The Witch Vol.1 - Werewolves

On a Saturday evening, Scott and Stiles wandered beneath the almost perfectly round glow of the moon, the full moon just a day away. Stiles, the leaner of the two, carried a rucksack slung over his shoulder, the clinking of glass bottles faintly audible with each step. Scott, broader and more reserved, trailed behind, casting wary glances at their surroundings as they ventured past an antiquated, long-abandoned playground at the reserve's edge. The odd light of a working streetlamp bathed the eerie scene, guiding them deeper into the woods.

"Where are we going?" Scott asked, uncertainty creasing his face, the atmosphere evoking memories of the B-grade horror flicks Stiles loved to watch.

"You'll see," Stiles responded with a cryptic smile, pushing onward.

"We shouldn't be here. My mom's still freaking out about what happened at school."

"Be glad she's not the Sheriff. Trust me, there's no comparison," Stiles retorted, his tone light but his pace unwavering.

"Can you at least tell me what we're doing out here?"

"When your best friend gets dumped..." Stiles began, his voice tinged with faux wisdom.

"I didn't get dumped. We're taking a break," Scott interrupted, as if trying to convince himself more than Stiles.

"When your best friend gets told by his girlfriend that they're 'taking a break'..." Stiles corrected with emphasis, pulling a bottle of Jack Daniels from his rucksack. "You get your best friend drunk."

They settled near a makeshift campsite, igniting a fire in a metal barrel. The bottle made its way between them, each boy taking turns swigging from it. Stiles succumbed to the alcohol's effects faster than his werewolf friend, who sat stoically, immune to its influence. Within an hour, Stiles sprawled on the ground, while Scott remained upright, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames.

"Dude, she's one girl. There are plenty more girls in the sea," Stiles slurred, his voice thick with intoxication.

"Fish in the sea," Scott corrected automatically, his attention still on the fire.

"What? Why're you talking about fish? I'm talking about girls. I love them all," Stiles sighed deeply, his eyes drifting toward the stars overhead. "Especially the ones with strawberry blonde hair, green eyes, about five foot three..."

"Like Mrs. Benoit?" Scott quipped, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips.

"Who? No! She's a redhead... and a bit taller... I'm talking about..." Stiles trailed off.

"Lydia," Scott finished, this time without the playful edge. Stiles' affection for Lydia had always been obvious.

"Exactly... How'd you know I was talking about—wait, what was I talking about?" Stiles blinked, confused, then shifted focus. "Hey, you don't look happy. Drink."

"I don't want anymore."

"You're not drunk?" Stiles asked, astonished, his inebriated mind struggling to process Scott's sobriety.

"I'm not anything," Scott replied flatly.

"Maybe it's like not needing your inhaler anymore. Maybe you can't get drunk... Am I drunk?" Stiles asked, almost in disbelief.

"You're wasted," Scott laughed, though uneasily.

"Yeeeaaahh... Dude, I know it feels bad. But you gotta remember. As much as breaking up hurts... being alone is even worse... Wait, hang on..." Stiles paused, his brow furrowing as he thought. "That didn't come out right. I need another drink." He reached for the bottle, but before his hand could grasp it, it was gone.

They had company. Two older men emerged from the shadows, snatching the boys' alcohol.

"Well, look at the little bitches getting their drink on," sneered the larger man, a hulking figure with a cruel smile. His name was Reddick. His companion, Unger, slightly smaller but resembling a cave troll, let out a laugh that echoed like a hyena's cackle.

"Give it back," Scott growled, his voice low with warning.

"What's that, little man?" Reddick mocked.

"I think he wants a drink..." Unger giggled unpleasantly, his face twisted in a sneer.

"I want the bottle," Scott repeated, his voice filled with fury. Whether it was the approaching full moon, the intruding company, or Allison's bitter silence over the past few days, something inside him was snapping.

"Scott, let's just go," Stiles urged, now fully sobered by the situation.

"You brought me here to get drunk, Stiles," Scott said, keeping his eyes locked on the two men in front of them. His gaze carried a threat they could read, but neither man was smart enough to heed it, faced with a teenager half their size. "I'm not drunk yet."

Reddick rolled his eyes in mock pity, taking a swig of whiskey straight from the bottle. He didn't notice Scott rising from the ground until the boy was standing directly in front of him.

"Give me the bottle," Scott said again, now face-to-face with the towering man. Reddick only smiled and shook his head, his refusal obvious.

The anger in Scott surged, and his eyes flashed an unnatural amber. His voice dropped several octaves. "Give me the bottle of Jack." Behind his back, Stiles noticed Scott's fingernails lengthening into claws.

"Scott..." Stiles warned, sensing that his friend was dangerously close to ripping out the man's throat.

Reddick took an instinctive step back, sensing something primal and menacing in the air, like he had just found himself locked in a cage with a predator. He glanced at Unger, but his companion had also stopped laughing and retreated a few steps, uneasy. Reluctantly, Reddick held out the bottle, and in a flash, Scott snatched it from his hand. The werewolf's eyes returned to their usual brown, but the simmering rage remained.

With a swift motion, Scott hurled the bottle through the air, sending it smashing against a nearby tree. The sound of glass shattering reverberated through the woods. The two uninvited guests backed away hastily, disappearing into the trees.

With nothing left to drink, Scott and Stiles gathered their belongings and headed toward the nearby car.

"Please tell me that was because of the breakup," Stiles muttered, his voice shaky. "Or, better yet, because tomorrow's the full moon."

Scott didn't respond. He opened the passenger door of the Jeep for Stiles, his brow furrowed in thought as a strange feeling nagged at him. He glanced around, scanning the darkened forest, but saw nothing between the trees.

"Going home now. Yeah?" Stiles asked, fumbling with his seatbelt. A silent thank you passed through him that his friend couldn't get drunk, as he realized he hadn't considered how they were supposed to get home if they both ended up intoxicated.

***

February 7th 2011 - Monday - Full Moon

"...A beautiful Monday morning. Beacon Hills High School is back open after being closed Thursday and Friday. Police search continues for alleged killer Derek Hale..." Melissa rushed to the radio and turned it off, grimacing slightly at the news.

"We should probably set this to buzzer," she remarked, crouching beside her son's bed. She stared at the spot where his face should have been, but instead, only saw a lump under the duvet, the teenager having buried himself as soon as the alarm went off. "You alive in there?" she asked, pulling the blanket away from his head.

"No," Scott muttered from underneath the covers.

"Not ready to go back to school?" she asked, straightening up a little.

"No..."

"Want to stay home another day?" Melissa continued, noticing how clearly distressed her son seemed.

"No."

"Want a brand new car?" she tried, finally getting a reaction. Scott peeked out from under the covers, his eyes meeting hers as she widened her own in exaggerated surprise, her mouth hanging open in mock excitement. "Me too," she added with a grin.

Scott sighed heavily, dragging himself out of bed and trudging toward the bathroom like he was heading to a prison sentence.

"This isn't just about what happened at school, is it?" Melissa asked, her tone softening. "It's the girl, right? You want to talk about it?"

"Not with you," Scott snapped as he reached the bathroom doorway, clearly on edge.

"Hey, I've been through a few breakups myself. Disastrous ones, actually," she offered gently.

"I don't care about your breakups!" Scott's voice rose sharply, his frustration spilling over. "And I'm getting her back," he added, slamming the bathroom door behind him for emphasis.

Melissa stood there for a moment, sighing softly to herself, knowing her son's problems ran deeper than just the school or even his relationship. As a mother, she couldn't help but worry, but she knew some battles he'd have to fight on his own.

***

The area outside the school was already crowded. Pupils clustered near the entrance, chattering frantically about what had happened before the weekend. No one knew the full details, but the traces of the past events were still visible on the building. Several windows were sealed with yellow caution tape, and a higher-than-usual number of police patrols circled the area.

A cherry-colored SUV, unmistakably belonging to the Argents, pulled up outside the entrance. Allison reached for the door handle, but it wouldn't budge. The door remained locked. She sighed, doing her best to stay patient.

"Dad, if you're going to insist on driving me to school, you at least have to let me out of the car."

