January 9th 2011 - Sunday

The last light of day filtered through the dense canopy of trees, casting a soft glow on the forest floor as dusk settled over Beacon Hills. Charlotte laced up her running shoes, her mind already clearing with the promise of an evening jog. Isle, her marbled border collie, danced around her feet, eager to begin their routine.

"Ready, girl?" Charlotte asked, scratching Isle behind the ears. The dog responded with an enthusiastic bark, her tail wagging furiously.

The air was cool and fresh as they set off down the narrow, winding trails that snaked through the woods surrounding Beacon Hills. This was Charlotte's sanctuary, a time when she could let her mind wander and her body find a rhythm. Isle trotted ahead, her nose close to the ground, occasionally glancing back to make sure her mistress was following.

The forest was alive with the sounds of nature settling in for the night. Birds chirped their evening songs, and the rustle of small animals scurrying through the underbrush provided a soothing backdrop to Charlotte's thoughts. She loved these moments of solitude, where the only thing that mattered was the steady beat of her footsteps and the cool air filling her lungs.

They had been jogging for about twenty minutes when Isle suddenly stopped. Her ears pricked and her body tense. Charlotte slowed to a walk, scanning the surroundings for any sign of trouble.

"What is it, girl?" she asked, approaching Isle, who was now sniffing intently at a spot just off the trail.

Before she could investigate further, a voice called out from behind her. "Excuse me, miss! Do you need some help?"

She turned to see a man jogging up the path towards her. He was tall and lean, with a shock of graying hair and a no-nonsense demeanor. His expression softened as he approached, seeing Charlotte and Isle.

"Sorry to startle you," he said, slightly out of breath. "I'm Adrian Harris, chemistry teacher at Beacon Hills High. I haven't seen you around here before."

"Charlotte Benoit," she replied, extending a hand. "I'm new to town. History teacher. Nice to meet you."

Adrian shook her hand, a curious look crossing his face. "A pleasure. What's your dog found there?"

Charlotte looked back at her dog, who was now whining softly and pawing at the ground. "I'm not sure, but she's definitely found something."

Together, they approached the spot where Isle was fixated. As they got closer, a foul smell hit them, making both of them recoil.

"Oh God," Adrian muttered, covering his nose with his sleeve.

Charlotte's heart sank as she pushed through the underbrush, revealing a grisly sight. Half-buried under leaves and dirt was the lower half of a human body, severed cleanly at the waist. The Lurker within her stirred, its dark presence whispering in her mind, reminding her of its ever-watchful gaze.

"Call 911," Charlotte said, her voice steady despite the horror in front of her. "We need to report this immediately."

Adrian fumbled for his phone, his hands shaking. "Do you think it's someone from town?"

"I don't know," Charlotte replied, her mind racing. She could feel the Lurker's dark energy simmering beneath her calm exterior, pushing her to investigate, to unleash its power. But she pushed it back down, focusing on the task at hand. "But we need to make sure the authorities get here quickly. Isle, stay back."

Isle obediently sat down, her eyes still locked on the gruesome discovery. As Adrian made the call, Charlotte surveyed the scene, looking for any clues that might indicate who the victim was or what had happened. The forest, so peaceful moments ago, now felt menacing, the shadows deeper and the sounds more sinister.

Adrian finished the call and joined Charlotte, his face pale. "They're on their way. What do you think happened here?"

"I'm not sure yet," she admitted, "but it doesn't look like an animal attack. The cut is too clean."

As they waited for the police to arrive, Charlotte couldn't shake the feeling that this was only the beginning of something much darker. She glanced at Isle, who was still on high alert, and then back at Adrian.

"So, chemistry, huh?" she asked, trying to distract them both from the gruesome scene. "I guess we'll be colleagues."

Adrian managed a weak smile. "Yeah, it looks like it. Welcome to Beacon Hills, where the weird never takes a day off."

The minutes stretched into what felt like hours before the distant sound of sirens pierced the evening air. Charlotte took a deep breath, steeling herself for the questions and the investigation that would follow. She had come to Beacon Hills for a fresh case, but the darkness she found here was worse than she expected.

As the first police officers arrived and secured the scene, Charlotte couldn't help but wonder what other secrets these woods held—and how many more bodies might be hidden beneath the surface. The Lurker's presence was a constant reminder of her own dark past, and she knew that whatever had happened here, she would need to stay vigilant.

🌙

Nestled at the edge of the dense forest, the two-storey house of the McCall family stood like a sentinel, watching over the woods with its weathered wooden facade and ivy-clad walls. The thumping beat of youthful music reverberated through an upstairs window, where a determined teenager meticulously braided a new net onto his lacrosse stick. The room was a chaotic blend of sports gear and school books, posters of lacrosse players, and rock bands covering the walls. Every so often, Scott glanced at a set of instructions, ensuring his work was flawless. Satisfied with the strength of the weave, he tested it with a firm punch of his fist. Rising from his chair, he stretched before the mirror, critically observing his reflection. His hard work over the semester break had paid off, and while he knew more exercise wouldn't hurt, he was pleased with his progress. His naturally tanned skin, a testament to his mother's Hispanic heritage, glowed softly under the light, accentuating the muscles that had begun to take shape.

Reaching for his lacrosse stick, he swung it experimentally, but his aim was off, and the nightlight on his table went crashing to the floor, shattering with a loud clatter. The room's dim light flickered, casting eerie shadows on the walls. From downstairs, his mother's voice carried up, tinged with a mix of amusement and concern.

"Glue's in the cabinet!" she called. Moments later, she appeared in the doorway, her petite frame outlined against the hallway light. Her storm of black curls, now neatly braided, framed her face, and her warm brown eyes—mirrored in her son's—reflected her worry. She wore a bright green nurse's uniform, which stood out against the dim surroundings.

"I thought you quit lacrosse," she remarked, eyeing the broken lamp with a hint of a smile.

"I didn't quit, I just never played," Scott sighed, the frustration of the previous semester where he hadn't made the team weighing heavily on him. But this time would be different.

"Have you thought about quitting?" Melissa asked, her voice gentle yet serious. She stepped into the room, the scent of her floral perfume mingling with the musty smell of old sports equipment.

"Mom..." Scott began, but she interrupted.

"I just want you to be happy. High school should be fun. You should be out chasing girls..." she hesitated, then added, "But not catching them. Just chasing."

"Well, I'm not having much luck with that either," he muttered, looking down at the shattered lamp.

Melissa smiled softly. "Okay... I should go before I completely destroy your self-esteem. Don't worry, sophomore year is always better, I promise." She kissed his forehead, her touch warm and comforting, and left for the hospital.

Left alone, Scott gathered the broken lamp pieces, tossing them into the bin with a resigned sigh. He headed for the bathroom but was stopped by a strange noise—a faint rustling that seemed out of place. Grabbing his mom's baseball bat for protection, he quietly opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. The air was crisp, and the moon cast a silvery glow over the yard. His knuckles turned white with tension around the handle.

Suddenly, a figure dropped from the roof, causing Scott to jump back in fright, almost swinging the bat in defense. Both boys screamed in terror before recognizing each other.

"Stiles, what the hell are you doing?" Scott demanded, his heart still racing. The night was filled with the sounds of crickets and distant traffic, but Stiles' sudden appearance had shattered the peace.

"You weren't answering your phone," Stiles replied, struggling to free himself from the porch's overgrown vines. He was thinner than Scott, with a buzz cut contrasting Scott's longer, curly hair. "Why do you need that stick?"

"I thought it was some kind of predator!" Scott retorted, lowering the bat.

