January 29th, 2011 - Saturday

An unwelcome chill roused him from sleep, one he hadn't felt in some time. The cold emptiness of the bed where he now lay alone gnawed at him, a sharp reminder of last night's resolution. He growled, irritated with himself, cursing the thought of the conversation he had promised to have. He had no desire for it, none whatsoever. Briefly, he toyed with the idea of fabricating an argument—some petty conflict that might justify severing his connection with the witch. Yet, no plausible excuse presented itself. Moreover, he found no enthusiasm for returning to the old, charred remains of a house that still bore the weight of tragedy from long ago. He'd spent enough days there already, sifting through the ashes of a dead past, hoping for some scrap of a clue while Charlotte busied herself with work.

He cast a glance at the alarm clock on the opposite side of the bed. It was past ten, a time he was unaccustomed to seeing from this side of sleep. But it was evident that his body had demanded the extra rest, and he wasn't inclined to fight it. Procrastination took hold as he tried to delay the inevitable. Would it be such a catastrophe to put off his decision for just one more day? He concluded it wouldn't. After all, the witch had saved his life only yesterday—he could afford her one more day before they parted ways.

With a reluctant sigh, he got out of bed, dressed, and let the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee guide him to the kitchen. He found Charlie in the kitchen, curled in an awkward but oddly endearing position. One leg was folded beneath her, while the other was drawn up to her chin, which rested lazily against her knee. In one hand, she held a book, and with the other holding a fork, she tried to turn the page. Her hair, swept into a messy bun atop her head, evoked a memory of his younger sister, Cora, who used to attempt combing her own hair before school with similarly disastrous results.

The witch, dressed in loose tracksuit bottoms and a matching tank top, sparked an unexpected warmth in his chest that made his breath catch for a moment. He stood in the doorway, unnoticed, momentarily confused about why he had ever wanted to distance himself from her. A peculiar sensation crept over him—an instinct that told him she was dangerous, untrustworthy, and altogether indifferent to him. But in that instant, he knew the truth: she wasn't indifferent. And that, above all, was what made her dangerous.

Her green eyes flicked up from the book, thoughtful, as if she had only just registered his presence. A moment later, her face lit up with a bright, genuine smile that seemed to warm the entire room. At that very moment, her scent reached him—a heady mixture of fresh coffee, citrus, and something else. Something she called "Darkness," but he knew it was simply a part of her being, a force woven into her very essence.

"Coffee in the pot, scrambled eggs in the pan," she said casually before returning her attention to the book.

Taking a seat opposite her, his breakfast in hand, he found himself scrutinizing the cover of her book. Violence Against Minors: Legal Aspects–What a Teacher Can Do. It was an unusual choice, especially for a witch. It veered far from any subject related to magic or the arcane, but considering her position as a school employee, it made some sense.

"What are your plans for today?" she asked, pulling him from his thoughts. She had felt his gaze lingering on her since he entered the kitchen, and it had made her uneasy. He'd been unusually quiet, even by his own standards. A flicker of worry crossed her mind, wondering if he was still feeling the effects of yesterday's ordeal, or perhaps their rather intimate night that followed.

"Would it bother you if I just rested?" he replied, choosing his words carefully, as if uncertain of how they might land.

"Of course not, though I suspect you'll be bored stiff," she said with a slight grin. "I have a parent-teacher meeting on Monday and need to prepare for it. Most of them will meet me for the first time, and I'd like to make a decent impression... but if you want, I could help you find something interesting to read. Or maybe we could rent a movie for later?" she suggested, her words spilling out in a nervous rush.

"That sounds like a good idea..." he said, immediately regretting it. He had the sinking feeling that he had just made a colossal mistake. A day with a book was manageable—he did like to read, after all. But a movie night? That was something else entirely, especially as he wrestled with thoughts of how to bring their acquaintance to an end. "Just... please don't—"

"I think horror is overkill, but how about Star Wars?" she interrupted, her face lighting up with excitement at the idea of visiting the video store. "Have you seen Star Wars? If you like it, we could do a whole marathon. I actually remember the premiere..." She trailed off, laughing at the expression on his face—caught somewhere between relief and abject terror. "Let me guess: you were worried I'd suggest a romantic comedy, and now you're horrified at how much of a nerd I am."

She was right. He was horrified. But the reason was altogether different.

***

That evening, as they had planned, Charlie made her way to the video rental shop. She had opted to handle the task herself, sensing that Derek might have no idea where to begin looking for Star Wars amidst the rows of shelves. It was late, the car park nearly deserted, save for two cars: an old, battered vehicle that likely belonged to the store's salesman, and a shiny new Volkswagen Beetle, which she had seen before in the school parking lot. As she passed by, she caught a glimpse of Lydia Martin sitting inside, posing for selfies with various practiced expressions. Charlie rolled her eyes at the sight and pushed open the door to the shop.

Inside, the fluorescent lights were flickering, casting a dim, erratic glow over the store. One of the tubes had probably burned out. Among the aisles, she spotted Jackson Whittemore, the lacrosse team captain, whose shoulder Scott had injured during the last practice she had watched. He was wandering aimlessly between shelves, visibly frustrated.

"Can somebody help me find The Notebook?" Jackson called out to the empty space, his voice tinged with irritation.

Charlie stifled a quiet laugh. It was obvious to her that Lydia had chosen the film, much to Jackson's displeasure. He had likely hoped for something with a bit more action—perhaps a sports film or at least a thriller. As he scanned the store for a salesman, his eyes fell on her, but he quickly decided to ignore her presence. Socializing with a teacher was the last thing on his mind.

"Hello? Anybody working here? Anybody at all?" Jackson's exasperated tone reverberated through the shop, and Charlie couldn't help but agree. She, too, had been searching for an employee for some time, having already picked out the movies she needed. In the distance, a phone rang behind the unattended counter, unanswered. "This has to be some kind of joke..."

Jackson ventured deeper into the store, his movements becoming more restless. Charlie followed his gaze as she approached, her eyes narrowing when she saw a pair of feet sticking out from behind one of the record racks. It seemed like someone had been attempting to fix the flickering light, as there was a ladder propped up nearby. Her first thought was that the man had fallen while working. She moved toward him, Jackson trailing behind her. But as they reached the figure, both of them froze.

The salesman lay sprawled on the ground, his throat brutally slashed, a pool of blood spreading like a macabre painting beneath him. His eyes were wide open, frozen in an expression of pure terror that death had failed to erase.

Jackson reacted instinctively, grabbing her arm and yanking her backward with such force that he knocked over the ladder. The lamp crashed to the ground, snapping the cord. Sparks shot out, and the remaining lights flickered wildly, casting the store into a chaotic strobe of shadow and light. Charlotte's instincts flared to life, sensing a presence beyond them. She turned quickly, her body tense as the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Jackson, breathing heavily, mirrored her movement, equally on edge.

In the darkness, a pair of blood-red eyes gleamed, staring at them with a predatory hunger that sent a chill down her spine. Jackson tugged at her again, pulling them both behind a nearby bookcase in a desperate attempt to hide from whatever beast was lurking in the shadows. He couldn't identify what it was, but Charlie didn't need to wonder. She knew exactly what kind of creature they were dealing with.

Pulling out her phone with trembling hands, she quickly texted Derek: "α in rental." She hoped he would understand the urgency. After sending the message, she pocketed the phone and placed a reassuring hand on Jackson's shoulder. To her surprise, he squeezed her hand in return, a gesture of shared fear and solidarity that she hadn't expected from the typically arrogant and self-centered boy.