Chris's eyes roved over their surroundings, paying no heed to his daughter's words. He needed to ensure everything was safe. In the passenger seat, Kate smirked mischievously.

"Kate, what's your opinion on homeschooling?" he asked his sister, still scanning the area.

"Hmm..." She drew in a deep breath and grinned radiantly. "I'm more of a learning-by-doing kind of girl."

"Kate, what's your opinion on overprotective dads who keep ruining their daughter's lives?" interjected a teenage girl from the back row, leaning forward between the front seats.

Kate cast a glance at her niece, then shifted her eyes back to her brother. With a devilish smile, she reached over and pressed the button to unlock the doors, her gaze defiantly fixed on Chris's.

"Thank you," Allison whispered to her aunt before she hopped out of the car, casting one last, chastising look at her father, who watched her with concern as she moved away.

"Chris—"

"Don't," he interrupted. "Your expression says it all. Yes, I underestimated the danger. Yes, we should have acted sooner. Yes, I should have listened to you. Anything else, or does that about cover it?"

"All I was going to say is that you need to stop for gas. But yeah, that about covers it," Kate replied, pointing at the dashboard, though her attention was elsewhere. Her gaze had been drawn to the teachers' parking lot, where a redheaded figure was making their way toward the school. "I'll be back on my own. I need to pay someone a visit..." She shot her brother a knowing look and reached for the door handle.

Chris's hand darted out, gripping her arm before she could exit. "Just leave it be. We should focus on the Alpha."

"You knew... Did you tell him?" she snapped, jerking her wrist out of his grasp. Her anger flared as she realized he had already started the car and was pulling away from the school. If she didn't want to make a scene and leap out of the moving vehicle, she had no choice but to relent.

She wouldn't be seeing the Witch today.

***

"It's just weird. Everyone's talking about what happened the other night. And nobody knows it was us," Allison muttered as she and Lydia walked down the corridor together.

"Thanks to the protection of minors... and Mrs. Benoit's connections, no one knows about her either," Lydia replied in a low voice, adjusting her hair with a practiced movement.

"Do you think I made the wrong decision?" Allison asked, her voice filled with uncertainty.

"About wearing a leather jacket with that dress? Absolutely," Lydia replied without even glancing at her.

"You know what I mean," Allison growled, already growing slightly irritated.

"Hello, Scott locked us in a classroom and left us for dead. He's lucky we're not pressing charges or sending him the therapy bills," Lydia laughed bitterly, though she continued to avoid looking directly at Allison.

"Are your parents talking about sending you to see someone, too?"

"Sweetheart, I've had a psychiatrist since I was six," Lydia replied dryly, rummaging through her bag. After a moment, she pulled out a small yellow pill bottle. "Here, try this. Start with half a pill."

They passed Stiles, who was sitting outside the secretary's office. As they did, the Sheriff emerged from the principal's office, flanked by his deputy and two men in suits.

"We're watching his house. He might show up there," Stilinski said to his men, his expression serious. When he spotted his son, who had just risen from the floor, he excused himself from the others and approached Stiles.

"Don't you have a test to get to?" the Sheriff asked, raising an eyebrow.

"What's going on? Did you find Derek yet?" Stiles asked, guilt gnawing at him. He felt conflicted—angry at both Derek and the history teacher, but also at himself. He couldn't shake the feeling that he should stop trusting her, not after discovering her connection to Derek. And yet, he still wanted to talk to her. She, on the other hand, stubbornly avoided him.

"We're working on it. Now go take your test," Stilinski replied, though his tone was less stern and more reassuring.

"Dad, listen..." For a moment, Stiles wanted to spill everything—the truth about the werewolves, that Derek wasn't the one trying to kill them. "It's important. You need to be careful tonight, especially tonight..." His voice grew more urgent as he looked into his father's eyes, fear welling up inside him. He couldn't bear the thought of something happening to his dad.

"I'm always careful," Noah smiled gently.

"Dad, you've never dealt with anything like this before. Not like this," Stiles pressed.

"I know. That's why I brought in people who have. State detectives. Now go," Stilinski insisted.

Reluctantly, Stiles turned to leave, knowing that if Harris had already started handing out tests, he'd be in a lot more trouble than just a poor grade. But the feeling of unease remained, gnawing at him as he walked away.

Scott walked into the classroom, and the first thing that caught his eye was Allison. He moved toward her, hoping to start a conversation, but she ignored him completely. Before he could gather his thoughts, the teacher appeared at his side.

"McCall, please take a seat," the man instructed, and Scott quickly complied. "You have 45 minutes to complete the test. Twenty-five percent of your grade can be earned right now by simply putting your full name on the cover."

Stiles, seated nearby, gave the teacher a look of disbelief but, with grim determination, signed his test immediately. The teacher continued, his tone laced with sarcasm. "However, as happens every year, one of you will inexplicably fail to put your name on the cover, and I'll be left once again questioning my decision to ever become a teacher. So let's get the disappointment over with." With that, he started the stopwatch. "Begin."

Scott leaned over his test sheet, scanning the questions, but he couldn't focus. His heightened senses overwhelmed him. The sound of pencils scratching paper, the rustling of erasers, the nervous tapping of fingers on desks, the clicking of pens, and even the uneven heartbeats of his classmates filled his ears, drowning out his thoughts.

The smells were no better. Perfume mixed with the scent of sweat, creating a nauseating haze that made him feel sick. He tried again to concentrate, but another thought intruded, catching him off guard. Why would a girl that pretty go out with a loser like you? He glanced up, staring at Allison as she worked diligently on her test, completely oblivious to him.

When he looked back down, the question had changed. It was no longer about Allison; it was a genuine question about the test subject. But the letters blurred before his eyes, and he couldn't read it. Frustrated, Scott rubbed his eyelids, willing himself to focus. Then, as he squinted at the paper again, the words morphed into something far more disturbing: When the moon is full next time, will you kill: A. all of your friends, B. some of your friends, C. most of your friends, D. none of the above.

His heart raced as panic surged through him. He scanned the room nervously, wondering if this was some kind of sick joke. The sounds around him grew louder—someone coughing harshly, another person swallowing audibly. The pressure in his head built until it was unbearable.

Unable to endure it any longer, Scott grabbed his backpack and bolted from the room, ignoring the teacher's calls after him. Stiles, instantly alarmed, sprang to his feet and chased after his friend, knowing things had just taken a turn for the worse.

"Scott?" Stiles called after him, but the corridor was empty, except for Scott's backpack lying nearby. Picking it up, Stiles quickly pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed his friend's number. Even without supernatural hearing, he knew Scott well enough that, before the phone even buzzed, Stiles had already moved ahead. Guided first by instinct and then by the sound of Scott's phone ringing, he reached the men's locker room.

He hesitated for a moment, gathering his courage. The last time the full moon had approached, Scott had nearly killed him. Cautiously, Stiles entered, his footsteps slow and deliberate as he scanned the room. The sound of running water reached his ears—one shower had been turned on. Scott's t-shirt lay discarded on a bench. Swallowing nervously, Stiles gripped the shoulder strap of the backpack tighter and moved toward the showers, wishing he had a weapon—maybe a baseball bat—for protection.

As he rounded the corner, relief washed over him. Scott stood under the icy stream of water, leaning heavily against the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps as if he had just sprinted a marathon. Sensing Stiles, Scott turned off the water and faced him, his breathing shallow and uneven.

"Stiles... I can't..." Scott's voice trembled, breaking with the strain.

"What's happening? Are you changing?" Stiles asked, his mind racing.

"No... I can't... I can't breathe," Scott wheezed, his words rushing out in panic.

Without hesitation, Stiles dug into Scott's backpack, pulling out the inhaler that his friend still carried, even though he didn't need it anymore. Long-standing habits died hard. "Use this," Stiles instructed, handing the inhaler to Scott. At first, Scott stared at it, puzzled. "Do it," Stiles urged.

Scott grabbed the inhaler, inhaling deeply. Slowly, his breathing steadied, each breath coming easier than the last.