"Pre...?" Stiles echoed, catching his breath. "I know it's late, but you gotta hear this. My dad got called in. They're bringing in every officer from Beacon Hills and even the State Police."

"For what?" Scott asked, his initial fear giving way to curiosity. The moonlight highlighted his worried expression.

"Two joggers found a body in the woods," Stiles said, finally freeing himself and jumping down.

"A dead body?"

"No, a body of water. Yes, dumbass, a dead body."

"You mean like murdered?" Scott asked, disbelief etched on his face. The thought of a murder in their quiet town seemed surreal.

"Nobody knows yet. Just that it was a girl, probably in her twenties."

"Hold on. If they found a body, what are they looking for now?"

"That's the best part. They only found half!" Stiles' eyes sparkled with excitement. "Let's go!"

In no time, they arrived at the reserve's entrance in Stiles' blue jeep, its old engine sputtering to a stop. The forest, enveloping Beacon Hills, loomed ominously as they plunged into the darkness. The towering trees cast long shadows, and the air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. Stiles led with a flashlight, its beam cutting through the blackness, while Scott stumbled behind, trying to match his friend's pace.

"Are we seriously doing this?" Scott grumbled, his breath visible in the cool night air.

"You're the one always complaining that nothing ever happens in this town..."

"I was trying to get a good night's sleep for practice tomorrow."

"Right, because sitting on the bench is such a grueling effort."

"No, because I'm playing this year. I'm making first line," Scott declared, determination in his voice.

"That's the spirit. Everyone should have a dream. Even a pathetically unrealistic one," Stiles teased, smirking.

"Just out of curiosity, which half of the body are we looking for?" Scott changed the subject, irritated.

"Huh... I didn't even think about that."

"And what if whoever killed the girl is still out here?"

"Also something I didn't think about," Stiles admitted, without a hint of embarrassment.

"Comforting to know you've planned this out with your usual attention to detail," Scott muttered, his breath growing short. "Maybe the severe asthmatic should hold the flashlight?" he suggested, pausing to use his inhaler. The cold metal felt reassuring in his hand as he took a deep breath of the medication.

As they crested a hill, Stiles switched off his torch. Below, the forest was alive with the flashing lights of the police search. The distant murmur of voices and the occasional bark of search dogs reached them. Impatient, Stiles ran ahead, his silhouette darting between the trees, leaving Scott struggling to keep up. By the time he realized Scott was not with him, it was too late. The search dogs found him, and flashlights pinned him in place. The dog barked, and Stiles, startled, fell.

"Stop where you are!" an officer shouted, struggling to control the dog.

"Hold on, hold on, this little delinquent belongs to me," Sheriff Stilinski called out, recognizing his son.

🌙

Several police cars quickly arrived on the scene, their lights flashing ominously in the encroaching darkness. Sheriff Stilinski stepped out of his car, his expression a mixture of concern and determination. He approached Charlotte and Adrian, offering them warm blankets to stave off the chill of the unusually cold California evening. The shock of their discovery and the dropping temperatures had left them both on the verge of hypothermia.

As they gave their statements, a tall female deputy with a triangular face and eyes hidden behind large glasses handed them cups of steaming tea. They watched as more units arrived, including those with tracking dogs, to scour the area for the other half of the body.

Charlotte and Adrian were recounting their story for what felt like the third time when a commotion broke out nearby.

"Hold on, hold on, this little delinquent belongs to me," Sheriff Stilinski called out, striding towards the disturbance. A teenage boy was squirming under his stern gaze. "Do you listen in on all my phone calls?"

"No... not the boring ones," the boy replied, a cheeky grin playing on his lips.

The female deputy giggled into her sleeve, shaking her head in amusement.

"And where is your usual partner in crime?" the sheriff asked, scanning the woods with a look that suggested he expected another troublemaker to emerge at any moment.

"Who? Scott? He's home. Said he wanted to get a good night's sleep for the first day back at school," the boy answered, a bit too nonchalantly.

The sheriff clearly didn't believe him, shining his flashlight into the nearby bushes. "Scott?! Are you there?!"

When no one responded, he turned back to his son, suspicion still clouding his features. "Alright, young man, I'm taking you back to your car and we're going to discuss a little something called invasion of privacy."

Grabbing the boy by the collar, Sheriff Stilinski led him away, leaving Charlotte and Adrian to exchange bemused glances.

"He's the sheriff's son, Stiles," Adrian explained, sighing. "He's always getting involved in some scheme. Smart, but tragically hyperactive. He could definitely use more discipline."

"Adrian, you're exaggerating," the female deputy interjected. She looked younger than Adrian, with a faint resemblance that suggested they might be siblings. "Stiles has always been like that. He gets good grades, so don't be too hard on him."

Charlotte didn't know whether to admire the boy for his courage or pity him for his recklessness as she listened to his banter with his father, his tone void of any real animosity.

The deputy, who introduced herself as Diana Harris, confirming Charlotte's suspicions about her relation to Adrian, offered her a ride home. Just then, a wolf's howl echoed through the woods. It was a sound only Charlotte seemed to hear, but it sent a shiver down her spine. She knew it wasn't just a wolf. It was a werewolf, announcing that it had expanded its pack. Someone had been bitten tonight, not far from where they stood.

She glanced at the teenager, hoping he hadn't lied about his friend being safe at home.

For a fleeting moment, Charlotte hoped it was Laura making her presence known. But logic reminded her that there were more werewolves in the area, and the state of the corpse suggested something much darker. She suspected hunters might be in Beacon Hills; the clean cut of the body was a telltale sign of their methods. They often adhered to a code, performing such acts to prevent regeneration.

She had to investigate further to understand what had triggered the hunters, who didn't kill without reason. At least, most of them didn't.

Beacon Hills had given her a truly unexpected welcome.

🌙

Scott sighed, exasperated, as he concealed himself behind the trees, hoping to avoid the sharp gaze of his friend's father. The sheriff's calls echoed through the dense woods, but Scott remained hidden, resolute in his decision to walk back rather than endure a lecture.

His eyes strained against the encroaching darkness, a formidable challenge without the guiding beam of Stiles' flashlight. As he reached a fork in the path, he paused, deliberating his options. The night air grew colder, prompting him to pull the zipper of his sweatshirt up to his chin. A rustling among the trees made him freeze. His breath quickened, more from fear than his asthma. He reached for his inhaler, only to hear a noise growing nearer.

Suddenly, half a dozen deer burst through the trees, fleeing in blind panic and ignoring Scott entirely. He dropped his inhaler, shielding his head. As the deer vanished into the night, he began searching the forest floor for his inhaler, using his phone's dim screen for light. His search halted abruptly when his eyes met another's—glassy, brown, lifeless eyes staring from the face of a young, half-naked woman lying before him. The initial shock gave way to horror as he realized this was what he and Stiles had been searching for—the upper half of the body the police were desperately trying to locate.

Terrified, Scott scrambled back but tripped over a protruding root, tumbling down a forested incline. Before he could rise, a low, throaty growl immobilized him. Something large was approaching, emerging slowly from the shadows. In a flash, he saw razor-sharp teeth, felt a searing pain in his side, and jumped back, screaming. He managed to separate himself from the attacking beast and fled, branches tearing at his clothes and skin. Suddenly, the dense forest ended, and he stumbled out onto a road.

A horn blared. Scott spun around as a red SUV sped towards him. The driver swerved, narrowly avoiding him but did not stop. Slowly recovering from the shock, Scott felt the sharp pain in his side once more. Lifting his sweatshirt, he discovered a bite mark just above his hip. His attention was abruptly diverted by a chilling sound—a wolf's howl piercing the silent night.