Jackson leaned out from behind the bookcase to get a glimpse of the creature. His head snapped back almost immediately, his breath catching in his throat as he tried to summon his courage. But there was no time to act. The sound of DVD cases crashing to the floor and bookshelves toppling over signaled the approach of their pursuer. Without warning, Jackson shoved her away, trying to push her out from under their fragile hiding spot while he leaped in the opposite direction.

Charlie hit the floor hard, her hand trapped beneath the weight of the overturned bookcase. Pain shot through her arm, sharp and immediate. The initial shock gave way to the horrifying realization that she had likely broken a bone in her forearm. Panic swelled within her as she scanned the room, her eyes darting in search of Jackson. He was only a few feet away, pinned beneath the other end of the fallen bookcase. He struggled to free himself, but then he froze, his gaze locked on something behind him.

A hulking, fur-covered figure emerged from the shadows, looming over the terrified boy. In the intermittent flashes of the flickering light, Charlotte could barely make out the creature's features. But she didn't need to see clearly to know what it was. Alpha. The beast didn't strike immediately, didn't tear at Jackson's throat as she had expected. Instead, it seemed to hesitate, as if considering its next move. She knew what it wanted. It intended to bite him, to turn him.

The thought jolted her into action. Muttering a quiet incantation under her breath, she grabbed a nearby DVD case with her uninjured hand and hurled it at the beast. As the case struck the creature's fur, sparks erupted across its body. The spell shouldn't have had any effect on the Alpha, yet it was enough to distract it. Without even looking at her, the beast bolted, crashing through the window and disappearing into the night.

Charlie wasted no time. She immediately called the police, knowing she wouldn't be able to lift the bookcase off Jackson by herself, not with her injury. Outside, she heard Lydia's piercing scream from the car park. Her heart pounded in her chest as she prayed the girl was merely frightened and not another victim of the beast that had just escaped into the darkness.

Help arrived swiftly, and before she could fully register what was happening, Charlotte found herself seated in the back of an ambulance. A paramedic was carefully bandaging her arm. Thankfully, her worst fears were unfounded—it turned out she hadn't broken it as she had initially suspected, merely severely bruised it. Still, it would need to be braced for the next few weeks, a fact that offered her little comfort. She knew that if she had any hope of closing the case of Laura's death and standing a chance against the beast, she would need to be at full strength. Painkillers and a brace wouldn't be enough.

When Sheriff Stilinski arrived at the scene, accompanied by his son, Stiles, it barely registered as a surprise to Charlotte. Their presence jolted her out of her gloomy thoughts, forcing her to refocus on the chaotic surroundings.

"I don't need to go to the hospital. I'm fine!" Jackson's voice rang out nearby, sharp with frustration. He was arguing with one of the officers, and Charlotte could see the fear in his eyes. He was still in shock, terrified, and utterly clueless about the true nature of what had attacked them. If she were in his position, she would likely feel the same desperate urge to go home, to crawl into bed and hide from the nightmare.

"I'm sorry, but the EMTs say you hit your head pretty hard," Sheriff Stilinski replied, his tone firm yet reassuring. "They need to make sure you don't have a concussion."

"What part of 'I'm fine' are you failing to grasp here? I want to go home."

"I understand..." The sheriff's voice remained calm, steady, though Charlotte sensed it was more out of professional habit than genuine empathy. If anything, there was a subtle undercurrent of reluctance in his demeanor. It didn't surprise her. She, too, found it hard to muster any real sympathy for Jackson, despite his model behavior in the classroom. Outside of lessons, the boy was insufferable.

"No, you don't understand!" Jackson's agitation escalated. "Which blows my mind, considering it's a pretty basic concept for a minimum-wage rent-a-cop like you! I want to go home!" His voice rose in a shout, inches from the sheriff's face. Charlotte could see the tension building in Stilinski's expression, and she had a feeling the boy was on the verge of a full-blown panic attack.

Before she could intervene, Stiles jumped in, darting out of his father's police car, eager to defuse the situation.

"Hey, is that a dead body?" Stiles called out, his voice cutting through the escalating argument. His father shot him an almost pleading look, one that immediately sent the boy retreating back to the van, a sheepish grin on his face.

The arrival of the body cart interrupted the scene, drawing attention as it approached the ambulance. Charlotte stepped out alongside Lydia, who was still in a state of shock, pale and trembling. They both moved aside to make room for the nurses as they loaded the body bag into the cart.

As Charlotte stood there, she inhaled deeply, letting the night air wash over her. Her senses sharpened, and something familiar caught her attention. For a fleeting moment, she detected a scent she knew all too well. Her eyes flicked upward, and there, on the roof of the rental shop, she caught sight of Scott and Derek, silently observing the scene below. She quickly averted her gaze, careful not to draw any unwanted attention to their presence.

After a brief pause, Derek appeared beside her, informing the officer that he would take her home. In response to the sheriff's questioning look, she merely nodded and followed the werewolf toward her car, which still sat in the parking lot. Standing next to the vehicle, Scott awaited them, a faintly puzzled expression on his face. It was clear he hadn't expected his companion bringing a teacher along, but he remained silent, withholding any questions.

Once they all settled into the car, Derek declared they needed to talk and drove them to the remnants of his burned-down home. Charlotte felt a pang of guilt for not being behind the wheel of her beloved car, but clenched her jaw in resignation—her injured arm made driving impossible.

"You know, I have a life too," Scott began as they stepped out of the vehicle.

"No, you don't," Derek retorted flatly.

"Yes, I do. I don't care what you say about him making me his pet—"

"Part of his pack," Charlotte interjected reflexively, "But it's all the same. Scott has school tomorrow; there's a parent-teacher meeting he needs to attend because he's failing chemistry," she announced pointedly.

Derek's eyes flickered with irritation. "Would you rather worry about his school, or would you rather worry about whether he survives?" His tone was sharp, and he leveled her with a hard stare. Charlotte returned it, unflinching. Sensing the tension crackling between them, Scott shifted uneasily, sighing loudly.

"We have less than a week until the full moon. Is it lost on you what happens then? The Alpha will kill Scott," Derek stated, each word emphasized with grim clarity.

"Seriously? Who made up these rules?" Scott's disbelief was palpable.

"It's a rite of passage into his pack," Derek explained, attempting to keep his composure, though his face betrayed the struggle.

"You know what else is a rite of passage?" Scott shot back. "Graduating high school. And you don't have to kill anyone for that. Why can't you just find him yourself? Why don't you sniff him out when he's human?"

"Because his human scent could be entirely different. It has to be you," Derek insisted. "You have a connection with him—a link you can't yet understand. If I can teach you to control your abilities, you can find him."

"If I help you find him, can you stop him?" Scott asked, his resistance visibly faltering.

"Not alone. We're stronger in numbers. A pack makes the individual more powerful."

"How am I supposed to help when I don't have a clue what I'm doing?"

"I'm going to teach you," Derek replied, his patience thinning. He felt like he was speaking to a brick wall, with Scott stubbornly refusing to listen. "Do you remember what happened the first night when you were shot in the arm? Right after you were hit?"

"When were you shot?" Charlotte asked, concerned, but neither of them acknowledged her. She remained behind Scott, watching the tense exchange unfold.