"I... I was having an asthma attack?" Scott asked, still in shock as he realized he could breathe again.

"No, you were having a panic attack. But thinking it was an asthma attack stopped the panic attack. Ironic," Stiles said with a small grin.

"How did you know to do that?" Scott asked, his voice still shaky.

"I used to get them after my mom died. Not fun, huh?" Stiles replied, recalling with a faint smile the help he'd received from Diana, their old babysitter. She still worked with his dad and occasionally checked in to make sure they had food and a clean house.

"I looked at Allison, and it was like someone hit me in the ribs with a hammer," Scott muttered, ignoring Stiles' explanation.

***

Allison sat in the cafeteria during her lunch break, leaning over a book and nibbling on biscuits her mother had baked. Jackson joined her, and she greeted him with a warm smile. His gaze remained fixed on her, his expression unreadable.

"You have something on your..." Jackson began, but when she looked up at him, he shook his head slightly, reaching out. "Here, let me," he said, stroking a smudge of chocolate from her bottom lip with his thumb. He then licked his finger, prompting a nervous laugh from Allison.

"Thanks. Want a bite?" she offered, holding up the biscuit.

He stared at her, his expression blank and strangely distant, as if startled by something. "What?"

"Do you want a bite?" she repeated, more clearly this time, raising the biscuit to his eye level.

"Oh. Um..." Jackson laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck, his fingers brushing over the still unhealed scratches. "No, thanks."

"You doing okay?" Allison asked, her concern growing at his clear unease. "I mean, since the other night?"

"Better than I thought I'd be," he said with a forced smile, his expression tightening for a moment. "You still thinking about everything that happened?"

"Mostly about Scott," she admitted, curling her lips in uncertainty. "I haven't talked to him."

"Probably a good idea," Jackson remarked, his tone a little too casual.

"You don't think I made a mistake, do you?" Allison asked, her voice soft, the weight of her emotions evident. It was as if she hadn't heard his previous words, clearly struggling with her own feelings.

"No," Jackson laughed, almost incredulous. "I think he got exactly what he deserved."

Neither of them realized that Scott, sitting just outside in the corridor, was hearing every word of their conversation. And with each passing second, his anger was growing, bubbling inside him, ready to explode.

After school, the boys had lacrosse practice. When Coach Finstock emerged from his cubicle, blowing his whistle to grab their attention, the team was already gathered in the locker room.

"Okay, geniuses, listen up! Due to the recent pink eye outbreak... thanks, Greenberg," he added sourly. "The following players have made First Lineup on a probationary basis. Emphasis on probationary: Rodriguez, welcome to the first lineup. Taylor and... Oh, for the love of crap... I can't read my own writing... Is that an 'S'?"

Stiles perked up, rising from the bench, hopeful.

"No, it's something else... 'B'? Definitely a 'B'..." Stiles slumped back down, shoulders square in disappointment. "Rodriguez, Taylor, and Bilinski."

Stiles froze, stunned for a moment, unable to believe his luck. Then he shot off the bench, shouting with pure joy. The other players looked at him with a mix of disbelief and pity.

"Bilinski?" Coach Finstock squinted, realizing he might've made a mistake reading the name, but he didn't care enough to correct it.

"Yes?" Stiles responded eagerly.

"Shut up," Finstock commanded, earning laughs from the rest of the team.

"Yes, sir," Stiles mumbled, sitting back down beside Scott.

"Stiles..." Scott whispered.

"It's Biles. Call me Biles, or I swear to God, I'll kill you," Stiles replied, still riding the high of his newfound position.

"One more thing," Finstock announced, "from here on out, we're switching to Co-Captains. Congratulations, McCall."

Everyone in the room met Finstock's words with wide-eyed disbelief. Scott's surprise quickly morphed into joy, while Jackson's reaction was quite the opposite—cold fury.

"What?" Jackson growled, glaring at the coach.

"What what? Jackson, this takes nothing away from you," Finstock explained, gesturing dramatically. "It's about combining separate strengths into one unit. Your unit and McCall's unit, making one big unit. McCall, it's you and Jackson now. Whistle—asses on the field!"

"Can you believe this? You're a Captain. I'm First Line. I'm First freaking Line!" Stiles exclaimed, thrilled, as they exited the locker room.

"Don't think we're going to let this go," Brian, ever Jackson's sycophant, muttered, patting him on the back. "He's not going to be much of a Co-Captain in traction."

"Yeah, because it's not like Scott scores more than anyone else," Danny said sarcastically.

"Is that the opinion of my best friend?" Jackson asked, incredulous.

"My best friend's opinion is: Who the hell cares who's Captain? He's a good player. And you need to seriously get a grip. Let it go," Danny replied, walking off toward the field, leaving Jackson seething in frustration.

"Don't worry, dude. We got it covered," Brian said, laughing as he gave Jackson another pat on the back, but Jackson angrily shook him off and stormed after Danny—the one person he still considered his best friend.

"Are you not freaking out? I'm freaking out," Stiles muttered to Scott, his eyes fixed on Jackson's every move.

"What's the point? It's just a stupid title. And I could practically smell the jealousy in there," Scott shrugged, downplaying the situation.

"You smelled envy? Like, with your nose?" Stiles stopped him, placing a hand on Scott's shoulder, eyes wide.

"It's like the full moon's turned everything up to ten."

"Can you pick up on stuff like... desire?" Stiles asked, glancing toward Lydia, who stood nearby.

"What do you mean, desire?"

"Sexual."

"Sexual desire?" Scott laughed, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes. Sexual desire. Lust. Passion. Arousal," Stiles replied with an impatient chuckle, rolling his eyes at his friend's reaction.

"You mean from Lydia?" Scott asked, following Stiles' gaze. Lydia was leaning against a door, engrossed in a conversation with the history teacher, presumably about homework.

"No, in a broader sense, can you sense sexual desire?"

"From Lydia to you?"

"Fine, yes, from Lydia to me," Stiles admitted, clearly annoyed. "I have to know if I even have a chance with her. I've been obsessing over this girl since the third grade."

"Why don't you just ask her?" Scott suggested.

"Because you asking saves me from utterly crushing humiliation. Thanks, Scott," Stiles growled sarcastically. "Just go over, ask if she likes me, see if her heart rate rises, pheromones or something. Anything. Please."

"Fine," Scott muttered, cutting him off as he turned on his heel and walked straight toward the two redheads. Lydia and Mrs. Benoit were so engrossed in their conversation that they didn't notice Scott approach.

"I love you! You're my best friend in the whole world!" Stiles called after him, his voice full of exaggerated affection.

"Mrs. Benoit, Lydia... can I interrupt?" Scott asked, his words stumbling slightly under the stony gaze of the history teacher. As soon as her eyes fell on him, he felt a wave of resentment and anger from her, along with a strange weariness—something he couldn't immediately identify. Lydia, however, looked at him differently. Her green eyes were wide, pupils dilated, and Scott could sense the shift in her emotions.

Mrs. Benoit noticed it too. Taking a step back, she assessed the situation.

"Scott," she greeted him, her sharp gaze studying him. She could already see the signs of the full moon's effects beginning to creep into his posture, though it hadn't yet arrived. "Lydia, you can come see me tomorrow before class, and we'll finish the conversation," the teacher said, before stepping away, leaving Scott standing there, face-to-face with Lydia.

"Lydia, can I talk to you for a second?" Scott asked, his voice hesitant.

"Of course," Lydia replied, placing her hands on her hips before pulling him into the coach's office. Once they were inside, she closed the door behind them. "Is this about the other night? Do you need someone to talk to?"

"I just need to ask you something," Scott said, his voice quieter as he shut the door.

Lydia leaned against the coach's desk, her sharp eyes studying him. She patted the countertop beside her, an invitation for him to sit.

"Tell me... Does Allison still like me?"

"Of course she does," Lydia answered after a brief pause, turning her face away from him. There was a strange lack of emotion in her eyes.

"Really?"

"She'll always like you," Lydia said softly, pausing for a moment as if to let her words sink in. "As friends. Just friends."

"Just friends..." Scott muttered, more to himself than to her.