🌙

January 10th 2011 - Monday

Scott rode into the school parking lot on his bike, a lacrosse stick strapped to his backpack, the net meticulously woven and ready for the first practice of the year. As he locked his bike to the stand, his eyes roved the sea of students, searching in vain for a familiar face.

Next to him gleamed a brand-new, silver Porsche, its custom registration plate making the owner unmistakably clear. The car door swung open, striking Scott's back as he bent down. Emerging from the vehicle was a handsome, square-jawed teenager with a meticulously styled haircut, his face marred by an expression of smug superiority.

"Dude. Watch the paint job," he barked, his voice dripping with condescension, not bothering to acknowledge that it was he who had struck Scott. He retrieved his belongings from the car, which included the gear for Scott's cherished lacrosse game.

"Jackson!" A shout interrupted them, drawing Jackson's attention. A feigned smile spread across his face as he turned and walked towards his friends, who were gathered around even more expensive cars, all dressed in designer clothes. The group, composed of well-built boys and heavily made-up girls, radiating an aura of exclusivity.

Left alone, Scott cast a wistful glance at the group, painfully aware that he was miles away from being part of their elite circle.

Just as he was about to enter the school, Stiles caught up with him, breathless and animated, diving straight into the topic of their late-night phone conversation from when Scott had finally made it home after his adventure in the woods.

"All right, let's see this thing..."

Scott set his backpack aside, waiting until the last group of students hurried past as the first bell of the year had already rung. Carefully, he lifted his T-shirt to reveal a sizable bandage, soaked in blood, just above his right hip. Stiles recoiled at the sight, almost reflexively reaching out, but Scott quickly lowered his shirt to stop him.

"It was too dark to see much, but I'm pretty sure it was a wolf."

"A wolf bit you?" Stiles raised his eyebrows as they joined the throng of students heading inside. "No way," he scoffed, a mocking smile playing on his lips.

"I heard a wolf howling."

"No, you didn't."

"What do you mean, 'No, I didn't'?" Scott snapped, certain of what he heard.

"California doesn't have wolves. Not for the last sixty years."

"Really?" Scott quipped, "Well, if you don't believe me about the wolf, then you're definitely not going to believe me when I tell you I saw the body."

"You what? Are you kidding me?" Stiles nearly jumped, his face lighting up with excitement.

"I wish. I'm going to have nightmares about it for a month."

"That's freaking awesome. This is seriously the best thing that's happened to this town..." Stiles fell silent, his eyes widening as he spotted the girl walking towards them. "...since the birth of Lydia Martin who's walking toward us right now... Hey, Lydia, how are you? You look..." Lydia, dressed in the latest designer fashion and towering on high heels, breezed past them without a glance, her confidence reminiscent of a Milan runway model. Stiles's face fell, and Scott couldn't help but smile at his friend's frustration. "...like you're going to ignore me. You're the cause of this, you know?" Stiles turned to Scott. "Dragging me down to your nerd's depths. I'm a nerd by association. I've been Scarlet-nerded by you."

Scott laughed, knowing full well that Stiles was joking. Despite their differences, Stiles was the one obsessed with computer games, comic books, and maintaining better grades, despite his notorious lack of focus.

🌙

Charlotte Benoit's first day at Beacon Hills High could have been considerably less stressful, if not for the previous day's escapades. As she navigated the bustling corridors, she reveled in the anonymity that came with being a teacher rather than a student. However, the warm welcome in the staff room took her by surprise. Headmaster Thomas, a relatively young man with a mane of blonde hair, ensured her arrival was celebrated with a cake baked by a colleague and a special, aromatic coffee prepared by another. Adrian Harris, ever the raconteur, took it upon himself to regale everyone with tales of their shared adventure from the previous day.

Charlotte, with her intricately braided hair adorned with beads and feathers, immediately drew attention. Her biker chic attire—complete with a Harley-style black leather jacket, simple t-shirt, skinny black jeans, and combat boots—contrasted sharply with the typical teacher ensemble. Her commanding presence and youthful appearance, which belied her true age, intrigued the other teachers. Consequently, she found herself at the center of attention for more than one reason.

Charlotte quickly developed a fondness for Sharon Ramsey, a dark-skinned, slightly squat English teacher with a perpetually smiling face. Sharon's perceptiveness and wholehearted dedication to her work, coupled with her detached approach to life, made her an instant favorite. Sharon pointed out a few students who warranted special attention.

Another person who endeared himself to Charlotte was Bobby Finstock, the economics teacher and coach of the school's athletics and lacrosse teams. Despite his scatterbrained demeanor, Bobby was extremely likable and passionate about his work. He spent most of the morning trying to explain the rules of lacrosse to Charlotte, and although he didn't succeed, his efforts lightened her mood and dispelled some of her stress as if by magic.

One individual who piqued Charlotte's curiosity was Marin Morrell, a young, dark-skinned woman who taught French and served as the school psychologist. Also new this term, Marin seemed not yet thirty, and despite the gentle smile on her lips, she avoided contact with other staff members. Charlotte sensed Marin's gaze on her several times, but each time she turned around, Marin was either looking the other way or had her nose buried in a book.

Charlotte's wave of nervousness returned when the bell rang, summoning the students to their first lesson. The teenagers took their seats, their expectant gazes fixed on her. Among the youthful faces, she recognized the freckled one of the sheriff's son she had encountered in the woods the previous evening. He smiled reassuringly, sensing her nervousness, which bolstered her spirits and propelled her into action.

"Welcome to your first history lesson of the year. My name is Charlotte Benoit, and I am your new teacher. To begin with, I ask for your patience and understanding as I'm sure I won't remember all your names straight away," she began, feeling their curious, respectful, and appraising gazes upon her. She knew she didn't look like a typical teacher—above all, she appeared too young, and she didn't try to hide it under stiff clothing.

The students exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of curiosity and skepticism. They were likely wondering how someone who looked barely older than themselves could be a teacher. Her unique appearance captivated some of them, while others seemed to assess her potential as a teacher. Charlotte could sense the underlying challenge in their eyes, a test of her authority and capability.

"This is not a joke. From today, I will be your teacher. I won't lie. I'm not nearly the same age as most of your teachers," she added, eliciting laughter. "However, this does not mean I will demand less from you, nor that you can treat me as your equal. If you show me respect, I will reciprocate. If not... you find that I can easily become your least favorite teacher."

"Fat chance, no one beats Harris," muttered the sheriff's son under his breath, but Charlotte pretended not to hear it.

"When I read out your name, please stand. I want to know your faces and be able to tell who you are. The rest of you, familiarize yourselves with the syllabuses on your desks."

As the students set about their assigned tasks, Charlotte began calling the attendance. She eventually reached the sheriff's son but stumbled over his unusually written, foreign-sounding name.

"Stilinski," she opted to use his surname. The boy perked up, smiling broadly, aware of the difficulty his name caused. "I don't believe either your friends or my colleagues call you by your first name. How should I address you?"

"Stiles, ma'am."

"All right, Stiles, thank you. Now, back to the syllabus."

At that moment, Charlotte noticed Scott McCall, seated next to Stiles, acting strangely. He seemed to listen to something inaudible to others, his eyes eventually fixing on the window overlooking the school driveway. Following his gaze, Charlotte saw the deputy headmaster accompanied by a pretty, dark-haired girl.

A moment later, the deputy headmaster entered the classroom with the girl. She was slim and tall, with a heart-shaped face and large brown eyes that reminded Charlotte of her cousin, Luise. However, unlike Luise's eyes, which were tired from witnessing too much cruelty, this girl's eyes were still innocent and full of trust.