"I changed back," Scott answered.

"And when you were hit by the car? Same thing, right?"

"The car?" Charlotte's agitation grew with every revelation. How many incidents had happened without her knowledge? How many could she have prevented if they had only trusted her more? She didn't blame Scott—she had known from the start that this was beyond him, and his trust had always been with Stiles, who, to her surprise, had managed remarkably well in his role. But she blamed Derek. They had an agreement to share information, to help one another. He had promised to help her protect the students. Yet here he was, breaking his word, using her. It wasn't about the physical aspects of their relationship; that was irrelevant. What hurt was that she had seen him as part of the team. A growl of frustration escaped her, drawing Derek's attention. His expression softened as guilt flickered briefly in his eyes.

"What's the common denominator?" Derek asked, refocusing on Scott. When the boy remained silent, Derek grabbed his hand and swiftly snapped one of his fingers. Scott howled in pain.

"What the hell are you doing?" Charlotte nearly lunged at Derek, her instincts kicking in to protect her pupil, even though she knew she'd stand no chance, especially with her injury.

"It'll heal," Derek assured her, gripping her uninjured arm and pulling her back.

"But it still hurts!" Scott barked.

"And that's what keeps you human," Derek explained. "Pain."

Scott stared intently at his injured hand, willing his fingers to move. When he finally succeeded, Derek raised an eyebrow, his voice edged with a begrudging approval. "Maybe you'll survive after all." Then, turning back to Charlotte, he added, "I'll drive you home."

He pulled her along behind him, leaving the teenager behind in the charred remnants of the house. Without a word, he bundled her unceremoniously into the passenger seat of her own car, then slid into the driver's seat himself. The witch remained silent, her stubbornness palpable as they drove to her house. She stared blankly out the windshield, her mind elsewhere, seeing nothing but the fog of her own thoughts. An inexplicable lump formed in her throat; she felt like crying, though she couldn't quite pinpoint why. Crying had never been something she indulged in—an expression of weakness she always found unnecessary.

"I take it the Star Wars marathon is over?" Derek broke the silence as they pulled into her driveway. His voice carried an undercurrent of uncertainty and guilt, but it did little to quell the storm of anger simmering inside her. Unfortunately, her anger held a darker edge—a shadow that, in Derek's presence, stirred emotions she had no desire to confront at the moment.

She exited the car swiftly, eager to put distance between herself and Derek, but he followed closely behind. He knew he needed to explain, to apologize. The Alpha had hurt her, and by extension, that meant he was complicit. She wanted him gone, out of her life for good, but she couldn't bring herself to say it. The idea of him being left alone gnawed at her. Wolves were pack animals, and a lone wolf would eventually die. She didn't want that on her conscience. On the other hand, Derek couldn't leave her alone—especially not now, when she was injured and vulnerable. Yet, for her own safety, he knew he had to, hoping she would understand.

"This isn't how we agreed to handle things," she finally mustered the courage to speak, walking into the kitchen and yanking open the fridge. She retrieved a piece of cake she had baked earlier in the week, sticking a fork into it without hesitation. There was no intention of sharing, not with the level of stress coursing through her at that moment. "We were supposed to share information to ensure Scott's safety. That all my students were safe. Do you know why the Alpha didn't bite Jackson today?" Her tone dripped with fury, and even though Derek couldn't see her face, he didn't need to. He could feel her anger. She was barely keeping the Lurker at bay. And while Derek often found her unleashed Darkness captivating, he knew this time she wasn't aiming for seduction.

"Why?" he asked cautiously, trying to placate her.

"Because Jackson's already been marked. There are claw marks on the back of his neck," she declared, locking eyes with him. "I know Scott didn't do it, and the Alpha wouldn't just stop there. So, tell me, Derek, why did you attack my student?"

Her use of his name, laden with regret and mistrust, hit him harder than he'd expected. He hadn't anticipated how much it would hurt, and the pain was yet another reason to pull away from their arrangement. Derek had grown too attached—unable to separate physical attraction from the other emotions she evoked in him, especially his protective instincts. He didn't want to explain himself, but leaving things unsaid felt worse, especially when it seemed like Charlie was accusing him of something he hadn't done.

Werewolf was silent for a moment, then quietly put water on to boil. It was going to be another long night, and he suspected only coffee would keep him awake. He sat across from her and began explaining everything that had happened after Kate Argent shot him. How he had gone to the school to seek her help, encountered Jackson, and lost his temper before ending up in Stiles' jeep. When the coffee was ready, he slid a mug toward her. In response, she pushed a plate with a small piece of cake his way—a peace offering, a sign of goodwill. He smiled to himself. He knew that from her, this gesture meant far more than it would from anyone else. A few days earlier, she had nearly torn his head off for eating the last biscuit she'd hidden above the fridge.

"I know there's more to it than that," she said, still visibly angry, wrinkling her nose in frustration. She untied her braid, letting her hair fall loose as she stared at the countertop. A few of the beads and feathers that she had woven into her hair fell onto the floor. "You were acting strange last night, after everything. You sat in the bathroom until I fell asleep. And this morning, you were just as silent. I thought maybe it was because of Peter, but I can sense it—there's more to it. You reek of guilt, Derek. I don't have to be a werewolf to smell it."

The fork, midway to his mouth, froze. He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing with nervous tension. To his surprise, she was the one who brought it up first, which he hadn't expected. He had hoped she wouldn't worry for at least one day, but with the Alpha on the prowl, hunting her students, they had no chance of that.

"You came here because of Laura," he began, unsure of how to steer the conversation. "But she's dead. And I think you're getting too involved in all of this. Despite what people say about you, you keep emphasizing that you're only human. Humans die much more easily than werewolves. If Laura, who was an Alpha, died, what chance do you have?"

Her green eyes widened at his words. She hadn't known that Laura had been his Alpha, and now it made sense why he wanted her off the case. But Charlotte wasn't one to back down.

"Do you realize she probably died because she was an Alpha?" Charlotte shot back, her voice rising. "Why didn't you tell me before? He could've lured her here just to steal her status!"

Derek held his breath. The thought had crossed his mind, but he hadn't given it much attention, too focused on tracking the Alpha.

"You completely overlooked that, didn't you?" she asked, disbelief etched in her features. "As far as I know, there's only one pack in Beacon Hills, and its Alpha is rational. I saw her in human form at the shopping center two weeks ago. There's no way it's her. That Alpha polices her pack well enough that they aren't running around killing people. It's possible this Alpha just wandered in here, stumbled upon Laura by chance, but I doubt he could've beaten her without a pack. And since he didn't have one until now, since that's why he turned Scott, it means he was an Omega. Laura's death changed that."

"And Laura came here for a reason... She wasn't just reminiscing about the past," Derek added, catching on to her line of reasoning.

"Exactly. She told me over the phone that your Emissary sent her a message. Do you know who that is?" When he shook his head, she continued, "You'll need to figure that out. And investigate what brought her here in the first place. Something caught her attention—and the Hunters'. They arrived around the same time as Laura. Either they were watching you the whole time, or the same thing drew them here."

Silence fell between them as they each retreated into their thoughts.

"Are you sure you don't want me involved?" she finally asked, her voice soft but determined. "I get it if you don't trust me, especially because of the Darkness, but I can help you. I want to help you." She looked past him, trying to maintain a mask of indifference, but Derek could smell the sadness and discouragement emanating from her. He didn't like the scent—it was a far cry from the determination and joy he had grown accustomed to.