"If you ask me..." Lydia pushed herself away from the desk, raising an eyebrow as she met his eyes. "And of course, no one ever asks me... She made a big mistake."

Her gaze lingered on his face, watching as his expression shifted—from confusion to disbelief, and then to anger.

"Ask me how I know that," she said, her tone daring him.

"How?" Scott asked, his voice rough, his emotions barely held in check.

"Because I know you locked us in there to protect us. Because I know that when a guy risks his life for you, you should be grateful," Lydia replied, taking a step closer to him.

"Are you grateful?" Scott asked, his voice taking on a strange, almost animalistic edge. His lower lip drooped slightly, revealing his teeth.

"I think you'd be pretty surprised," Lydia replied, rolling her eyes playfully. "At just how grateful I am." She emphasized each word as she took deliberate steps toward him, closing the distance between them. When she was right next to him, she smiled flirtatiously, her eyes meeting his, where she saw not only anger but something primal—something that drew her in with an incredible, undeniable pull. "To be honest, Scott... I have so much gratitude, I'm not sure how to express all of it," she whispered, her voice dropping seductively. "But I could try..."

Her hands slid into his hair, and suddenly her lips crashed against his. Scott pulled her toward him aggressively, the kiss filled with more force than desire, as if he could easily shift from passion to violence in an instant. It was fierce, almost dangerous, their lips colliding with intensity.

The sharp sound of a whistle, the noise cutting through the moment, reaching Scott's ears from the field, abruptly interrupted them. Reluctantly, he pushed Lydia away, saying nothing as he turned and walked out of the office, heading for the pitch.

Lydia stood there for a moment, stunned. Then, with a flicker of a smile, she composed herself, smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles from her dress before striding confidently toward the stands, ready to watch lacrosse practice as usual.

"Hey. What happened?" Stiles asked, watching his friend sit down next to him on the bench.

"What?" Scott responded, busying himself with his lacrosse gear, barely acknowledging his friend.

"What do you mean, what? Did you ask her? Did she say anything? Did she say she liked me? Imply she liked me?" Stiles pressed, growing impatient.

"Yeah," Scott confirmed, buttoning his gloves and still avoiding Stiles' gaze. "Yeah, she likes you. In fact, she's totally into you." He said it with a wicked grin, but Stiles was too lost in thought to notice, as he absorbed the information.

Practice that day had been particularly brutal. Brian and the others, loyal to Jackson, took it upon themselves to "defend" their former captain's honor, playing dirty against Scott. Their constant foul play was fraying his nerves. When Scott landed on the turf yet again, even Coach Finstock joined in on the laughter.

"I guess some people don't appreciate your new status, McCall," the coach teased, leaning over the fallen teen. "Who's next? Come on!"

None of the players stepped forward for the task. But before anyone could respond, Scott sprang up from the ground, standing tall, clutching his racquet. His movements were quick, almost too quick. Stiles, watching from the sidelines, froze in horror.

"Any problem, Bilinski?" Coach Finstock asked, noticing Stiles' alarmed expression.

"N-no..." Stiles stammered.

"Your turn. Play," Finstock commanded.

Stiles was about to move, but Scott stood in his way, blocking him like a solid brick wall. The aggression emanating from Scott was palpable, even to Stiles, who instinctively jumped back, terrified of his friend's shift in demeanor.

"That's the spirit! Respect must be earned! Earn it, McCall!" Coach Finstock shouted, egging him on. "Earn it!"

Scott felt his eyes change, but he didn't care. The world around him started turning red, and with it came a strange clarity—he could predict his opponents' movements with eerie precision. When the whistle blew, he charged forward. He barreled into one defender, knocking him to the ground with a shoulder tackle. Scott slammed into the second defender with even more force, causing him to practically fly through the air.

Scott moved onto the goalkeeper next. With brutal force, he swung his stick, striking Danny in the head. The blow sent him sprawling, completely out of the game. Only then did Scott hurl the ball into the goal with a ferocious finality.

"Danny!" someone shouted as the entire team rushed to help their friend. Danny remained on the ground, disoriented, unlike the two defenders who were already recovering. Jackson was the first at Danny's side, horrified to see blood trickling from his friend's nose, despite his helmet. Danny's vision seemed unsteady.

"We didn't hit him that hard!" Brian exclaimed, outraged, assuming Scott was retaliating for the earlier rough play.

"Danny, are you all right?" Coach Finstock finally made his way through the chaos, calling for the school nurse, who arrived moments later.

As the others clustered around Danny, Stiles disengaged from the group and approached Scott, who stood by the goal, unmoving.

"What the hell is wrong with you? You just took Danny down," Stiles demanded.

"So what? He's twice the size of me," Scott shot back, his tone laced with aggression. Then, a predatory smile crept onto his face as the scent of blood filled the air.

"Everyone likes Danny, which means everyone's going to hate you," Stiles warned, his voice low and urgent.

"I don't care..." Scott growled, loud enough to catch Jackson's attention.

"Is he okay?" Lydia suddenly ran onto the field, stopping next to Jackson and casting a worried glance at Danny.

"It looks like it's just a bloody nose..." Jackson reassured her, but fell silent as he studied her face.

"What?" Lydia asked, noticing his strange expression.

"Your lipstick," he said coolly, and Lydia quickly pulled a mirror from her bag to touch up the smudged makeup.

"Oh. Wonder how that happened," she laughed softly to herself.

"Yeah, I wonder..." Jackson muttered under his breath, turning away. As he glanced around, he noticed Stiles watching the entire interaction, shock clear on his face.

***

A meeting was underway in the Argents' garage. Chris stood over a topographical map of Beacon Hills, flanked by two other hunters: Leveque, a student, and State Investigator Tyhurst, the man in the suit who had also been at the school earlier that morning. The hunters had their eyes and ears everywhere.

"Another night of kicking through leaves in the woods?" Kate quipped as she entered the room, her smile radiant as she addressed the group.

"I prefer to think of it as another night trying to keep innocent people from being killed," Chris corrected, his voice sharp. "A list that now includes my daughter."

His eyes tracked his sister as she inspected the scope on a sniper rifle, her actions deliberate, practiced.

"How do we know it won't go after her again?" Tyhurst, the suited investigator, asked.

"It won't go after Allison," Kate responded with quiet confidence, her words more for herself than for the others. Yet, there was no mistaking the certainty in her tone.

"It won't have any target at all. Not on a full moon," Chris explained, his experience lending weight to his words.

"Why not?" Leveque asked, puzzled.

"Because, my young apprentice," Chris said patiently, "an Alpha is like any other werewolf on a full moon. It struggles under its sway. Which means tonight is our best chance to catch it—when it's unfocused." He punctuated his statement by driving his tactical knife into the map, its point landing squarely on the location of the burnt Hale house.

"What if it had a reason to stay focused?" Kate interrupted, leaving her inspection of the weapon to saunter over to the table, her gaze locked on her brother.

"Do you know something we don't?" Chris asked, suspicion coloring his words as he eyed his sister.

"I just don't like surprises," Kate replied nonchalantly. "You're the expert. You tell me."

"What about Derek?" Leveque chimed in, his voice hesitant as he broke the tense silence. He still had told no one about the invisible force that had flung him against the wall during their last encounter with the werewolf, knocking him out for at least fifteen minutes.

"He's smarter than that," Kate remarked, knowing Derek all too well. "He won't be out tonight. Not with cops everywhere."

"But if for some reason he is..." Leveque trailed off.

"If he is..." Chris began, but the sudden appearance of his wife cut his words off. She held a plate of freshly baked cookies, her eyes sweeping over the room with a cold, detached expression.

"You'll find him, kill him, and cut him in half," she said, her voice chillingly calm. After a beat, she smiled sweetly and held out the plate. "Anyone want a cookie?"

***

Stiles parked outside his friend's house just after dark. He was pulling a heavy sports bag out of the car when Melissa descended from the porch on her way to work for the night shift.

"Hi, Stiles," she greeted him. "Scott's not home yet. You want me to unlock the door?"

"I had a key made."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me," she muttered to herself. "Worries me. Doesn't surprise me."