"Class, this is our new student, Allison Argent. Please do your best to make her feel welcome," the deputy headmaster announced, drawing the students' attention. A delicate blush bloomed on Allison's cheeks as she smiled shyly. Though she seemed accustomed to such introductions, she was nonetheless uncomfortable. She headed for the nearest vacant seat, which happened to be behind Scott, who was staring at her.

As Allison was about to sit, Scott handed her one of his pens with a look of determination. She furrowed her brow in surprise, but then smiled warmly, accepting the pen and thanking him.

Charlotte froze when she heard Allison's name. It was familiar and foreboding, explaining Allison's resemblance to Luise. As the teenager sat down, Charlotte shook off her numbness and turned to the class.

"So, let's begin..."

By the end of the class, Charlotte felt a mix of relief and satisfaction. She had held the students' attention and establish a semblance of authority, all while staying true to herself. The day had begun with nerves and uncertainty, but as she walked out of the classroom, she felt a growing confidence in her new role.

🌙

Scott was just retrieving books from his locker for his next class when he noticed Allison across the corridor. Their eyes met, and she smiled, recognizing the cute boy who had lent her a pen. However, her attention was soon diverted by the books that tumbled out of her locker. She bent down to gather them, and when she finished, she attempted to look at the black-haired teenager again. However, a girl with reddish-blonde hair blocked her view.

"That jacket is absolutely killer! Where did you get it?" Lydia Martin asked, determined to take her new friend under her wing.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

"My mom was a buyer for a boutique back in San Francisco."

"You're my new best mate," Lydia declared with a flirtatious smile, causing her taller colleague to laugh. At that moment, Jackson Whittemore joined them, wrapping his arm around Lydia and kissing her.

At the other end of the corridor, Harley, a dark-skinned girl and their classmate, approached Stiles and Scott, observing the scene.

"Can someone tell me how New Girl is here all of five minutes and she's already hanging with Lydia's crowd?" Harley asked, eyeing Allison with jealousy.

"Because she's hot. Beautiful people herd together," Stiles replied thoughtlessly, not noticing Harley's disbelieving gaze as he carefully observed Lydia, with whom he was hopelessly in love.

"Is that why Lydia isn't herding with you?" Harley asked, tilting her head with an ironic smile.

"Lydia's a long-term project, okay? And trust me, I've got all the patience in the world for a high-yield investment like her."

"Well, I don't think New Girl's that pretty," Harley wrinkled her nose at Allison before shifting her attention to her colleagues. "Scott, you think she's pretty? Scott?"

The boy didn't respond, didn't even blink, as his entire attention was focused on Allison.

"I'd take that as a yes..." concluded Stiles, baring his teeth at his friend, who didn't even notice.

"There's a party this weekend," Lydia announced to her new friend.

"A party?"

"Friday night, you should come," Jackson said, eyeing Allison and smiling broadly, signaling his approval.

"I can't. It's Family Night this Friday," Allison stammered, feeling uncomfortable with the couple standing too close and invading her personal space. "But thanks for asking."

"You sure? Everyone's going after the scrimmage."

"You mean like football?" Allison asked, clearly interested.

"Football is a joke at Beacon," Jackson announced with a condescending smile, then explained, proudly puffing out his chest. "The sport here is Lacrosse. We won the state championship the last three years..."

"Because of a certain team captain," Lydia interjected, annoyed by Jackson's attention to another girl but masking it with a sweet smile.

"Every season starts with a scrimmage to decide the new first line. You ever watch Lacrosse?" Jackson continued, unconcerned with his girlfriend, who caressed his hair with her fingers.

"I'm actually not sure how it's played other than... well, violently."

"Maybe you should just come see for yourself. We have practice in a few minutes. You don't have to be anywhere, do you?"

"Well, no, I was just going..."

"Perfect. You're coming," Lydia interrupted, pulling on Allison's arm and leading her towards the pitch. Allison cast a quick, slightly askance glance towards Scott, who was still watching her, but let herself be swept along by her bossy friend without objection.

The school team, along with those hoping to join them this term, had already started to assemble on the pitch, and the stands were slowly filling with students ready to support their friends at their first training session.

"But if you play, I'll have no one to talk to on the bench. You really gonna' do that to your best friend?" Stiles asked in disbelief. Both friends were already dressed in their playing clothes and heading towards the rest of the team.

"I can't sit out again! My whole life is sitting on the sidelines. This season, I make first line." Scott was determined; he had been practicing all break for just this one reason. At one point, he spotted Lydia and Allison taking a seat in the stands and exchanged a smile with the latter, losing all sense of reality.

"McCall! You're in the goal!" Coach Finstock shouted in his face, throwing a special stick for catching goals into his hands and measuring the teenager with slightly arched eyes. His face expressed a complete lack of interest in anything but the game.

"But I've never played goal..." Scott was confused.

"I know. Scoring some shots will give the boys a confidence boost. It's a first-day-back thing. Get them energized, jazzed up."

"What about me?"

"Try not to take any in the face," the trainer concluded, patting Scott on the cheek before moving away, completely losing interest in him. "Come on! Here we go!" he shouted to the rest of the team as Scott lined up in goal.

The teenager was stressed. He was very keen to get on the team, but he hadn't expected this turn of events. He was losing hope, and the fact that the girl he liked was watching him closely only made it worse.

"Who is it?" Allison asked Lydia, pointing with her chin towards the gate.

"Him? I'm not sure, why?" Lydia measured the boy with a look in which there was a spark of recognition for a moment, but it disappeared right away, replaced by a bored expression.

"He's in my English class," the taller girl shrugged, trying to feign nonchalance.

A whistle sounded, announcing the start of training. The sound drilled deep into Scott's ears, its intensity causing excruciating pain. Never before had he realized that the tone could be so high and loud. He clutched his head, trying to stop the echo reverberating inside his skull, causing him to miss the fact that the first of his teammates had started an attack on goal, running towards him.

The coach handed the player the ball, which he caught in the net at the end of the stick he was holding, and then raced into Scott's position. However, Scott was too late to realize the situation, and as he raised his eyes, the ball bounced off his helmet. Without it, the ball would have landed in the middle of his face, most likely breaking his nose. The helmet, however, did not stop it from falling straight into the goal Scott was supposed to be defending. The players laughed mischievously, and even a not-so-pleasant smile blossomed on the coach's lips. Scott's cheeks were covered in a scarlet blush, his lips tightened in determination as he picked himself up and repositioned himself in goal. When the whistle sounded again, he was ready. The coach passed the ball to the next attacker, who redirected it towards the goal. Scott moved his net almost immediately. The first thing he noticed was the disbelief and disappointment on his opponent's face. When he turned his gaze to the net of his stick, his eyes widened in surprise. He had caught the ball, defending the goal. He hadn't expected it.

With the next attacker, the situation repeated itself. And again, each time the next person charged at him, he managed to defend the goal and catch the ball. It was completely effortless, as if he had been doing it since birth.

"He seems like he's pretty good," Allison commented on the actions of the boy who had lent her the pen.

"Very good indeed..." confirmed Lydia, intrigued as she followed every movement of Scott, whose figure now radiated confidence.

Meanwhile, on the pitch, Scott was enjoying himself more and more. All nervousness had slipped away somewhere, and he was beginning to get genuine enjoyment out of the game until he saw it was Jackson's turn. The team captain looked seriously upset, and despite the distance that separated them, Scott could sense the anger radiating from his opponent's silhouette.

"Oh god..." Scott had something to fear. Jackson was unquestionably the best player on their team, plus he was extremely aggressive.