"I want nothing to happen to you," he replied quietly. "You hurt your arm because of the Alpha. Who knows what else could happen?"

"It's just bruised, not broken," she corrected him. "Besides, I can take care of myself. I'm an adult. And, for the record, I'm actually older than you." She chuckled, tilting her head, and he realized he had never truly considered her age.

"How old are you?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, somewhat amused by the shift in conversation.

"Older than I look—but nothing a good anti-wrinkle cream can't handle," she teased, though he noticed her heartbeat stutter for a moment.

She pulled out her wallet and slid her driver's license across the table. He glanced at the photo, noting how identical she looked to the woman in front of him, save for the shorter hair in the picture. The date of birth revealed she was two years older than him, with a birthday in a month. Twenty-five, a fitting age for a novice teacher, but something still didn't add up.

"Suspicion... Not bad," she commented, a smirk playing on her lips. "Maybe you're finally starting to think, instead of just sniffing around in the dark. Our opponent isn't stupid. To beat him, we have to be smarter. Now, tell me—why did Scott and Stiles find Laura's body buried near your house? I don't believe you buried it there, but I also doubt you didn't know about it."

***

January 31st, 2011 - Monday

Allison approached her locker, her thoughts still lingering on the conversation she'd had that morning with her aunt. She absently played with the necklace now hanging around her neck, a gift from Kate. The piece was beautiful, worn by time, and she had definitely seen something similar around her aunt's neck before. However, what puzzled her was the connection this necklace could have to her family.

As she opened her locker, a cascade of colorful balloons burst out, startling her. Dropping her bag in shock, Allison frantically began stuffing the balloons back inside, desperate to keep anyone from noticing. A small greeting card dangled from the locker door.

"It's your birthday?" Scott asked as he walked up beside her.

"No!" she squeaked, then immediately collected herself and corrected her tone. "I mean, yes. But don't tell anyone. I don't even know how Lydia found out." Her voice was strained, clearly annoyed.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Scott asked, confused.

"I don't want everyone knowing," she whispered, seeing that Scott didn't quite understand. "I just turned seventeen," she whispered, making sure only he could hear her.

"Seventeen?" he asked, genuinely surprised.

"And that's exactly the reaction I'm trying to avoid," she sighed, her expression hardening.

"Why?" he asked, then quickly pieced it together. "Oh, I get it. You had to repeat a year because of all the moving around, right?" he guessed, catching her off guard.

A wide smile broke across her face, and before Scott could react, she leaned in and kissed him.

"What was that for?" he asked, still processing what had just happened.

"For literally being the first person to ever make the correct assumption," she explained.

"Everyone else says, 'What? Were you held back? Are you stupid? Did you ride the short bus? Were you pregnant?'" She scrunched up her face, clearly frustrated by the usual barrage of insensitive assumptions.

"That's what people say to you on your birthday?" Scott was stunned. He couldn't fathom anyone thinking that about her, especially since she seemed perfect in his eyes.

"All day long," she replied with a hint of exhaustion.

Scott sighed heavily, his mind racing with ideas on how to lift her spirits—and what he could possibly give her for her birthday. "So... what if we got out of here for a day?"

"Skip a whole day?" Allison looked at him, bewildered. "You're asking someone who's never even skipped a single class to bail on an entire day?"

"Exactly! It's perfect. If you get caught, they'll go easy on you," he reasoned with a grin.

"And what happens if you get caught?" she asked, watching his face twist into a mock expression of suffering.

"Let's... try not to think about that," Scott said with a sheepish smile. "Besides, I'm comforting myself with the fact that we'll have a substitute for two hours today, anyway."

"Really? Why?"

"Mrs. Benoit broke her arm, so she's off today," he explained, though a small frown crossed his face. "But I know she'll still be at the parent-teacher conference later. My mom has to meet with her."

"My parents wanted to talk to her too," Allison added, nodding thoughtfully.

***

In chemistry class, Adrian Harris surveyed his students with a look of resigned pity. He despised his job and often wondered why he hadn't yet walked away from it. Adrian Harris had once been in the army, but he had to come back home to care for his younger sister, who was still in high school, after his father's tragic death. Now, nearly ten years later, Diana was an adult, and yet he remained stuck in Beacon Hills, unable to move on with his life.

His gaze settled on the student he liked least—Stilinski, the disheveled boy whose name he could never pronounce correctly, so he didn't bother trying. Stilinski sat sideways at his desk, mindlessly scribbling with a colorful highlighter over the pages of a textbook, almost certainly without reading a word. The sight reminded Harris of his own teenage years, of an old friend who had been just as careless.

"Just a friendly reminder," Harris called out to the class. "Parent/Teacher conferences are tonight. Students below a C average are required to attend. I won't name you, since the shame and self-disgust should be punishment enough." He focused his comment on Stilinski, who took a moment to realize it was directed at him. "And has anyone seen Scott McCall?"

Before the boy could respond, the door swung open, and in walked Jackson Whittemore—one of Harris's more promising students, though today he didn't look at it. His eyes had dark circles, his cheeks looked slightly hollowed, and his usually perfect hair seemed less styled than usual.

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

Jackson quietly made his way to his seat without offering a greeting.

Harris placed a hand on Jackson's shoulder and spoke in a quiet, reassuring tone, "Jackson, if you need to leave early for any reason... you just let me know." The entire teaching staff was well aware of what had transpired at the DVD rental shop on Saturday, and it had been the sole topic of discussion. Harris had even called his new colleague, Charlotte, offering help since she had injured her hand. But Charlotte had reassured him she didn't need any help and that she would attend the conference that evening, insisting her hand was in better shape than it appeared.

"Everyone, start reading Chapter Nine," Harris addressed the class again, his gaze absent from the students. "And Mr. Stilinski, try putting the highlighter down between paragraphs. This is chemistry, not a coloring book." He couldn't resist adding a touch of sarcasm.

Stiles glanced reproachfully at Harris, just as the cap of his highlighter, which had been between his teeth, shot into the air and landed neatly in his hand. The student seated in front of him chuckled softly, only to be silenced by a low voice behind him.

"Danny, can I ask you something?" Stiles asked, eyeing Jackson with suspicion.

"No," came the curt reply from Danny, the lacrosse team's goalie.

"I'm going to ask, anyway. Did Lydia show up in your homeroom today?" Stiles leaned closer to Danny's back, pressing for answers.

"No."

"Can I ask you another question?"

"The answer's still no," Danny sighed, clearly exasperated.

"Do people know what happened to her and Jackson last night?" Stiles persisted, his curiosity unabated.

"He wouldn't tell me," Danny mumbled, casting a worried glance at his friend.

"But you're his best friend," Stiles quipped, only to be met with a shrug from Danny, who dropped his gaze.

"One more question?"

"What?" Danny finally snapped, his patience worn thin by Stiles' relentless questioning and concern for his friend.

"Do you find me attractive?" The question caught Danny off guard, his eyebrows furrowing in disbelief. Before he could formulate a response, he heard a sudden whoosh of air behind him. Turning, he discovered Stiles had somehow managed to fall off his chair.

***

Jackson leaned heavily against the sink in the men's locker room, his body still damp from the shower after an intense PE lesson. His neck throbbed, a persistent ache that had worried him.