Stiles tossed the bag onto the ground, rummaging through his pockets for his keys. A heavy metallic clatter sounded from the bag, drawing Melissa's attention. An awkward silence settled between them.

"What's this?" she finally asked, her brow furrowing.

"Uh..." Stiles hesitated for a moment. "School project," he replied with a confused smile.

"Stiles... He's okay, right?" Melissa asked, her concern for her son evident.

"Who? Scott? Yeah, totally!" Stiles almost shouted, his grin overly wide and forced.

"He doesn't talk to me that much anymore," she said softly, her voice tinged with sadness. "Not like we used to."

"He's had a rough week," Stiles responded, shoving his hands into his pockets, trying to appear nonchalant.

"Yeah, I get it," she smiled sadly. "Okay. I'm going to go, then. Take care of yourself tonight."

"You too."

"Full moon, you know," she said, pointing to the sky. Just above the horizon, the moon had risen, glowing in all its full glory.

"What?" Stiles asked, his voice betraying his alarm that she might know more than she should.

"There's a full moon tonight," Melissa repeated, searching through her handbag for her car keys. "You should see how the ER gets. All the nutjobs come out."

"Oh, right..." Stiles replied, his tone flat as he tried to mask his anxiety.

"And not only that... I've got an increased number of injured lunatics. That's actually where the word comes from," she added as she got into her old, battered car, leaving Stiles standing in the driveway, turning over her words in his mind.

He waited until Melissa had driven away, then hefted his bag and headed inside. After struggling with the jammed lock, he finally made his way upstairs to Scott's room. As soon as he crossed the threshold and switched on the light, he froze. Scott sat in the darkness, in an armchair, his face as still and expressionless as stone—eerily reminiscent of Derek's stoic demeanor.

"Dude, you scared the hell out of me!" Stiles exclaimed, his heart racing. But Scott didn't answer. He merely stared at him, his eyes unsettlingly intense.

"Your mom said you weren't home yet," Stiles added, tossing his bag into the middle of the room. It landed with a metallic crunch.

"I came through the window," Scott replied, his voice unnervingly calm, like someone in a trance.

"Okay... well, let's get this set up," Stiles said, trying to push the awkwardness aside as he crouched over his bag. "Check out what I brought..."

"I'm fine, Stiles. I'm just going to lock the door. Go to sleep early."

"You sure about that? 'Cause you've got this serial killer vibe going on," Stiles pointed to his face, trying to lighten the mood. "I'm hoping it's just the full moon taking effect because it's starting to freak me out."

"I'm fine," Scott repeated, still sitting motionless in the chair. His voice was flat, emotionless. "You should go now."

The eerie echo of Scott's words sent a chill down Stiles' spine. It was all the confirmation he needed that something was very wrong.

"All right, I'll leave... if you take a look in the bag and let me show you what I bought. Maybe you use it, maybe you don't. Sound good?" Stiles offered, still crouched beside his bag.

Scott stared at him for a long moment before rising, moving slowly. He bent down, opened the bag, and pulled out several meters of thick chain. He held it in his hand, his face still devoid of emotion as he looked at Stiles.

"You think I'm going to let you put these on? Chain me up? Like a dog?" His voice was quiet, but laced with threat.

"Actually... no," Stiles muttered, and with the speed of a striking cobra, he whipped a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, grabbed Scott's arm, and cuffed him to the radiator against the wall. He leapt back quickly, staying out of Scott's reach.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Scott yelled, jerking at the handcuffs, but they held fast.

"Protecting you from yourself," Stiles announced, standing in the doorway, his voice steady. "And giving you some payback. For making out with Lydia." He barely finished the sentence before earning a murderous glare from Scott. Had Scott not been so enraged, he might have noticed the tears of anger and betrayal glistening in Stiles' eyes.

Three hours had passed when Stiles returned from the ground floor and stepped into Scott's room.

"I brought you some water," he announced, waving a bottle in the air before dramatically lifting a dog bowl with "Scott" written on it in his other hand. With exaggerated care, he poured water into the bowl and placed it just within Scott's reach.

As Stiles turned to leave, the bowl flew off the floor, bouncing off his back and sending water splashing everywhere.

"I'm going to kill you!" Scott roared.

Stiles stopped in the doorway, trying to rein in his frustration but failing. He turned back to Scott and growled, "You kissed her! You kissed Lydia! The only girl I've ever — And for the last three hours, I've been telling myself it's just the full moon. He doesn't know what he's doing. He'll be totally normal tomorrow. He probably won't even remember being a complete scumbag, total bastard, son of a bitch, unbelievable piece of crap..."

"She kissed me," Scott interrupted, his voice low and dangerous, his glare filled with fury.

"What?" Stiles' voice broke, his disbelief palpable.

"I didn't kiss her," Scott clarified, straightening slightly, a smug look creeping across his face. "She kissed me."

Stiles swallowed hard, his lips trembling as he struggled to process what he was hearing. He hadn't expected Scott to react this way, not under any circumstances. He turned on his heel and walked out of the room, leaning heavily against the hallway wall.

"She kissed me. And she would've done a lot more. You should've seen the way she had her hands all over me. She would've done anything I wanted," Scott's voice echoed from the room, dripping with confidence and that unsettling, primal growl.

Stiles stood frozen in the corridor, trying to convince himself that it wasn't really Scott speaking—there was something wrong, something off.

"Anything!" Scott shouted, the sound of his voice reverberating through the house.

Back in the room, Scott yanked at the handcuffs, his skin bruising as he strained against the restraints. But the pain didn't register. His blood surged, boiling with anger and frustration, and he summoned every ounce of strength to break free, but it wasn't enough. Not yet.

"Stiles, please, let me out," Scott tried again, his voice softer, pleading. From where Stiles sat, just outside the door, he could see his friend's worn sneakers peeking out from the edge of the window. "It's the full moon, I swear. You know I wouldn't do this on purpose."

But Stiles didn't move. He could hear the urgency in Scott's voice, could feel the strain of his words.

"Please, Stiles. It's starting to hurt... It's not like the first time... It's the full moon... It's Allison breaking up with me... And I know it's not just a break. She broke up with me," Scott's voice cracked, almost weeping. "It's killing me... I feel so completely hopeless... Please, just let me out."

"I can't," Stiles whispered, the weight of his words barely audible, though he knew Scott would hear him perfectly.

Meanwhile, the wind swept away the clouds that had been obscuring the moon, and its silver light spilled through the window into Scott's room. As the glow touched his skin, the boy's frantic struggle against his shackles intensified. He could feel his blood racing, almost boiling in the spots where the moonlight fell.

The transformation surged through him uncontrollably. He screamed, a guttural sound that quickly turned into a deafening roar as his body shifted.

Stiles, sitting just outside the room, tried to cover his ears, desperate to block out his friend's agonized cries, but it was impossible. The screams reverberated through the walls, impossible to ignore. Then, suddenly, the noise stopped, replaced by an eerie silence that sent a shiver down Stiles' spine.

"Scott, are you okay?" he called out, his voice shaky, still rooted to the floor, too afraid to see what had happened inside the room. "Scott?" Silence was his only answer.

Summoning his courage, Stiles crawled forward on all fours, peeking cautiously into the room. His heart sank. Scott was gone. The broken handcuffs lay on the floor, surrounded by dark bloodstains, and the window was wide open, the curtain billowing gently in the night breeze.

Panic rising, Stiles rushed out of the house, heading for his car as fast as his legs would carry him. His fingers fumbled as he dialed the only person who could help him now—the Witch.

***

After lessons, Allison spent time with her aunt. Thanks to the fact that Kate wasn't much older than her, they had a great rapport, especially since the older woman had a relaxed, carefree approach to life.

"Now, remember. No telling your father about this. He'd kill me," Kate announced, placing a stun gun shaped like a pistol into Allison's hands. "And what would our hapless victim's name be?" she asked, clapping her hands in gleeful excitement as she glanced at the teddy bear sitting in a chair.

"Mr. Bear," replied Allison without hesitation.