Jackson amplified his shot, swinging his racket all the way from the jump. When it landed on the turf, he couldn't shake the shock, as the defender seemed to put no effort into stopping his attack. However, the ball landed straight in Scott's net, who beamed at at the sight, twirled his stick, and sent the ball towards the coach. It fell straight into his grasp, although Finstock made no move to catch it. Meanwhile, at the substitutes' bench, Stiles did a wild victory dance, shouting to all the spectators:

"That's my mate!"

Even Lydia, always cool and composed, jumped to her feet and squealed exultantly, then threw a defiant glance at her boyfriend, who measured her with surprised, angry eyes.

🌙

After school, the boys ventured into the woods, retracing their steps to where Scott had found the body and lost his inhaler. The overcast sky draped everything in a somber gray, but the forest had shed its eerie menace from the night before, the shadows softer, the silence less oppressive.

"I don't know what it was," the black-haired man began, his voice electric with excitement. "I felt like I had all the time in the world to catch the ball. And that's not the only weird thing. I can hear stuff I shouldn't be able to hear. And I can smell things."

"Smell things? Like what?" Stiles, trying to keep up with his friend's brisk pace, prodded for more details.

"Like the mint mojito gum in your pocket..."

"I don't have any..." Stiles slowed down, digging into his jacket pocket. His hand brushed against something, and he pulled out half a packet of mint mojito gum, giving Scott a look of disbelief, then a mocking smirk. "All this started with the bite?"

"What if it's an infection?" Scott frowned, a worried crease forming on his forehead. "What if my body is flooding with adrenaline before I go into shock? I knew I should have gone to the ER."

"I've actually heard of this," mused Stiles, adopting a serious expression and scrunching up his nose. "It's a specific kind of infection... All the symptoms add up. I think it's called... Lycanthropy."

"Really? What's that? Is it bad? It sounds bad..." Scott's concern was palpable.

"It is, but only once a month, on the night when it's full." Scott looked at his friend with uncomprehending eyes, but when Stiles started pretending to howl at the moon, Scott punched him in the arm.

"You're an ass," he muttered, moving ahead.

"Hey, you're the one who heard that wolf howling," laughed Stiles, trailing behind.

"There could be something seriously wrong with me!"

"I know, you're a werewolf!" Stiles teased, his amusement clear as Scott shot him a questioning look. "Okay, obviously, I'm kidding. But if you see me melting all the silver I can find, it's because Friday's a full moon."

Scott paused, scanning the woodland undergrowth with a furrowed brow. He felt an inexplicable certainty that he was in the right place, even though he couldn't distinguish these particular trees from any others in the forest. "I swear this was it. The body was here. The deer came running, I dropped my inhaler..." He bent down, sifting through the mulch with his hand in search of his lost medicine.

"Maybe the killer moved the body," Stiles suggested, kicking at the leaves absentmindedly.

"If he did, I hope he left my inhaler. Those things are like eighty bucks," sighed Scott, discouraged, turning his gaze back to the ground.

After a moment, Scott felt Stiles nervously patting his shoulder, trying to get his attention. He looked up to see Stiles adjusting his sweatshirt awkwardly, his eyes fixed on a silhouette standing nearby. The man, several years older than them, dressed in black with a leather jacket and light stubble on his square jaw, watched them in silence, exuding a strange tension. Scott stood up abruptly, feeling a rush of adrenaline. Stiles stuffed his hands deep in his pockets, licking his lips nervously and avoiding the stranger's gaze as he approached with quick, determined steps, his face a mask of impassivity but his movements radiating anger.

"What are you doing here?" The man's low voice cut through the tension. The boys were too stunned to reply immediately. Stiles nervously ran a hand over his head, staring at his shoes. "This is private property."

"Sorry, we didn't know," Stiles replied, swallowing nervously.

"We were just looking for something." Scott hesitated under the stranger's intense scrutiny. "Forget it. Sorry to bother you."

As they were about to leave, the man pulled an inhaler from his jacket pocket and tossed it to Scott, who caught it effortlessly. When Scott looked up in surprise, the man had already walked away.

"Come on, I have to get to work," Stiles urged, still looking shocked.

"Dude, that was Derek Hale. You remember him, right? He's only a few years older than us."

"Remember what?"

"His family. They all burned to death in a fire about ten years ago."

"I wonder why he's back," pondered Scott, staring into the woods where Derek had disappeared, clenching the inhaler tightly in his fist.

🌙

She didn't get home until late afternoon, her head buzzing with thoughts so many she feared they might start pouring out of her ears. In need of fresh air to calm her racing mind, she decided to take Isle for a walk in the woods, which began just beyond the back gate of her garden. She didn't plan on going far, though a quiet part of her hoped she might stumble upon the other half of the corpse before the police did. On reflection, she realized how incredibly suspicious that would look. She should avoid the forest for a few days; discovering a dead body should come as a shock to any mundane person.

Despite her intentions, her legs carried her farther than she expected. Before she knew it, the remnants of the burnt-out house where she was supposed to meet Laura days ago came into view between the trees. It was only then she realized her canine companion had disappeared. She called out to Isle, her voice echoing through the trees, but there was no sign of the spirited collie. Instead, a tall, well-built man in a leather jacket emerged from the shadows, blocking her path. Charlie swallowed hard at the sight of him; he was strikingly handsome, with a broad, chiseled jaw adorned with a trace of stubble, dark hair, and piercing grey-green eyes that stared at her intently from beneath furrowed brows. The top of her head barely reached his mouth, and for a fleeting moment, she considered bopping his nose and dashing off to hide in some rabbit hole. He definitely made her uneasy.

Within her, the Lurker, her inner demon, stirred. It sensed Derek's powerful aura, an intoxicating blend of danger and magnetism, and subtly nudged her towards him, amplifying his attractiveness in her eyes. The Lurker always reveled in pushing her towards danger, delighting in the thrill it brought.

"This is private property..." Derek announced in a low, surprisingly warm voice, trailing off as if giving her a chance to explain herself.

"Sorry, I didn't know... My dog got lost somewhere. Have you seen her? A marbled border collie with a red collar."

"No, but I can help look for her. It's not safe to walk alone in the woods," he said, and she sensed a hidden meaning in his words. Did he know about yesterday's incident, or could he even be the killer? He extended his hand towards her. "Derek Hale."

"Charlotte Benoit," she replied, shaking his hand and feeling a pleasant shiver run down her spine. His skin was warm, almost hot, against her icy fingers. "I wasn't alone, as I mentioned. Isle was with me, but she must have found something more interesting."

His lips curved slightly in an imitation of a smile, though his face remained a stony mask. They walked together towards her house in silence. She tried to watch him out of the corner of her eye, wondering if her suspicions were correct. Was he Laura's brother? Laura had mentioned no one else going to show in Beacon Hills alongside her. She decided not to ask; she was never particularly trusting, and he could have easily given her a false name. Trying to sense his aura became challenging for her because of her own accelerated heartbeat.

They searched for the dog for about half an hour. Derek hadn't spoken the entire time, giving the impression of a silent recluse, which only heightened her surprise that he had offered his help.

"I don't think there's anything to it..." she broke the silence. "Maybe she just went home."

"If you don't find her by tomorrow, I'd suggest checking with the nearest vets. Someone might have found her and taken her there," he replied, turning on his heel and heading back towards the burnt house.

"Yes... Thank you for your help!" she shouted after him, then trudged back to her cottage.

Unfortunately, Isle didn't make it home, and as lashing rain poured from the sky, Charlie decided she would visit the nearest vet the following day before work.