The wounds McCall's suspicious friend had inflicted with those scratches had healed, but ever since the attack by that strange creature, the pain had resurfaced. It gnawed at him, accompanied by a constant feeling of tension, like he was being watched at all times.

Shaking himself from his anxious thoughts, Jackson realized he was now alone in the locker room. The rest of the guys had already left. Stepping around one of the lockers, he stopped dead in his tracks, nearly colliding with someone. The man standing before him, tall, dark-haired, and clad in a leather jacket, was none other than the same man who had attacked him at school just days ago. A jolt of fear shot through him, and his knees buckled involuntarily, causing him to stumble back into the lockers.

"Okay, all right. I—I don't know where Scott is. I haven't seen him," Jackson stammered, his voice breaking. The man's presence was terrifying, his approach methodical and menacing.

"I'm not here for Scott," the man replied coolly, his voice low and unnerving. "I'm here for you, Jackson."

"Me? Why me? I didn't do anything!" Jackson's voice cracked with desperation.

"But you saw something, didn't you?"

"Saw what? When?" Jackson's mind raced, unsure of what exactly the man was referring to. But then, almost reflexively, his thoughts flashed back to the incident at the DVD rental shop.

"Last night. What was it? An animal? A cougar?"

"What? No! I didn't see anything, I swear! I'm not lying!" Panic overtook him, his words spilling out in a rush. "Maybe Mrs. Benoit saw it—she was there too, the history teacher!"

"Calm down," the man said, stepping even closer, now blocking any possible escape. "Say it again."

"Mrs. Benoit?" Jackson repeated, his breath hitching.

"The other part. Tell me you didn't see anything. Slowly."

"I didn't see anything," Jackson said, his voice shaking. The man stared at him intently, but his gaze seemed unfocused, as though he were listening to something beyond Jackson's words. After a tense moment, he seemed satisfied.

"Why do you care?" Jackson asked, fear mingled with curiosity.

Ignoring the question entirely, Derek's hand shot out, gripping Jackson by the hair and twisting his head to inspect the scratches on his neck. He examined them closely, his eyes narrowing with grim irony. "You should really get that checked out," he muttered dryly, his tone clipped.

Then, just as silently as he had appeared, Derek walked away, vanishing from the locker room like a shadow.

Jackson stood frozen for a moment, furious with himself. He despised the feeling of helplessness that had overtaken him, hated how easily this man had reduced him to fear. Anger boiled up inside him, and in a fit of rage, he slammed his fist onto the bench, the loud thud echoing through the now-empty locker room.

***

Charlotte curled up comfortably on the dusty sofa that occupied the center of the charred Hale house's former living room. The furniture must have been placed there after the fire, but she preferred not to ask Derek if he himself had done it. She reviewed her notes, preparing for the evening's meeting, awaiting his arrival as they'd arranged. She had no real understanding of why he had chosen this place, but she figured a change of environment might do her some good.

The sharp ringing of her phone abruptly interrupted her thoughts. The display showed Stiles' name, someone she had barely spoken to since the incident at the vet clinic. She wondered what he wanted, doubting that his call was simply a friendly inquiry into her well-being.

"Do you have any clue what's going on here?" he blurted out before she had a chance to speak. "Lydia's totally M.I.A., Jackson looks like someone stuck a time bomb in his face, another random guy's dead, and you're taking the day off? We need to do something about this!" As expected, he wasn't calling out of concern for her.

"So, as a 'worried friend,' you're going to check on Lydia after school and see if she's alright. I highly doubt Jackson's condition is your priority, and you could at least pretend to care about how I'm feeling. For the record, it's not too bad. Thanks for asking," she replied with cool detachment.

"I... I'm sorry, but I'm really worried. Scott's disappeared with Allison, skipping school, and he's not answering... I didn't have anyone else to talk to," the teenager stammered in his defense.

"I understand. But don't stress about it right now. Focus on school," she advised, cutting the conversation short as she heard Derek finally arrive.

He was seething, it was clear in every movement he made. Barely had the door closed behind him before he began peeling off his shirt, to which Charlotte merely raised a questioning eyebrow. She hadn't expected such boldness from him, though neither of them typically minced words when it came to the physical aspect of their relationship. However, she knew this wasn't some attempt at seduction. He leaped up and gripped the doorframe, pulling himself up in a display of controlled aggression. He needed to release his pent-up rage and tension, but he had no intention of approaching her in his current state, despite knowing that she could calm him far more effectively than any exercise could.

For a moment, she watched him; her gaze trailing over his broad chest and the narrow cut of his jeans. The sight was undeniably pleasing, and she found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on her notes. Not that she minded. She stretched out more luxuriously on the sofa, trying to refocus, but every now and then, her amused eyes flicked toward him. With each glance, she could feel her pulse quicken, blood surging more fervently through her veins.

When the first drops of sweat beaded on his skin, Derek released the doorframe and landed softly on the floor, transitioning seamlessly into push-ups. He was acutely aware of the witch's gaze lingering on him, and not long after he began his set, he detected the unmistakable scent of her arousal—and her Darkness. A wave of primal satisfaction coursed through him. Shifting his weight to one arm, he threw the other behind his back, showcasing his strength.

"Show off," she muttered, her eyes locked on the tattoo between his shoulder blades. A triskelion, composed of three spirals—the emblem of his pack. She bore a similar tattoo on her left shoulder, though its meaning to her was entirely different. She wondered if Derek had ever noticed hers; he had never asked about it.

Her presence, however, distracted him enough that he almost missed the sound of approaching voices. Springing to his feet, he quickly gathered Charlotte's things, stuffing them into her backpack, and pulled her up from the sofa.

"We have visitors," he growled, a strange warmth creeping into her chest at his words. "Hide under the stairs and leave as soon as you can."

She nodded, complying without protest. Given her current condition, she had no plans to obstruct him, especially. She was certain Derek could handle whatever came next on his own.

The door burst open with a thunderous bang, kicked wide. Three figures rushed in. Leading the charge was a powerfully built man, his blonde hair streaked with grey, gripping a shotgun in his hands. His sharp eyes quickly swept the room, the barrel of the weapon instinctively following. The second was a younger man, sporting a punkish haircut and clad in a leather jacket. His hands were free, though a pistol rested menacingly at his belt, his posture screaming an eagerness to kill, as though he was just waiting for an excuse. The third was a woman, young and strikingly beautiful, her long blonde hair framing a face that exuded an unsettling combination of charm and coldness. Her eyes—killer's eyes—gleamed with an aura of danger despite her empty hands, and her confident smile was nothing short of predatory.

"He wants us to wait," the older man, clearly the leader, stated.

"So I've been reminded. To death," the woman replied, her voice dripping with sarcastic amusement.

"And that means we can't kill him," he added, the frustration evident in his tone.

"But that doesn't mean we can't say hello," the blonde woman chuckled, a dark gleam flashing in her eyes.

"No one home?" Ulrich, the man with the shotgun, inquired as he stepped over the threshold, his voice gruff and suspicious.

"Oh, he's here. He's just not feeling particularly hospitable," Kate laughed, the sound sending a chill through the room. Charlotte's stomach twisted—there was something disturbingly familiar about her voice.

"Maybe he's out burying a bone in the backyard," Lévêque, the younger man, equipped with a heavy French accent.

"Really? A dog joke?" Kate turned her gaze on him, disbelief flashing across her face. "We're about to face off with a werewolf, and that's the best you've got?" she chided, her playful tone suddenly serious.