"Your teddy bear's name is Mr. Bear?" Kate couldn't believe it, her lips curling into a smile that nearly turned into laughter. Her amusement was contagious, making Allison giggle as well. "That's the worst teddy bear name ever..."

"I was five," Allison defended, her cheeks flushing slightly.

"Well..." Kate sighed heavily, still grinning. "Shoot your unimaginatively named bear and put it out of its misery."

Allison laughed, took aim, and squeezed the trigger. The tip of the taser shot out, hitting Mr. Bear square in the tummy, sending sparks flying.

"That's what I'm talking about!" Kate bent over, laughing in pure satisfaction, oblivious to the fact that the smile had faded from Allison's face. "Now, if you had that the other night..."

Kate turned around and noticed the look on Allison's face. "Hey, what's up? I thought you wanted to learn this," she said, walking toward her niece cautiously. The girl's expression told her that tears might be nearby. "Honey?"

"I just don't know what happened," Allison mumbled, slumping down onto the bed, her voice shaky from the threat of tears.

"With Scott?" Kate prompted, receiving a nod in return. "Listen, my gorgeous young niece..." She put an arm around Allison and sat beside her. "You're going to break hearts left and right. He's lucky to have gotten even a small taste of Allison Argent's world."

"But..." Allison sighed, her tears now spilling from her eyes. "It felt so right with him. And then he started acting so strange. Now I don't know what to believe."

"Honey, he is a guy. Don't believe anything," Kate said with a snarl of disdain.

"It's just the whole thing with Derek Hale the other night, and Scott saying he didn't know him, but then I saw them together..."

"Whoa, wait a second. Back up," Kate interrupted, her demeanor suddenly shifting to alarm. "Scott knows Derek? Alleged killer Derek? Are they friends?"

"No..." Allison pondered, thrown off by her aunt's sudden intensity. "Not really. At least that's what he said."

"How about you tell me everything Scott said about Derek?" Kate abandoned her joking tone completely, focusing her full attention on her niece, which made Allison even more uncomfortable.

"What do you mean by 'everything'?" Allison asked, attempting to get up from the bed, but Kate grabbed her arm and pulled her back, holding her close.

"I mean everything."

"But what does that have to do with—"

"Honey," Kate softened her tone, realizing her behavior was making Allison uneasy. "Every detail is important. It could help the police catch him. Tell me, please. Everything."

"Well... so... at Lydia's party, Scott felt bad and stood me up... and Mrs. Benoit and Derek offered me a lift..."

"They were at a party organized by a schoolgirl?" Kate asked, clearly surprised.

"No, I think they were just in the area. They gave me a lift home and drove on."

"Are they a couple?" the older woman asked, intrigued.

"I think so, in the sense that no one ever confirmed it in my presence, but that's what it looked like. Well, and that's why I think Scott lied when he said they weren't friends with Derek. Because Stiles said Ms. Benoit was his cousin, and if she was Derek's girlfriend, how could they not know each other? Well, and Stiles used to give him a lift from under the school somewhere..."

"Interesting..." Kate muttered to herself, lost in thought.

She questioned Allison for at least another hour. By the time the barrage of detailed questions finally ended, darkness had long since fallen outside.

Allison took a deep breath, slightly unnerved by her aunt's behavior. Deciding she'd had enough of being cooped up at home, she headed to the sports shop, hoping to find some solitude while still being among people. Ever since the night at school, she had been experiencing a strange anxiety that only eased when she was surrounded by others.

The shop was large and well-stocked, and Allison's attention was drawn to the archery section. She was examining an optical sight, designed for a compound bow, when she noticed Jackson watching her.

"What are you doing here?" he asked as he approached, his eyes curious.

"Just thinking I might get back into something I haven't done in a while..." she replied with a broad smile. Jackson glanced at the sight she was holding, raising an eyebrow.

"What about you?" she asked.

"For Danny," he said, holding up the lacrosse helmet in his hand. "McCall hit him pretty hard on the field." Allison averted her gaze, biting her lip, and for a moment, an awkward silence settled between them.

"Why do I get the feeling you could use someone to talk to?" Jackson observed, studying her face closely. Allison smiled at his words, a soft, sad smile.

"Is it that obvious?" she asked, her eyes reflecting the vulnerability of someone who felt caged.

"Maybe because I'm kind of feeling the same way."

Realizing they couldn't talk openly in a crowded store, they headed out to the parking lot and sit in Jackson's car. It surprised Allison to see that it wasn't his familiar Porsche, but a large SUV. Jackson explained his car was in for maintenance, so he'd borrowed his mother's.

"If I tell you something..." They leaned in toward each other between the front seats. The darkness and silence created an intimate atmosphere, one that Jackson seemed well aware of, though Allison appeared oblivious. "Will you promise not to laugh?"

"I would never laugh at you," he replied with a small smile, gazing at her. She was undeniably pretty, though Jackson couldn't help feeling like something was missing.

"I don't think it was Derek at the school."

"Neither do I," Jackson answered, watching her closely. At his words, Allison sighed in relief, glad to know she wasn't losing her mind. She gnawed on her necklace, which she had been nervously fiddling with.

"Mrs. Benoit was visibly unhappy when Scott said Derek was the one..."

"Stiles didn't look too thrilled either," Jackson added, confirming her suspicions.

"I think Derek is Mrs. Benoit's boyfriend. If he were actually the murderer, she would've acted differently."

"I know... And then, under the record rental shop, he picked her up. She went with him without any hesitation, and she saw what attacked us way better than I did. It wasn't Derek. Is there something else?" he asked, noticing the lingering unease in her expression. "Just because you can't trust Scott doesn't mean you can't trust anyone."

"But that's the thing. People close to me are lying—people closer than Scott."

"Who?"

"My father..." Allison admitted, seeing the puzzled look on Jackson's face. She explained. "It's not like I don't realize my family isn't exactly normal. Not every teenage girl comes home to a garage full of Glocks and AK-47s," she said slowly, gathering her thoughts.

"But..." Jackson prompted, sensing that she might end the conversation at any moment. He could feel it becoming increasingly intriguing.

"I just have this weird feeling my dad knows more about what happened at the school than we do."

"So maybe we can compare our versions of what happened and figure out something we're missing," Jackson suggested. "When Lydia and I went to look for you, she had to use the bathroom, so I waited for her outside. That's when I saw someone standing in the hallway... It might have been Derek, but I couldn't make out any features. It was just this black shape. And here's the weird part. The guy—or whatever it was—got down on all fours. And then just took off."

"On all fours? Like hands and knees?" Allison clarified.

"No. Hands and feet. Like an animal. He moved like an animal."

"So how do you know it wasn't an animal?" Allison pondered.

"Because when it was standing, it looked like a guy. Like a man."

"Then... what was it?" she wondered aloud.

Even if Jackson knew the answer, he didn't get the chance to share it. Something suddenly hit the roof of the car, jolting them both out of their conversation.

"What was that?" Allison gasped, her hand reflexively reaching for the door handle.

"Don't!" Jackson warned, stopping her, his fear clear—much stronger than hers.

***

Charlotte had been preparing dinner while simultaneously baking a cake. Cooking, almost like magic, was soothing her frayed nerves, and she needed to do something for herself finally. Derek sat at the kitchen table, reading. Thanks to the full moon, all his wounds had completely healed—something they had stubbornly refused to do for nearly three days prior. Flour covered Charlotte's hands up to her elbows when her phone, resting on the table, rang.

The werewolf glanced up from his book and read the caller's name aloud.

"Stiles?" he murmured, raising an eyebrow. Seeing that Charlotte was in no position to answer the call, Derek picked up the phone and held it to her ear. It was a full moon, after all, and it wouldn't have been surprising if two of her students had found themselves in trouble again. She and Derek had previously agreed to let the teenagers try to handle things on their own, to see how much they really needed adult intervention.

"I'm listening," Charlotte sighed heavily into the phone, smiling at Derek in gratitude for his help.

"Scott got away again... He tore his cuffs... He's been all over the place today... He said if he got out, he'd kill someone... I don't know what to do... I'm begging you, you have to help me! You have to stop him!" Stiles' voice was frantic, his nerves so frazzled that he didn't even realize he was addressing his teacher without the usual formalities.

