds fun? Stabbing myself in the face with this fork.”
“Oh, come on, Jackson,” Lydia said, rolling her eyes. “How about bowling? You love to bowl.”
“Yeah, but with actual competition,” Jackson shot back.
Allison raised an eyebrow, challenging him. “How do you know we’re not competition?” She then turned to Scott. “You can bowl, right?”
“Sort of,” Scott replied hesitantly.
“Sort of? Or yes?” Jackson demanded.
Scott’s glare hardened. “Yes. In fact…” As Stiles buried his face in his hands, Scott added, “I’m a great bowler.”
Now in the hallway, Scott slams his head against his locker in frustration. Stiles yells at him, “You’re a terrible bowler!”
“I know! I’m such an idiot,” Scott groans.
“It was like watching a car wreck. First, it turns into a group date. Then out of nowhere comes that phrase—”
“Hanging out,” Scott finishes with a grimace.
“You don’t ‘hang out’ with a hot girl. It’s social suicide. Once it’s hanging out, you might as well be her gay best friend. You and Danny can start hanging out.”
Emilia chimes in, looking between them, “Wow, you two are more dramatic than Ezra when he gets his shoes dirty.”
But the boys are on a roll. “How is this happening?” Scott frets. “I either nearly killed a bus driver, or I didn’t.”
Stiles goes off on a tangent, “I don’t think Danny likes me.” Emilia shoots him a look as Scott continues, “I asked Allison on a date, but now we’re just hanging out.”
Stiles’s ADHD is at its peak. “Am I not attractive to gay guys?”
Emilia pats his shoulder, “No, you totally are.”
Scott keeps spiraling. “I made first line, but the team captain wants to destroy me. And now? Now I’m going to be late for work.” He yanks his bag out of his locker and tears off down the hall, leaving Stiles and Emilia behind.
Stiles turns to Emilia. “You really think so?”
Emilia sighs, rubbing her temples. “Stiles, what the hell are we even talking about?”
He shrugs, “You’re the one still here.”
“Yeah, because I need a ride.”
“Where’s your car?”
“The boys drove themselves home this morning.”
Stiles smirks, “You need me to give you a ride?”
“Yes.”
“To your house?”
“Yes.”
“I get to see where you live?”
“Don’t make me regret this, Stilinski.”
“Of course not. Your chariot awaits,” Stiles replies, grinning as he opens the passenger door of his Jeep.
~
“Turn left here,” Emilia instructed, guiding Stiles toward her house. He raised an eyebrow as he followed the road deeper into the woods. “You live way out by the reserve.”
Emilia gazed out the window, watching the trees blur by. “Yeah, it’s nice and hidden. You’re the only one who’s ever been out here.”
Stiles shot her a suspicious look. “You’re not trying to bring me to a secluded area to rip my throat out, are you?”
Emilia laughed, the sound making Stiles’s heart race. “Stiles, if I wanted to kill you, I would’ve done it a long time ago.”
Her teasing tone caught him off guard, and his heartbeat quickened even more. Noticing his tight grip on the steering wheel, Emilia touched his shoulder gently. “Stiles, that was a joke.”
He let out a nervous chuckle. “Y-yeah, I knew that.”
Emilia leaned back in her seat, her curiosity piqued by his reaction. Just then, her house came into view. “There it is, on the right!”
Stiles wasn’t prepared for what he saw as he pulled into the driveway—a sleek, contemporary-style two-story house in black, gray, and wood accents. His jaw dropped as he parked the Jeep. “This is your house?”
Emilia began gathering her things. “Yeah, my parents built it as a vacation home since we visited Beacon Hills so often. Now, it’s what we call home.” The last word carried a bitter edge.
Stiles noticed the change in her expression and couldn’t help asking, “Where are your parents? I only saw the Land Rover.”
“Dead,” a voice answered from outside, startling Stiles so badly that he nearly jumped out of his seat. Enzo stood menacingly beside the driver’s side window.
“Dude!” Stiles exclaimed, his heart pounding. “Also, sorry.”
Emilia giggled at her brother’s antics. “Thanks for the ride, Stilinski. I’ll give you gas money tomorrow or something.”
As she started walking away, Enzo called out, “See ya, Stilinski!”
Feeling a little guilty about making Stiles drive out there, Emilia turned back. “STILES! WAIT!”
He stopped and turned around.
“Do you want to have dinner with us?” she asked, a hopeful look in her eyes.
Stiles stepped out of his Jeep, walking over to stand in the middle of their walkway. “Did you just ask me if I wanted to have dinner with a bunch of werewolves?”
Emilia smiled, “I did.”