Lévêque, clearly embarrassed, averted his eyes, but his attention caught on something. He started moving toward the stairs as if sensing a presence there.

"You want to provoke him?" Kate continued, ignoring the younger man's movements, her focus now locked elsewhere. "Try this on for size: Too bad your sister bit it before she had her first litter. Too bad she howled like a bitch when we cut her in half!" she shouted, her voice slicing through the air like a knife.

Charlotte could bear it no longer. Lévêque, who had indeed spotted her, didn't even have time to react before she gathered all her energy into her right hand. With one decisive move, she slammed her palm into his solar plexus, sending him hurtling across the room. His body crashed against the opposite wall with a sickening thud, and before the Frenchman could even scream, he was unconscious. In that split second, Charlotte activated her illusion spell, using the amulet she always carried. She vanished from sight, blending seamlessly into the background, hidden from all but the most trained eyes.

At that very moment, Derek's feral roar echoed through the house. In an instant, he shifted into his werewolf form, leaping from the shadows to attack the older man. The intruders did not know they were fighting more than a single werewolf. The force of the attack threw Ulrich, the grey-haired hunter, onto the floor, rendering him unconscious.

Derek froze when his gaze landed on the woman. Kate. She stood alone, eerily calm, as if unbothered by the werewolf towering over her. She smiled provocatively, slowly drawing a telescopic baton from behind her belt, twirling it casually as though it were a mere toy.

Charlotte, hidden behind the staircase railing, watched in growing confusion. What gave this woman such confidence? She had nothing but a baton, hardly a match for Derek in his current form. But Charlotte's stomach sank as realization dawned: she had misjudged. The moment Derek lunged at Kate, he collapsed mid-stride, his body seizing up as the smell of ozone filled the room. Electricity crackled in the air, and Derek writhed on the floor, muscles spasming uncontrollably.

"Wow, what a specimen," Kate remarked with a smug grin, circling his trembling form. "This grew up in all the right places. I can't decide whether to kill it... or lick it." Her lips curled into a pout, and Charlotte's stomach churned with disgust. The witch remained motionless, unwilling to reveal herself too soon. This woman was far too dangerous to act rashly against, and Charlotte's curiosity burned to know what Kate wanted.

Derek's glare was murderous, his hatred palpable. For a split second, his gaze flicked to where Charlotte stood hidden, but he quickly refocused on Kate, unwilling to betray her presence.

Struggling to overcome his paralyzed muscles, he attempted to back away from the huntress, but she stalked him relentlessly, her eyes hungrily tracing his every movement. Her almost seductive display only deepened Charlotte's fury. She could feel the Darkness inside her stirring, rising far more swiftly than usual, and this time, she had no intention of suppressing it.

Derek, desperate, tried to prop himself against the couch and attack again, but Kate struck him with her baton, electrocuting him once more. He collapsed back, landing just beneath Charlotte, still invisible. She itched to reach down and soothe him, but now wasn't the time. The sight of his twitching muscles filled her with anguish, but she forced herself to stay still, gathering her energy, readying herself.

"900,000 volts," Kate mused aloud, watching as the baton sparked in her hand. "You've never been good with electricity, have you? Or fire..." She paused, her eyes scanning the soot-covered room before lowering her voice, as if sharing a secret. "So, let me fill you in on a little something. We didn't kill your sister."

Derek, panting from the pain, managed to lift himself slightly. He knew Charlotte was there beside him, her presence a strange comfort, even though her scent also carried the unmistakable promise of incoming bloodshed.

"You expect me to believe that?" Derek rasped, his voice low with strain.

"Honey," Kate whispered, leaning down so close to him that her hair brushed his chest. "Listen to my heart and tell me if I'm lying." Her voice was soft, teasing, her lips hovering dangerously close to his ear. "We... didn't... kill... your sister."

Charlotte, still cloaked in her illusion, could hear the steady, calm rhythm of Kate's heartbeat. She was either telling the truth—or she was a master manipulator. Regardless, it was clear they hadn't been the ones responsible for Laura's death.

"Bite marks were found on your sister's body," Kate continued, standing back up and folding the baton with a smug snap. "What do you think, Derek? A mountain lion?" she sneered. "Let's cut the crap. The Alpha killed your sister. You tell us who he is, and we take care of him for you. Problem solved. Everyone goes home happy."

Derek remained silent, his sharp gaze never leaving her. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, his hand brushed against Charlotte's shoe, signaling her to get ready.

"Unless..." Kate's eyes gleamed wickedly as she smirked. "You don't know who the Alpha is either." She turned her back on him for a moment, a fatal mistake. "Guess who just became totally useless?"

In that instant, Derek sprang to his feet, grabbing the invisible Charlotte in his arms and charging out of the room. A machine gun roared behind them, bullets flying at blinding speed, but Derek barely felt the impact. None reached him. An invisible barrier blocked the barrage, but he didn't look back to see it. He already knew. Just before he could leap off the porch, Charlotte went limp in his arms, her illusion dissipating as she lost consciousness. She had spent too much energy protecting them both, and now her body had given out. Derek only hoped Kate hadn't spotted her. Without stopping, he ran, not pausing until they reached safety.

Their home.

He laid Charlotte gently on their bed, slumping into a nearby armchair, his mind a whirlwind of anger and shame. He had run. Again. Once again, a woman had come to his defense. His claws dug into the chair as he clenched his fists, fury surging through him. He gazed at her pale, still form, fear gnawing at his gut. If his suspicions about her Darkness were correct, she might not want to see him again. Darkness only respected strength, and his wasn't enough.

Kate Argent had ruined his life. Again.

***

Charlotte awoke an hour before her scheduled meeting. She lay in her bed, stripped down to her underwear, yet she was completely alone. She called out to Derek several times, but there was no response. Realizing he wasn't home, she rose and prepared to leave, her suspicions confirmed. There was no sign of him; all his belongings were gone, though his Camaro still sat idly in the garage. Concern barely scratched the surface of how the witch felt. She had believed their misunderstandings were behind them and that Derek no longer harbored guilt over taking advantage of her hospitality. But the recent confrontation with the Hunters had clearly altered something, and she had a sinking feeling it had to do with a particular Huntress. Charlotte couldn't deny that the palpable hatred radiating from Kate Argent was the only thing stopping her from letting her gaze linger.

Yet there was no time to dwell on Derek or the poisonous allure of Kate. Duty called—she had a parent-teacher meeting to attend. Charlotte expected little interaction from parents, given that she had only been teaching for a month, but she was allowed to sit in on a few of her colleagues' meetings, which she fully intended to do. She texted Derek, more than an announcement than a request, stating that they needed to talk once she returned from school. She hoped he wouldn't vanish before that conversation could happen.

For the first time since arriving in Beacon Hills, she donned her "official teacher's uniform": a black pencil skirt, a crisp, fitted white blouse, paired with a navy blue blazer and sleek black leather stilettos. She pulled her hair into a high bun to add a few inches to her height, and swapped her usual dramatic black cat-eye makeup for softer, neutral tones that lent her a more serious appearance. To complete the look, she slid on her large reading glasses, which not only made her seem older but also aided her vision, which had been strained lately—no doubt from the life force the recent surge of Darkness had consumed.