Charlotte frowned for a moment, raising a questioning glance at Derek. The werewolf simply nodded, helped her balance the phone between her ear and shoulder, and swiftly left the house, setting off to find the enraged teenage werewolf.

"Stiles, calm down. Help is on the way. Where are you?"

"I'm driving through the Preserve... I saw him run into the woods... And I heard on the police radio they found someone..."

Charlotte paused, her mind racing. If Scott was truly in the state his friend described, no human should be anywhere near him.

"Are the police there?" she asked, her voice firm.

"I think so..."

"Check that it's not his doing. I'll handle the rest," she said, washing her hands in the meantime. She easily ended the call and stood there, thinking. Derek could undoubtedly track the teenager by scent and, with any luck, might talk him down before he hurt anyone. The police report of a body found in the woods was concerning, but she sincerely doubted that her student was responsible.

Derek quickly caught the familiar scent of the teenager, his heightened senses guiding him unerringly. In werewolf form, Scott was a storm of anger and bloodlust, much to Derek's dismay. He sprinted as fast as he could until he reached the parking lot outside the sports shop, which bordered the woods. He spotted Scott just in time. Without hesitation, Derek rushed toward him, throwing him off the roof of a car where two people stood. He hoped they hadn't seen Scott before he hurled him into the trees, sending him tumbling into a ravine that started just beyond the parking lot.

Derek leaped right after him, knowing that if he lost sight of Scott even for a moment, he might not catch up again. The boy was impossibly fast. Derek shrugged his shoulders and cracked his neck, letting his control slip slightly as he shifted fully into his wolf form. When he wasn't holding himself back, everything worked better—he stood a better chance against the younger werewolf.

The full moon's influence completely consumed Scott. He charged at Derek wildly, incapable of predicting his movements. Derek, in contrast, simply grabbed the boy's arm and, using teenager's own momentum, twisted it behind his back, immobilizing him.

"Scott!" Derek shouted into his ear. "Stop!" But the kid fought back harder, so Derek shoved him directly into a nearby tree.

Unfortunately, Scott was relentless. Within seconds, he was back on his feet, lunging at Derek again. This time, Derek used the boy's momentum against him once more, rolling onto his back, planting his feet into Scott's chest, and launching him behind him before immediately springing to his feet. Derek was growing annoyed. His wounds had healed, but they still throbbed faintly. He had hoped for a quiet evening, with a good book and the company of a beautiful woman. Instead, here he was, battling a frenzied teenage werewolf in the woods. He hated full moons.

Scott attacked again, this time swiping viciously at Derek's face with his claws. Derek didn't block the blows—he simply dodged them with ease. When Scott lost his balance for a fraction of a second, Derek struck, kicking him in the ribs and sending him sprawling to the ground. The crack of breaking bones was audible, but Scott's anger drowned out the pain. He charged again, but Derek easily lifted him and slammed him to the ground. Roaring directly into Scott's face, Derek triggered a primal sense of fear in the boy, jolting him back to his senses.

Derek straightened up, seeing that he had finally broken through Scott's frenzy. He approached, locking his wolfish nature back into a cage of composure, his face returning to its human form. Scott was panting heavily, terrified, his golden eyes glowing and his fangs protruding beyond his lips. He stared at his fingers, which had become claws. Derek watched him closely, unsure if he'd have to fight again, as it seemed Scott didn't yet recognize him.

"What's happening to me?" Scott asked, his voice carrying a wolfish echo.

"Exactly what he wants to happen," Derek replied, now calm.

He helped the boy up, and they began the long trek through the woods toward Scott's house. By the time they arrived, Scott was barely moving, his ribs healing slowly as the adrenaline drained from his system. Derek escorted him all the way to his room, ensuring he was safe before finally leaving, his own exhaustion creeping in.

The teenager sat heavily on the bed. Derek regarded him with a gaze that, if one looked closely enough, might show a hint of concern, though he said nothing. He turned to leave.

"Wait..." Scott inhaled deeply through his nose, catching a familiar scent—the same one he'd picked up earlier when he approached Lydia and Mrs. Benoit. His eyes widened in surprise. However, when Derek looked back at him, Scott decided not to share this observation. "I can't do this. I can't be this and be with Allison. I need you to tell me the truth. Is there a cure?" His voice wavered, the question even more pressing than the discovery he'd just made.

"For someone who was bitten?" Derek paused, thinking. "I've heard of one. But I don't know if it's true."

"What is it?"

"I once heard a myth... that you have to kill the one who bit you," Derek said, his voice carrying a strange weight, as if the words held deeper meaning.

"Kill the Alpha?" Scott's shock was palpable. Derek couldn't quite tell if it was the idea of killing or the thought of who he'd have to kill that shook the boy.

Derek merely nodded, the confirmation almost sending Scott into a panic. Sensing the boy's turmoil, Derek approached him.

"You help me find him, Scott, and I'll help you kill him," Derek said quietly, his voice laced with menace, though it was directed solely at the Alpha. Strangely, the tone seemed to calm Scott, who glanced at Derek carefully. He took another breath, confirming the scent that had sparked his earlier curiosity.

"What about your girlfriend?" Scott asked, catching Derek off guard.

"What..." Derek muttered to himself, momentarily thrown, but he quickly brushed it off. "You've finally learned to use your nose? Good, you're making progress... And as for Charlie..." He paused, considering whether the term "girlfriend," truly applied. "It's none of her business. Her job is to protect the innocents. Getting rid of the Alpha will only help her do that."

"You fooled me..." Scott muttered, knowing Derek would hear him.

"Did I?" Derek raised an eyebrow, studying the boy. "When exactly?"

Scott's voice carried a quiet resentment as he said, "You told me to cut myself off from Allison... but you have someone yourself..."

"Scott..." Derek sighed heavily. "What did you just say yourself? You can't be with her because you're not in control. I never said you should avoid girls for the rest of your life."

Charlotte was right, he thought. Teenagers really struggled with seeing beyond their own perspective, incapable of grasping more complex nuances. With another sigh, Derek turned and finally left, leaving Scott alone with his thoughts.

***

Stiles ended the call with the teacher and pressed harder on the accelerator. He was both furious and terrified; the fear gnawing at him, making his heart race. His anxiety spiked when he finally saw the flashing lights of police cars and an ambulance up ahead. Slamming the car to a halt, he jumped out and ran toward the scene, eyes locking onto the paramedics carrying a body on a stretcher. The sheet draped over the figure told him all he needed to know—someone was dead, just like the man at the DVD rental shop.

"Dad?" he called out, his voice edged with desperation. He knew his father was on the night shift, but there was no response. The other officers gave him puzzled looks, adding to his panic.

His mind raced. What if Scott had gotten to his dad? What if, in a fit of uncontrollable bloodlust, Scott had attacked and killed him? Stiles' stomach churned at the thought. Could Scott have been so furious with him he'd taken it out on his father?

"Has anyone seen my dad?" he shouted when he spotted Diana, the woman who had once looked after him as a child and now worked with his father. But he didn't wait for her response. He locked his eyes on the stretcher and rushed toward it. Diana had to hold him back forcefully, preventing him from yanking the sheet off the body, but not before he caught a glimpse of a hand sticking out from underneath—a hand badly burned, almost charred.

"Stiles, what the hell are you doing out here?" a familiar voice called. It was the Sheriff.

At the sight of his father, Stiles let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and practically threw himself into his dad's arms, hugging him tightly. Relief flooded him—his fears had been nothing more than nightmares.

The Sheriff, clearly confused by his son's sudden embrace, hugged him back. Over Stiles' shoulder, he smiled at Diana, signaling that everything was fine and she could return to her duties.

None of the people bustling around the scene noticed the car parked in the shadows, or the two figures quietly watching from inside.

"That's Stiles?" Chris Argent asked his sister, seated beside him.

"Another friend of Allison's," Kate replied.

"You going to tell me about that talk you had with her?" Chris asked, his gaze still on the scene.

"You tell me something first. That night you came across the two Betas? One of them was smaller, right? Was he just smaller, or could he have been younger too?"