🌙

January 11th 2011 - Tuesday

This morning, when Scott opened his eyes, he was astonished to find himself not in the familiar confines of his bed but sprawled on the forest floor, covered in a blanket of fallen leaves. Panic surged through him as he bolted upright, only to bash his head against something solid. Blinking through the pain, he realized a large rock loomed above him. A quick survey of his surroundings revealed he was clad only in the boxers he had worn to bed the previous evening.

His mind raced to make sense of the situation. Sleepwalking, he concluded. He must have wandered into the forest in his sleep. Clambering up the small escarpment he had been sheltering under, a dense fog that shrouded the trees in a ghostly veil greeted him. His pulse quickened as he took stock of his surroundings, trying to figure out how to get home. Suddenly, he froze, holding his breath as a strange rustling reached his ears.

Taking a few cautious steps back, he felt the edge of a precipice beneath his bare feet and stopped. His eyes darted towards a disturbance among the trees just meters away. Unease gnawed at him, and he ran. First at a steady pace, then faster and faster. Glancing sideways, he saw a shadow moving in tandem with him, matching his speed. The shadow's eyes, glowing blood-red, locked onto his.

Scott's heart pounded in his chest as the shadow flitted from one side to the other, effortlessly keeping pace. He pushed himself to run faster, an inhuman speed he didn't know he possessed, but the shadow remained a constant, terrifying presence. Just as he felt the shadow's breath on his neck, a fence appeared before him, seemingly out of nowhere. Acting on pure instinct, he leaped over it, landing in a crouch on the other side.

The moment he touched down, the oppressive presence vanished, leaving him alone in an overgrown, neglected garden behind a small house with a sloping roof. Movement on the porch caught his attention—a short, slim woman in a baggy tracksuit approached, her dark red hair styled in a picturesque, disheveled bun.

"Scott? What happened?" she asked, her voice filled with concern. "What were you doing in the woods at this hour? Are you all right?"

"Mrs. Benoit..." he stammered, recognizing the young teacher. He looked bewildered, clearly struggling to process what had happened. "I... I'm fine, I think... I... I seem to have been sleepwalking..."

Charlotte's worry deepened, but she quickly invited him into her kitchen and offered him hot tea to help him calm down. Rummaging through one of her half-unpacked moving boxes, she found an old t-shirt belonging to her ex and handed it to Scott so he could cover up. Her cats, sensing the unusual tension, kept their distance from the unexpected visitor.

Once Scott had finished his tea, Charlotte drove him home. Although she was eager to meet his mother, Scott convinced her to postpone the introduction. Understanding his discomfort, she nodded, told him to take care, and then headed to the nearest veterinary clinic to look for her dog, Isle.

Dr. Alan Deaton, the veterinarian, was a warm, sympathetic man with a familiar glint in his eyes. He explained Isle had indeed been brought to his clinic with a broken paw, which had been treated by his assistant—Scott McCall, the same teenager she had just driven home.

🌙

January 14th 2011 - Friday - Full Moon

Stiles' fingers danced frenetically across the keyboard, his eyes glued to the monitor, which was beginning to pinch from staring too long. Article after article flashed by, each filled with words like "toadstool," "silver bullets," "Lycaon," and "Aconite," accompanied by illustrations of ferocious, man-wolf beasts. As he delved deeper into the abyss of the internet, he occasionally reached for books—some new and paperbound, others old and leatherbound, practically disintegrating.

If he had bothered to glance out the window, he would have noticed the sun sinking behind the horizon, giving way to the rising full moon. But his attention was elsewhere. The printer on his desk whirred to life, spitting out page after page. The last one depicted an engraving of a man with a crossbow standing over a half-transformed werewolf. A look of sheer terror etched itself onto Stiles' face, deepening when a knock echoed through the room. He nearly toppled off his chair but steadied himself before opening the door.

"Get in," he said urgently, recognizing Scott standing there. "You have to see this. I've been reading—websites, books, all this information..." Words tumbled out of him like a machine gun.

"How much Adderall have you had?" Scott asked, stepping inside.

"A lot. Doesn't matter. Just listen."

"Is this about the body?" Scott laughed, his black hair falling into his eyes. "Did they find who did it?"

"No, they're still questioning people. Even Derek Hale..."

"The guy from the woods?"

"Yeah, but that's not it," Stiles waved his arms, trying to capture Scott's attention. "Remember the joke the other day? Not a joke anymore." His voice dropped, his face suddenly serious. "The wolf. The bite in the woods." He paused, watching for Scott's reaction, but only saw confusion. "I started reading... Do you even know why wolves howl?" Bursting with energy, he got up and paced around the room.

"Should I?"

"It's a signal. When a wolf is alone, it howls to signal its location to the rest of the pack. So if you heard it howling, that means there are others. Maybe a whole pack of them," he said, clutching the rustling pages in his clammy hands.

"A pack of wolves," Scott replied, incredulous.

"No. Werewolves." The two boys locked eyes.

"You're seriously wasting my time with this?" Scott stood, frustration etched on his face. "You know, I'm picking Allison up in an hour."

"I saw you on the field, Scott," Stiles grabbed his friend's arm, stopping him. "What you did wasn't just amazing. It was impossible."

"So I made a good shot," Scott shrugged.

"No, you made an incredible shot. The way you moved... the speed, your reflexes," Stiles snatched Scott's bag, scattering printed pages around them. "People can't suddenly do that."

"I can't think about this now," Scott lost his patience. "We'll talk tomorrow, okay?"

"Tomorrow?! Don't you get it? The full moon is tonight!" Stiles' voice was filled with horror.

"What are you trying to do? I just made first line on the team. I have a date with a girl I can't believe wants to go out with me. Everything in my life is finally perfect. Why are you trying to ruin it?"

"I'm trying to help," Stiles insisted, pulling out a note from the stack of papers on his desk. "With the full moon, it's going to be too hard to resist, and there's no going back. You're cursed, Scott. And it's not just the moon that causes you to change; it's also when your bloodlust will be at its peak."

"Bloodlust?"

"Your urge to kill..."

"I'm already starting to have an urge to kill," Scott's voice dropped dangerously, eyes cold as he glared at Stiles.

"You need to hear this," Stiles grabbed a book, flipping to a specific paragraph. "The change can be triggered by anger or anything that raises your pulse," he quoted, then met Scott's eyes. "And I've never seen anyone raise your pulse like Allison does. You have to call her and cancel the date," he said, reaching for Scott's phone in his backpack.

"What are you doing?" Scott's voice was dangerously low.

"Just finding her number..." Stiles didn't lift his gaze from the phone.

"Give it to me!" Scott shouted, grabbing Stiles by the shirt and pinning him against the wall.

Stiles' eyes widened in fear as Scott's dark brown eyes flashed iridescent gold. Scott's voice turned into a growl, and he prepared to strike, but at the last moment, he stopped, breathing heavily. He let go and punched an office chair, sending it flying across the room. Shaking all over like a damp dog, he looked at Stiles with regret.

"I didn't mean to do that," he said, confused and apologetic. "I'm sorry. Really, I didn't mean it. I have to go. I have to get ready for the party. I'm sorry."

Left alone, Stiles slowly got up, adjusting his clothes and putting the chair back. He froze, running his hand over the backrest. Three parallel claw marks, cutting through the upholstery and the sponge underneath, confirmed his worst fears. The evidence was undeniable. Scott was becoming something far more dangerous than they had ever imagined.