Her first stop was with Adrian Harris, whose enthusiasm upon seeing her was more than she cared for. The first set of parents arrived soon after: Mr. and Mrs. Whittemore, a sharply dressed couple with the unmistakable aura of wealth. Unlike their son, Jackson, they didn't flaunt their status. It was during their conversation that Charlotte discovered that Jackson was adopted—something she hadn't known before. Harris, however, was unfazed, clearly invested in the life of one of his top students.

"Jackson's a highly motivated student. In fact, I'd describe him as unusually driven," Harris stated, verbalizing what Charlotte herself had observed.

"We were hoping he might ease up a bit," Jackson's father sighed, while his mother nervously rubbed her cheek. "He's always been hard on himself. We thought it was something to do with being adopted."

"I take it he doesn't know his biological parents?" Harris asked, his tone professional yet curious.

"That's right. It's that need to please—the over-achieving. He's constantly trying to make someone proud, someone he's never even met."

"Well, from an outside perspective, it's clear something has dialed his drive for success several notches higher," Harris continued. "Not to be too blunt, but he seems almost... obsessed."

"I didn't realize it was that bad. Good grades are hardly a reason to worry, are they?" Mrs. Whittemore whispered, visibly shaken by the revelation.

"The grades alone aren't the issue," Charlotte interjected gently. "It's the overall behavior. Jackson may feel he has to prove himself not to one set of parents, but to two. He could be trying to meet expectations he believes both his biological and adoptive parents have for him. Or worse, he may fear that if he doesn't, he'll be rejected again. Adopted children often harbor anxieties about not measuring up."

"But we love him," the woman whimpered, her voice trembling.

"I know you do, and I'm sure Jackson does too, deep down. But fear is a powerful emotion—it can cloud judgment, even in those we love," Charlotte said softly, placing her hand over Mrs. Whittemore's and subtly sending a calming energy toward her. It drained her, but she felt the mother's anguish warranted the effort.

"I would suggest consulting a psychologist, perhaps someone outside the school system," Harris added. "Jackson may resist at first, so take your time in preparing him for it. You could even frame it as a way to manage the stress of being captain of two sports teams and the academic workload."

The next parent turned out to be Melissa McCall, Scott's mother, who greeted Charlotte warmly and immediately inquired about her health. Melissa's sharp eyes zeroed in on the bruised left hand Charlotte had sustained, but she also took her right hand, inspecting the healing wound that she had helped bandage weeks before.

Once pleasantries were exchanged, Melissa anxiously attempted to call her son, but when it became clear Scott wouldn't show, Harris took initiative to nudge the meeting forward.

"Shall we begin?" he suggested, with a knowing look.

"Of course," Melissa replied, though her sigh was heavy with disappointment.

"Scott's mind seems to be... elsewhere lately. And so is his body," Harris added wryly, earning a strained smile from Charlotte.

"I'm not sure what you mean by 'home situation'?" Melissa pressed, her smile faltering as her lips tightened into a thin line.

"I'm referring to the lack of an authority figure," Harris replied, oblivious to the tension he was stoking.

"I am the authority figure," Melissa's voice dropped, carrying an unmistakable edge.

"Sorry, allow me to clarify: a lack of a male authority figure," Harris corrected, utterly tone deaf to the storm brewing before him.

"Trust me, things are much better with him out of the picture," Melissa muttered, her eyes lowering to her phone as if hoping Scott would at least text her back.

"Does Scott feel the same way?" Harris pressed on, oblivious to the deepening scowl on Charlotte's face.

"I think so," Melissa responded quietly, her voice tinged with doubt. "I hope so."

"Boys rarely confide in their parents at this age," Charlotte interjected, trying to ease the tension. "It's a tough time for them."

"Scott is one of my most intriguing students," Harris said, shifting the conversation slightly. "You can tell there's something... different about him. Something special."

"Do you really think so?" Melissa asked, her expression softening, the hope in her eyes palpable.

"Definitely," Harris confirmed, though Charlotte could sense an undertone of suspicion. "But he's also going through significant changes. He just needs a bit more guidance, a steady hand through this pivotal stage in his life," he finished, casting a brief glance toward Charlotte before turning his full attention back to Melissa.

Charlotte could feel the tension in the room ease slightly, but it didn't fully dissipate. The conversation had shifted, but the underlying unease remained.

***

Charlotte's greatest fear was the impending meeting with Aaron Lahey, the local undertaker, whom she suspected of mistreating his son, Isaac. Desperately needing support, she asked the school's psychologist and French teacher, Marin Morrell, to accompany her through the difficult encounter. To her surprise, Marin agreed without hesitation, an unexpected gesture from a colleague who had kept her distance until now.

Mr. Lahey turned out to be an imposing, taciturn man, his demeanor cold and unyielding. Yet there was no visible sign of trouble in his household, at least on the surface. This contrasted starkly with his son, Isaac, who withdrew and guarded himself, conveying volumes of information through his silence.

"Isaac is a very quiet boy," Charlotte began, her voice carefully measured, offering the man a polite smile, though it took all her effort to maintain it. Derek had told her about Lahey's older son, Camden, who had enlisted in the military simply to escape the oppressive atmosphere of his home. "He never causes any problems in my lessons. He's a strong student, with good grades, but I've noticed he doesn't seem to have any close friends, which concerns me."

"He doesn't have much time for friends," Aaron Lahey replied, meeting her gaze directly, his eyes hard. "He studies a lot and helps me out at the cemetery. Maybe that keeps other kids at a distance."

"He joined the lacrosse team this year, didn't he?" Marin Morrell interjected, her voice calm and professional, yet with a subtle undertone of empathy. "As his classmates get to know him better, perhaps he'll open up more and start forming connections."

"I hope so," Lahey grunted, though his expression remained unchanged. "Ever since his brother was killed in Afghanistan, Isaac hasn't been the same."

"We're deeply sorry for your loss," both teachers responded in unison, their voices filled with genuine sympathy.

For a moment, the room fell silent, the weight of grief hanging between them like an invisible shroud. Charlotte glanced at Isaac's father, searching his impassive face for any cracks in the armor of stoicism he wore so rigidly. There was none. Still, her heart ached for the boy—trapped in a house where words of kindness seemed scarce, and the ghost of a brother lost to war loomed over everything.

***

The next meeting Charlotte conducted was entirely on her own. She already had some familiarity with Erica Reyes' parents, having spoken to them in the hospital shortly after the epileptic seizure Erica had suffered during her class. Despite their evident concern for their daughter's health, they weren't much easier to engage with than the other parents she'd met so far. Their focus remained narrowly fixed on Erica's physical condition, dismissing any broader concerns about her emotional well-being or her ability to acclimate socially at school.

Charlotte tried, unsuccessfully, to impress upon them the importance of Erica feeling comfortable and accepted within her peer group. However, the Reyes family seemed unconcerned, even trivializing the devastating impact of the video taken during Erica's seizure, which someone had shared on social media and left her stigmatized.

Before she could properly conclude their meeting, another student stepped into her classroom.

A tall, broad-shouldered boy, someone Charlotte thought of as a "gentle giant." Vernon Boyd—quiet, calm, always willing to help others. She glanced around, searching for his parents, but quickly realized he was alone.

"I always come to these meetings by myself," he explained, his tone soft. "My parents work a lot."

Charlotte nodded, her eyes subtly taking in the signs of wear on his clothes. "You work after school too, don't you? At the ice rink?" she asked, glancing at her notes for confirmation.

"Yeah," he mumbled, shifting uncomfortably. "We've got some financial issues..."