Enzo, watching the interaction, was confused as to why his sister was inviting this boy into their home but couldn’t be too upset if it was making her smile again. Stiles glanced at his watch, then back at Emilia. “Why not?”
Once inside, Stiles was awestruck. The entry hall opened into a spacious area with dark hardwood floors and textured gray walls. The first thing that caught his eye was the dining nook, furnished with dark walnut pieces. The kitchen, with its black cabinets and butcher block countertops, sat adjacent, and the living room featured a brown antique leather couch and matching armchairs. Vintage paintings adorned the walls alongside old childhood photos, giving the house a warm, lived-in feel.
“Your home is beautiful,” Stiles said, still taking it all in.
Ezra, who had been descending the stairs with a book in hand, closed it with a soft thud. “If you think this is magnificent, you should have seen our childhood home.”
Stiles couldn’t stop himself from absorbing every detail, knowing this might be his only chance to see the inside of the Cadieux home.
Emilia dropped her bag on the dining table and headed to the kitchen. Stiles took a seat at the kitchen island next to Enzo, watching as she rummaged through the fridge.
“Stiles, do you have any food allergies?” Emilia asked, glancing back at him.
Stiles stammered out a “no.”
“Great, because we’re making étouffée!” Emilia announced, still searching through the fridge.
“Bless you,” Stiles replied, looking bewildered.
Enzo smirked. “Étouffée. It’s a Creole dish. Lia’s the cook in the family, so she knows how to make all our mom’s old recipes.”
Ezra, who had settled back with his book, reassured Stiles, “Don’t worry, you’ll like it.”
“Ezra!” Emilia called out from the kitchen. “Can you find a record, please?”
Ezra got up from the couch, heading to a shelf filled with old records. He selected one and placed it on the turntable, filling the room with the soft melodies of Beethoven.
“She has to have music playing while she cooks,” Ezra explained to Stiles.
“I don’t see a problem with that. My mom was the same way,” Stiles said with a smile, glancing over at Emilia. The twins exchanged a knowing look, catching the subtle admiration in Stiles’s eyes.
As Emilia cooked, she tried to keep up with the conversation, “Stiles, be honest. How is Scott doing?”
Stiles sighed, fidgeting with the string of his jacket. “He’s prideful yet humble. I don’t know, but he seems to think only Derek has the answers he’s looking for.”
Ezra laughed, “Derek? What could that brooding dog possibly know about controlling his werewolf side? All he knows is anger.”
Stiles gestured toward Ezra, “EXACTLY!”
Enzo raised an eyebrow, “Then why haven’t you tried to get Scott to listen to us?”
Stiles began to stumble over his words, but Emilia stepped in just in time. “Boys, be nice. Dinner’s ready.”
As they moved to the dining table, the twins sat together on one side while Emilia and Stiles sat on the other. The house filled with the soft sounds of classical music and the clinking of silverware as they ate.
“So, Stiles, what do you think?” Emilia asked, watching him take another bite.
“This is amazing,” Stiles replied, scarfing down more of the food.
Enzo chuckled, “Good thing Emilia can cook. There’s not a single place in this town with decent ethnic food.”
Ezra nodded in agreement, his mouth full.
Having Stiles over was a rare treat for the Cadieux siblings, bringing a refreshing change to their usual routine. As they sat around the dinner table, Stiles casually asked the question everyone in Beacon Hills had been curious about: “So what made you guys move here?”
The question hung in the air, and the room grew tense. The siblings exchanged glances, the atmosphere suddenly thick with unspoken memories. Ezra, still rattled from the morning’s events, felt his hands begin to tremble. Sensing his brother’s unease, Enzo gently patted Ezra’s back, offering silent reassurance.
Emilia cleared her throat, breaking the silence. “Our parents died when we were little. The only family we had left were the Hales. Laura took us in, helped us get back on our feet until I was old enough to take over.” Her voice softened, but there was a steely resolve behind her words. “That also means doing everything in our power to keep our family under the radar—no reason for anyone to look too closely at us, whether it’s teachers, other parents, or the police.”
Ezra, his voice tinged with bitterness, interjected, “The Hales left when Emilia turned fourteen. They abandoned us. All we had left was this house, in a town that treats us like a sickness.”
Emilia’s gaze fell to her plate, her expression solemn. “Stiles, you can’t possibly understand what my siblings and I have been through, or the sacrifices we’ve made to stay safe. I’m asking you to keep our home a secret. What we share here stays here.”
Stiles felt a chill run down his spine, the weight of Emilia’s words settling in. He wanted to know more about them, especially about her, but something told him not to push any further.