🌙

As Charlotte wandered through the echoing corridors of the school, she overheard whispers about an upcoming "party for everyone" hosted by one of the school's elite, Lydia Martin, scheduled for Friday evening. The prospect unsettled her, especially given her growing suspicions of a werewolf lurking nearby. If the hero of Tuesday's incident had indeed been bitten, the potential for disaster loomed large, exacerbated by the number of students likely to attend Lydia's soiree. Even before the final bell tolled, she had scoured the school records to pinpoint Lydia's address, resolving to take a precautionary evening stroll in that direction.

Finding Lydia's house proved straightforward. Nestled in one of the city's more affluent neighborhoods, a cacophony of deafening music and a swarm of teenagers marked the residence. Charlotte observed the scene with a mix of irritation and wariness, her keen senses attuned to any sign of trouble. Determined to cover all angles, she circled the house. As she rounded the corner, she collided with a solid figure.

She didn't tumble, thanks to a firm hand that steadied her elbow. When she looked up, her eyes locked onto the familiar grey-green irises of Derek Hale. The scenario mirrored their first encounter almost to the letter.

"Are you following me?" They chorused, eyebrows arching in unison. Charlotte burst into laughter, and Derek's lips curved into a slight smile, his attempt to maintain a brooding, handsome façade still intact. The thought amused her, and she chuckled again.

"I'm just the over-zealous teacher making sure my students do nothing too reckless," she explained, nodding toward Lydia's house. "Also, I'm grabbing some fresh air. What's your excuse?"

"I was running an errand for a friend, but it seems he's just left... abandoning his girlfriend," he replied, glancing over her shoulder.

Turning, Charlotte spotted Allison Argent standing alone, her gaze fixed on the receding taillights of a car. Charlotte knew Allison had likely come with Scott, the boy who might have been bitten. If that were true, he was in deep trouble, especially considering Allison's heritage. The Argents were renowned in supernatural circles as Hunters, a modern-day inquisition dedicated to eradicating the supernatural. The odds of her surname being mere coincidence were slim, especially given the Argents' notorious history in Beacon Hills—a history Charlotte knew all too well.

Before she could contemplate further, Derek grabbed her arm and steered her toward Allison. "Allison, do you need a lift? I'm a friend of Scott's. My name's Derek," he introduced himself, gently nudging Charlotte forward to reassure the girl.

Charlotte hoped Allison wouldn't go off with a stranger so easily, even though Charlie's presence seemed to comfort her. Despite the possibility that Allison was trained in self-defense, it would still be reckless.

Allison agreed without hesitation, and the trio headed to a sleek, black Camaro parked nearby. As they drove, Allison directed Derek to her home, chatting lightly. Charlotte, meanwhile, marveled at the beautiful car and Derek's confident driving. When they reached Allison's house, she thanked them and stepped out, leaving an awkward silence in her wake.

Charlotte drummed her fingers on her knee, admiring Derek's vehicle, when he was driving to her home. She felt a pang of embarrassment over her own unkempt garden and the house's peeling façade. However, when she noticed Derek's gaze lingering on her own car—a 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle—her heart swelled with pride. She could talk about that car for hours.

Suddenly, she realized she was lost in thought, and a blush crept up her cheeks. "Uh, yes... thank you... for the lift," she stammered.

"Have you found your dog?" Derek asked, his eyes studying her intently. The redhead intrigued him; she seemed to meddle in affairs that concerned him too and appeared too harmless to be genuine. Derek, scarred by his past, trusted no one easily, yet this woman stirred his curiosity. He inhaled deeply, detecting the scents of coffee, citrus, and a faint trace of woods and blood. This mix of scents only heightened his suspicion.

"Ah, yes, Isle was at the vet, just as you said. Thank you. I need to go now. Good night," she replied, fumbling with the door handle. She slipped out and hurried toward her front door.

"See you later," Derek called after her, prompting a wave and a smile before he drove off.

Every time Derek was near, Charlotte felt a subtle, insidious stirring within her. It was as if her inner demon, usually a dormant, whispering presence, responded to his proximity. The sensation wasn't overpowering, but enough to make her wary. It gnawed at the edges of her consciousness, reminding her of its existence—a persistent, dark shadow that flickered with malevolent curiosity whenever Derek was around.

The rest of the evening, Charlotte paced her home, her mind racing. The Argents were back in town. A rogue Alpha was on the loose. Laura Hale had been murdered, and Derek Hale remained an enigma. Was he an Alpha seeking revenge for his sister's death, or was he just as lost as she was?

Charlotte spent over an hour at her desk, jotting down notes and planning. Quitting her job might free up time for her investigation, but her position at the school provided valuable access. Teenagers, with their resilience, were prime targets for werewolf bites. If the Alpha had any strategic sense, he would target the high school, where she would be ready.

The full moon troubled her, though not as severe as it did werewolves. Her blood felt like it was boiling, and her thoughts swirled like angry hornets. Sleep seemed elusive, but she resolved to try wrapping herself in a blanket and summoning her pets for comfort.

🌙

Scott burst into his room, slamming the door behind him with a resounding thud. His head pounded with excruciating pain, and his blood felt as if it were boiling beneath his skin. He staggered to the dresser, his reflection in the mirror above it showing not his familiar dark brown eyes, but two glowing yellow orbs that seemed to burn with an otherworldly intensity.

With a groan, he squeezed his eyes shut and collapsed to his knees, his breath coming in ragged, uncontrollable gasps. Another wave of agony surged through him, as if something were tearing his muscles apart from the inside. He opened his eyes briefly and saw that his fingernails had transformed into sharp claws, which he dug into the carpet in a desperate attempt to steady himself. The insistent knocking on his door sounded like thunderclaps to his heightened senses.

"Go away!" he roared, his voice raw and feral.

"Scott, it's me," came Stiles' voice, trembling with fear.

Scott rose to his feet and cracked the door open just a few inches, blocking his friend's view.

"Let me in, Scott. I can help..."

"No!" Scott growled, feeling the monstrous eyes still dominating his vision. He pressed against the door to prevent Stiles from entering. "Listen, you have to find Allison..."

"She's fine. I saw her get a ride. She's totally fine," Stiles reassured him with a nervous chuckle.

"Stiles, I think I know who it is."

"Just let me in and we can talk."

"It's Derek. Derek Hale's the werewolf. He's the one who bit me. He's the one who killed the girl in the woods." A heavy silence followed his words.

"Scott... Derek's the one who drove Allison from the party!"

The door slammed shut with a force that sent Stiles stumbling into the corridor. He threw his weight against it, shouting for his friend, but was met with only silence. When he finally shoved the door open and burst into the room, he found the window wide open, curtains billowing in the night breeze. Scott was gone.

Rushing to the windowsill, Stiles looked out just in time to see Scott, fully transformed, sprinting on all fours toward the woods where the burnt remains of the Hale house stood. Without a moment's hesitation, Stiles bolted downstairs, jumped into his blue Jeep, and sped off in pursuit.

🌙

An agile silhouette, bathed in the silvery glow of the moon, flitted through the dense forest. Gleaming golden eyes pierced the darkness, scanning the underbrush with the keen precision of a hunting wolf. Every so often, he paused, ears twitching to catch the slightest rustle, nostrils flaring to discern the myriad scents on the breeze. Eventually, he arrived at a tree where a familiar black jacket, unmistakably belonging to Allison Argent, hung like a beacon in the night.

"Where is she?" The question was uttered softly, yet it carried an edge of urgency, fully aware that the one lurking in the shadows would hear it clearly.

"She's safe, from you," came the calm, unyielding reply, followed by the soft crunch of footsteps behind him.

Scott spun around, but Derek was faster. The older werewolf tackled him, and they tumbled through the forest litter, rolling over roots and fallen branches until they crashed into a clearing.