"You have an idea who it might be?" Chris smiled knowingly, catching on to what Kate was suggesting. He narrowed his eyes, studying the Sheriff's son, who was now deep in conversation with his father. His brow furrowed in thought.

"I'm working on a theory... I think it's time to pay the witch a visit," Kate muttered under her breath.

Her brother glanced at her, sighed heavily, and turned the key in the ignition. He had been delaying this for a while, knowing the visit was inevitable. Chris had already checked out where Allison's teacher lived, not out of immediate necessity but as part of a contingency plan—one he now realized he couldn't put off any longer.

As they pulled up outside a small house on the edge of the woods, a palpable sense of unease gripped Chris. In stark contrast, Kate was practically gleeful at the prospect of meeting the enigmatic witch. While Kate's upbringing was filled with stories that fueled her anger towards Charlotte Benoit, Chris held a more profound worry. He understood the potential danger that could arise if Kate confronted the witch on her own.

Recognizing the gravity of the situation, Chris stepped out of the car alongside his sister, resolute that she wouldn't confront Charlotte unattended. The door swung open to reveal a visibly surprised Charlotte, dressed in a worn black tracksuit and a matching hooded sweatshirt with rolled-up sleeves dusted in flour. Her face, partially obscured by oversized black-framed glasses, revealed a shock of red hair hastily pinned up, with a few rebellious strands cascading around her face. Despite her initial surprise, Charlotte didn't seem afraid.

The three of them—Chris, Kate, and Charlotte—stood in an awkward triangle at the threshold. Chris, wary but determined, followed as Kate brazenly entered the house without waiting for an invitation. Charlotte sighed, offering Chris a resigned gesture to come inside as well. Kate, undeterred, ventured into the living room and plopped onto the sofa, with Chris trailing behind her. Charlotte, perched on the edge of an armchair, sat as if ready to flee at a moment's notice, though her expression remained composed.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?" Charlotte asked bluntly.

"Well, Auntie, you won't even offer us anything to drink?" Kate quipped with a hint of irony, her eyes sweeping over the petite woman before her. The stories passed down from her father had painted a vivid picture of the witch who had robbed her of her mother.

"Perhaps I'd suggest that if you were the first to exhibit even a modicum of manners..." Charlotte muttered, more to herself than her unwelcome guests.

"Thanks to you, I had no one to teach me," Kate retorted, her tone sharp.

"So, you're just here to talk about Luise?" Charlotte asked with a wry smile. "I think it'd be much more useful for you to talk to her yourself. I can give you her number..."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Kate almost shouted, leaving Charlotte wide-eyed in surprise.

"Gerard told us Luise was dead," Chris explained calmly, prompting a grim, almost mocking laugh from the witch.

"For him, she probably is. I'm not surprised he gave you his version of events, painting both of us in the worst possible light." She glanced between her guests. "I see you still remember something," she added, turning to Chris. "But you haven't enlightened your sister..."

"We're not here for sentimental reasons," Kate snapped, her patience wearing thin. "I'm not here to talk about the mother who left me. We're here to find out who the Alpha is, and your connection to the werewolves in this town."

"I don't know who the Alpha is," Charlotte admitted frankly. "I'm searching for him, too. The werewolves here, like you, are trying to stop him—with my help."

Chris studied her, his expression unreadable, but he remained silent, allowing his sister to press forward. Unfortunately, Kate's patience had run out. She rose abruptly from the sofa and made her way to the door. Chris followed at a more measured pace. As Kate exited the house, Chris paused and turned back to Charlotte.

"She's going to inform Gerard about you. Be prepared for that. I can't intervene..." His voice carried a note of sadness, perhaps even sympathy.

Charlotte nodded in acknowledgment, accepting the inevitable. She offered him a wistful smile before gently closing the door behind them, releasing a long sigh of relief. She couldn't help but feel fortunate that Derek hadn't returned yet from his mission to retrieve Scott.

Upon finally returning home, Derek froze as soon as he crossed the threshold. A strange and unpleasant scent lingered on the ground floor, immediately catching his attention. With a growing sense of unease, he cautiously opened the door to the next room, searching for Charlie. There she was, in the kitchen, absorbed in a book with a mug of warm coffee in hand. He scrutinized her closely, his eyes sweeping over her for any signs of injury.

"The Argents paid me a delightful courtesy visit," she explained, noticing the concern etched on his face and offering a reassuring smile. "They know who I am, so it was only a matter of time. But they didn't stay long. Seems Kate's not particularly fond of me."

She turned away to prepare some tea, unaware of the fleeting shadow that passed over Derek's eyes or the slight curl of his lips at the mention of the Huntress. Even if she had noticed, she would have likely attributed it to their recent encounter with Kate.

"How did things go with Scott?" she asked, handing him a mug before moving into the living room, where she settled on the carpet in front of the fireplace.

Derek followed her lead, choosing not to sit on the couch, which still carried the lingering scent of the Hunters. With a deep sigh, he leaned against the coffee table, studying Charlie's face as if contemplating how to word his thoughts.

"Just as you suspected, he's stubborn and self-obsessed. But he finally realized that we're..." Derek hesitated, unsure how to define the nebulous nature of their relationship. "Together."

Charlie nodded, her smile warm and reassuring.

"You know, we don't need to define ourselves. We're both adults, not exactly bound by any social framework," she said casually, taking a sip of her coffee.

Derek nodded silently, not wanting to disrupt the fragile understanding they shared.

"Scott asked me about a cure," the werewolf returned to the earlier conversation, instinctively reaching out to pull her closer to him.

"And what did you tell him? Is there even a cure?" she asked, curiosity piqued as she studied his profile, now nestled comfortably against his side.

"It's just a rumor... But it gave him hope," Derek muttered. Sensing her expectation for more, he added, "Apparently, you have to kill the one who bit you."

In an instant, she stiffened, pulling back to look at him, her eyes wide with disbelief.

"Did you actually tell him that?" she exclaimed, her voice tight with concern. "You can't be serious... You can't burden a teenager with something like that—he'll break under the pressure. He's still practically a child. And it might not even be true," she scrutinized him closely. "You don't even believe it's true yourself."

A heavy silence settled between them, thick with tension. Derek averted his gaze, unwilling to face the disappointment he feared in her eyes. She was right—he shouldn't have given Scott false hope, a path that might lead nowhere. But he couldn't bring himself to take away that hope entirely. He might not have experienced being bitten, but he understood all too well what it felt like to have your life torn apart by forces beyond your control.

Sensing the inner turmoil in him, Charlie shifted onto her knees and moved closer. Her small hands, still faintly scented with flour and butter, cradled his face gently.

"Derek," she whispered, locking eyes with him. "I need you to promise me you won't let Scott take a life..." He tried to look away, but her grip tightened, holding him in place. "Promise me you'll at least try to prevent it," she urged, her voice carrying a quiet desperation.

In response, Derek wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer until her knees rested on either side of his hips. She pressed against his chest, her warm breath fanning across his skin as her nose nestled into the curve of his neck.

"I promise," he whispered into her hair before placing a soft kiss atop her head.

***

Jackson drove Allison back to her place. Despite the outward calmness of the girl, he felt a profound unease, attributing it to his own suspicions that remained unspoken. Upon pulling into his garage and stepping out of the car, something caught his eye.

Examining the roof of the car, he noticed scratches and a peculiar object wedged just above the door. He scrutinized the mysterious item and, with considerable effort, extracted it from the car's body. The small, slightly triangular object turned out to be a claw, noticeably too large for any creature other than a bear. Taking the find with him, he reevaluated it more closely in the better lighting of his room.

A chilling realization struck him. Initially resistant to believe his own thoughts, he shook off his bewilderment. Retrieving a lacrosse glove from one of his drawers, specifically one belonging to McCall, taken from the field after the first game of the season, he placed it on his palm. Gripping the claw with his other hand, he aligned both finds against each other, confirming his improbable theory. The claw fit seamlessly into the hole at the fingertips of the glove, as if someone had purposefully punctured it.

There could only be one interpretation...