After that, the dinner continued as if nothing had happened, with light conversation and a more relaxed atmosphere. But the underlying tension lingered, a reminder of the secrets that still lay hidden. As the evening wore on, Stiles received a call from Scott and had to leave in a hurry, the Cadieux home fading behind him like a shadowy enigma.
Not long after Stiles left, Ezra and Enzo exchanged knowing glances, their eyebrows raised. Emilia caught their looks and smirked, “What?”
“Oh, nothing,” Ezra said, leaning against the wall as Emilia began putting away the leftovers. “Just surprised that you of all people invited someone over, especially when the first rule since we moved here was no one’s allowed in our house.”
Enzo chimed in, finishing his twin’s thought, “And more surprising, that someone being Stiles Stilinski.”
Emilia rolled her eyes, “I felt bad making him drive out here, so the least I could do was invite him to dinner. Besides, we need to gain his trust. Through him, we can get to Scott.”
Enzo and Ezra exchanged another look, both raising their eyebrows with a hint of amusement.
Emilia noticed and frowned. “Stop making faces at each other. What’s with those smirks?”
Ezra casually grabbed a grape from the fridge, “You like him. Stilinski.”
Emilia’s eyes widened in shock. “I do not!”
“Sure…” Enzo replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
~
That evening, Scott and Stiles returned to their high school, where a police tape surrounded the bloodied school bus from earlier that morning. As Scott began climbing the fence, he paused and told Stiles to keep watch. Frustrated, Stiles questioned why he was always on the lookout, comparing their dynamic to Batman and Robin. Scott dismissed the comparison and continued over the fence, leaving Stiles behind.
Scott approached the bus, its damaged door triggering memories. He recalled a nightmare where he was in a semi-werewolf state, hearing a distant howl, and seeing his eyes glowing yellow. Back in the present, Scott entered the bus, where blood splattered the seats and windows. As he moved down the aisle, he vividly remembered the bus driver being attacked and a clawed hand slashing at him.
Suddenly, a security guard interrupted his thoughts, forcing Scott to escape by leaping over the fence. Stiles, waiting in the Jeep, watched in awe as Scott landed perfectly. Scott jumped into the Jeep, and Stiles sped away, questioning if Scott remembered what happened. Scott confirmed he was there that night and realized much of the blood was his own. However, he remembered seeing glowing eyes on the bus—Derek’s, not his. Stiles theorized that it might have been a pack initiation, but Scott’s relief came from knowing he wasn’t a killer, meaning he could still go out with Allison. The scene ended with Stiles joking that Scott wouldn’t kill him either.
~
Allison, frustrated with her wardrobe choices, tries on several outfits in front of her mirror, only to receive Lydia’s scathing critiques. Finally, Lydia pulls out a sleek black ensemble from the closet, and Allison reluctantly agrees. As they discuss the outfit, Argent barges in, informing Allison that she has to stay in due to a curfew imposed after a dangerous animal attack.
Determined not to miss out, Allison quickly climbs out the window onto the roof and executes a flawless backflip to the lawn below. Lydia, impressed but cautious, opts to take the stairs.
At the bowling alley, Lydia and Jackson prepare while Scott and Allison select their balls. Scott admits he hasn’t bowled since he was a child, making him nervous. Lydia struggles but manages to knock down a few pins. Jackson, reveling in his skill, taunts Scott, who is having a rough time.
Scott’s first two throws land in the gutter, prompting laughter from Jackson. Despite Allison’s attempts to boost Scott’s morale, Jackson’s mocking continues. Allison steps in with an unexpected and provocative suggestion: she tells Scott to imagine her naked. The bold comment surprises everyone and seems to give Scott the confidence he needs.
Meanwhile, at a gas station, Derek is filling his tank when Argent and two hunters approach him. In a bizarre turn, Argent starts cleaning Derek’s windshield with a squeegee while making cryptic remarks about cherishing what you love and your family. The tension rises as Argent orders a hunter to check Derek’s oil after smashing a window, but Derek remains composed and unflinching.
Back at the bowling alley, Scott, now more focused and self-assured, bowls a perfect strike. The group erupts in cheers, with Allison looking on with satisfaction, having successfully given Scott the mental edge he needed.
As the hunters drive away, Argent offers Derek a chilling farewell, advising him to drive safely. Derek is left to ponder the night’s unsettling and enigmatic events.
At the Cadieux home, Emilia lay in bed, her gaze fixed on the ceiling as she replayed her brothers' words from the previous night. Meanwhile, at his own home, Stiles reflected on the events from his visit with the Cadieux family, his mind revisiting the evening’s conversations and encounters.
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