Derek pinned Scott against a sturdy tree, his intense gaze scrutinizing the boy's transformed features. The teenager's face, covered in an unnaturally thick beard for his age, sported impressive sideburns. His upper lip curled slightly, revealing sharpened, wolfish fangs. Eyebrows knitted tightly over his nose, creating a series of furrows that gave him a distinctly lupine appearance. His eyes, glowing a fierce golden hue, reflected a wild, primal fury.

"What did you do... ?" Scott's voice was a mixture of concern and accusation, the fate of the girl weighing heavily on his mind.

"Quiet," Derek hissed, his senses on high alert. He took a deep, steadying breath, frustration etched on his features. "It's too late. They're already here. Run!" He commanded, disappearing as swiftly as he had appeared.

Scott's eyes darted around in confusion before he sprang to his feet. His escape was short-lived as something struck the nearest tree with a blinding flash, lighting up the darkened forest like an explosive firework. Blinded, Scott staggered, blinking furiously to regain his sight. Pain seared through his arm; an arrow had pinned it to the tree behind him.

From the shadows emerged three men, one with a loaded crossbow and the other two brandishing machine guns. Terror gripped Scott's heart as he sensed the palpable hatred radiating from the men. The one with the crossbow stepped into the light, and for a fleeting moment, Scott thought he recognized him, but the moment passed when the man spoke.

"Take him."

Before they could move, a rustling sound heralded the swift, unseen retribution as one man was yanked into the darkness, followed swiftly by another. The leader dropped his crossbow, drawing his pistol as he scanned the shadows for the lurking danger.

Derek materialized beside Scott, snapping the arrow and freeing him in one fluid motion. Without a word, he pulled the boy behind him, and they bolted through the forest, leaving their assailants behind.

They finally halted miles away, Scott collapsing against a tree, gasping for breath.

"Who were they?" he panted, his voice trembling with residual fear.

"Hunters," Derek replied grimly, his eyes scanning the forest. "The kind who've been hunting us for centuries."

"Us?" Scott retorted, his voice rising in disbelief and anger. "You mean you. You did this to me!" he accused, pushing himself off the ground.

"Is it that bad, Scott?" Derek countered, incredulity and irritation mingling in his tone. He stepped closer, his presence imposing and unyielding. "That you can see better, hear more clearly, move faster than any human ever could? You've been given something most people would kill for," he declared passionately, his eyes burning with intensity. "The bite is a gift."

"I don't want it!" Scott's voice cracked with emotion, bordering on tears.

"You will," Derek said, his tone softening slightly. "And you're going to need me if you want to learn to control it. You and me, Scott," he placed a firm hand on the boy's shoulder. "We're brothers now."

With that, Derek straightened, leaving Scott leaning against the tree, and vanished into the enveloping darkness of the night.

🌙

January 15th 2011 - Saturday

As dawn approached, Charlotte stirred, sensing Isle's departure from the bed. It was a routine occurrence, yet the absence of the comforting presence of her dog and the cats, who had slipped out for a nocturnal hunt, left her feeling inexplicably alone. She sat up, flicked on the lamp, and froze. There, silhouetted against the window, stood Derek Hale, his face clouded with fury. Dressed in the same jeans and plain T-shirt he had worn earlier, a leather jacket casually slung over his shoulders, he exuded a menacing aura.

Before she could even react, he swiftly grabbed her arm, forcefully dragging her off the bed and pressing her against the wall. His voice, a low, accusing growl, sent chills down her spine. "Are you one of them?"

"W... Who?" Charlotte stammered, striving for calm despite her heart pounding like a war drum. Goosebumps prickled her skin, a mix of fear and the chilly night air contrasting with her sleep-warmed body.

"A hunter! Do you work with the Argents? You showed up in town just as they did!" His warm breath washed over her face, his eyes glowing an eerie blue, the shade of a killer's rage.

Anger flared within her. How dare he accuse her of collaborating with murderers when his own eyes, glowing blue instead of a golden hue, revealed his own guilt. Adrenaline surged, mixing with the indefinable darkness that lurked within her. The room filled with the scent of the forest, damp earth, and musk.

Her grip tightened on his forearm, nails digging into his skin. A growl escaped her lips, startling Derek enough to step back, scrutinizing her from head to toe. The glow faded from his eyes, replaced by something she couldn't decipher in her current state.

"I have never been and never will be a hunter, even if they ask," she growled, stepping forward and invading his space. "And you, boy, should think three times before you attack me!"

Though petite, her fiery hair and flashing green eyes, framed by the dim light of the night lamp, made her appear like an avenging goddess. Her tattoos—a raven, a Celtic tree, Egyptian symbols, a witch's hat on a broomstick, and a long, snakelike scar—told stories of her battles and resilience.

She could almost taste Derek's anger, now mingling with excitement at their proximity. He shoved her against the wall again, their bodies flush, his blood stirred by the full moon and her intoxicating scent. His eyes bore into hers, a strange connection and primal lust flickering between them.

"I can easily prove that I stopped being a boy a long time ago," he whispered, his breath hot against her ear, sending shivers down her neck.

"Is that so?" she challenged, her defiant gaze locked on his, a wry smile playing on her lips as she teetered on the edge of control.

Derek's hands found her waist, lifting her effortlessly. Suddenly, she was caught between him and the wall, their faces mere centimeters apart. His control slipped, and the electricity of their mutual attraction intensified.

Almost involuntarily, Charlotte's hands gripped his shoulders, and she wrapped her legs around his hips, drawing him closer. His hands braced against the wall beside her head. A low growl emanated from her throat, her eyes briefly glowing phosphorescent green.

His hands roamed over her thighs, fingers tightening as his lips crashed onto hers, his body pressing harder against her. His kiss was possessive and demanding, taking what he wanted. Her nails dug into his arms, piercing his skin.

She arched her back, pushing them away from the wall with surprising strength. They momentarily broke apart, Derek shedding his leather jacket. Then his hands tore at her silk shirt, hesitation flickering in his eyes before he reclaimed the control. The lamp fell, plunging the room into darkness.

Charlotte grasped his T-shirt, tearing it apart. The surge of power thrilled her. Derek responded in kind, ripping away her shirt. They pressed back against the wall, his hands roaming her body. He kissed a trail down her collarbone, his stubble grazing her skin.

Her nails traced his back, reaching for his belt. Their lips met again in a fevered kiss, his hands exploring her breasts, drawing a moan from her lips. He lifted her again, their bodies aligned, skin against skin, before he pulled back.

He kissed between her breasts, a moan escaping her lips, her frustration mounting. He sat on the bed, pulling her onto his lap. She pushed him onto his back, her hands framing his head, their eyes glowing with supernatural hues.

He groaned, their connection deepening as he filled her. She bit his shoulder, his hands gripping her hips. His teeth grazed her neck, sending waves of pleasure coursing through her.

They shifted, Derek now over her, his rhythm quickening. She wrapped her legs around him, their bodies moving in unison. His growl vibrated through his chest, her fingers tangled in his hair. He pinned her wrists above her head, the primal tension building until they both found release.

As they lay entwined, their breaths heavy and hearts racing, Charlotte felt a familiar, dark presence stirring within her. The Lurker, the demon within, reveled in the raw energy and passion, feeding on the tumultuous emotions. For a fleeting moment, she feared losing herself to its influence, but Derek's touch anchored her, pulling her back from the brink.

In the darkness, their hearts thundered. The room filled with the echo of their passion and the ever-looming shadow of the Lurker, a reminder of the dark power that resided within her, always waiting to seize control.