Charlotte studied him for a moment, sensing the heaviness of grief, anxiety, and guilt hanging over him. "Vernon, are you okay?" she asked, her voice full of quiet concern. "Do you need to talk about something?"

"I... um... no..." he stammered, though it was clear something weighed on him.

She hesitated briefly, then decided to take a calculated risk. "Your records show you were seeing a psychologist in middle school, but stopped after coming to high school." She phrased it carefully, knowing she could push him away with this, but willing to take that chance.

"The psychologist can't find my sister..." he murmured, his voice so low that she wouldn't have heard him if she hadn't been watching his lips closely, reading the quiet confession from their movement.

"If you ever want to talk, just as two people—no therapist, no labels—you can always come to me," Charlotte offered gently, her tone sincere. Boyd smiled sadly, gratitude evident in his eyes, and quietly thanked her before turning the conversation to his grades, clearly eager to shift away from the painful subject.

***

"So, let me just say there's plenty to discuss when it comes to Lydia," Sharon began, flashing a broad smile at the girl's parents. Charlotte, seated beside her, could sense the tension between the two. At Sharon's words, Mr. Martin immediately scowled, casting a mocking glance at his ex-wife while folding his arms over his chest.

"Did I not predict this?" he muttered, his voice laced with bitterness.

"Here we go, total nuclear meltdown—like always," Mrs. Martin retorted, her tone dripping with condescension. She tucked her hair behind her ear with a practiced gesture, her eyes rolling upward in feigned exasperation. Sharon drew a breath, clearly uncertain how to navigate such palpable animosity. However, Charlotte suspected that Lydia had inherited much of her mother's polished, aloof demeanor.

"So, what is it?" Mr. Martin pressed, his frustration clear. "Grades? Trouble focusing? Erratic behavior?" Charlotte wondered if Lydia, at home, let go of the carefully curated image she projected at school.

"I'm not the one who forced her to choose who to live with," Mrs. Martin interjected sharply. "As if that wouldn't mess with a sixteen-year-old girl's head."

"Just tell us what the issue is," Mr. Martin snapped, ignoring his ex-wife as he turned back to Sharon, his eyes briefly flicking to Charlotte for confirmation.

"Actually, there's no issue at all," Sharon responded, a bright smile spreading across her face. Her words seemed to confuse Mr. Martin, while Mrs. Martin wore a satisfied smirk.

"Academically, Lydia is one of the finest students I've ever had. Her AP classes push her GPA above a 5.0. In fact, I'd like to have her IQ tested. And socially, she exhibits incredible leadership qualities. I'm not exaggerating when I say this—Lydia could be a Senator one day."

Charlotte raised an eyebrow, unsure if Lydia's polished exterior or simply playing a part for the parents genuinely fooled Sharon. Charlotte, on the other hand, knew better. Lydia was troubled. Much like Jackson, she tailored her behavior to fit the expectations of others, but unlike him, Lydia seemed isolated. Jackson had friends like Danny. Lydia, before Allison, had no one. The confident, perfect image Lydia projected hid a far more complex and vulnerable girl.

As Mr. and Mrs. Martin took their leave, both teachers let out a collective sigh of relief. Navigating conversations with divorced parents was never simple. Sharon tried to lighten the mood by making a few lighthearted remarks, but Charlotte quickly focused on the next couple who walked into the room—Allison Argent's parents.

As all four sat down, Chris Argent's eyes remained fixed on Sharon, studying her intently, while barely acknowledging his wife had started speaking.

"Your daughter is an incredibly sweet girl," Sharon said, her words warm and honeyed, instantly softening the Argent parents. They smiled at each other, clearly pleased. "She adjusts so quickly, despite the frequent moves."

"We know it's hard on her, but it's a necessary evil. I have to go where the work takes me," Chris explained, his glance shifting briefly toward Charlotte.

"Necessary or not, I'd prepare for some..." Sharon faltered slightly, meeting the cold, calculating gaze of Victoria Argent—a stark contrast to her daughter's warmth and friendliness. "How should I put this?"

"Rebelliousness?" Chris offered, his tone calm but perceptive.

"We appreciate your concern, but we have a fantastic relationship with our daughter—very open and honest," Victoria chimed in, flashing a confident smile as she grasped her husband's hand, emphasizing the closeness she believed they shared. Charlotte, however, caught the fleeting sadness and guilt in Chris's eyes, which betrayed the facade. Victoria's words were a lie, and to Charlotte, it was as clear as day.

"I'm glad to hear that," Sharon replied, her smile as insincere as Victoria's. She sensed something was off, though she couldn't place it entirely. "And please, let her know I hope she's feeling better," Sharon added with a subtle yet pointed edge to her tone. Allison's parents exchanged confused glances.

"She wasn't in class?" Chris asked, his brow furrowing in surprise.

"She wasn't in school," Sharon confirmed, her voice steady. "I checked with the office."

Charlotte had mixed emotions. On one hand, she wanted to high-five Sharon for the subtle jab at the Argents, but on the other, she couldn't help but worry about the consequences. If Allison had skipped school to run off with Scott, as Stiles had hinted, there could be serious repercussions—especially considering the dangerous world her family was involved in.

***

"Who's your daughter?" Coach Bobby Finstock asked with characteristic bluntness.

"Son," the sheriff corrected him calmly.

"Who's your son?" Finstock repeated, unfazed.

"Stiles."

"Right, right, Stiles. Wait a second, I thought Stiles was his last name." Bobby admitted without the slightest hint of embarrassment.

"His last name is Stilinski," the sheriff repeated, casting the coach a mildly suspicious look.

Charlotte, seated nearby, suppressed a smile, feeling secondhand embarrassment for her colleague but also fighting the urge to giggle.

"You named your son Stiles Stilinski?" Bobby stared at the sheriff incredulously, as if such a thing were a criminal offense. "Is that even a real name?"

"No, it's just what he likes to be called," Sheriff Stilinski explained with practiced patience.

"I prefer to be called Cupcake..." Finstock remarked offhandedly, to which Charlotte snorted, quickly covering her mouth with her hand, while the sheriff simply raised his eyebrows, trying to absorb the absurdity.

"What's his real name?" the coach pressed.

With a resigned sigh, Stiles' father reached across the desk and tapped his finger on the official papers in front of him, showing his son's italicized name. Bobby picked up the paper, turning it over a few times in his hands, squinting at it as if it were some kind of code.

"You've hurt him..." Bobby mumbled, unable to form the letters into a comprehensible word. "How do you even pronounce this?"

"It was his mother's father's name," the sheriff explained, his smile patient and indulgent. This clearly wasn't his first time fielding questions about Stiles' unusual name.

"Wow, you must've really loved your wife," Finstock laughed in disbelief, and Charlotte couldn't help but feel the urge to give him a light smack on the head for his lack of tact.

"I did..." the sheriff replied softly, his tone quiet but unmistakably sincere.

"Oh. Well. This just became incredibly awkward," Finstock muttered, his gaze shifting uncomfortably back to the papers in front of him.

"Listen, Cupcake," the sheriff leaned in slightly, his voice firm but good-natured. "Shall we get to the point?"

Bobby blinked, taken aback for a moment before grinning. "I'm starting to like you." He glanced back at the papers. "So, Stiles. Great kid. Zero ability to focus. Super smart. Never applies himself."

"What do you mean?" the sheriff asked, leaning forward with concern.

"For the final question on his midterm, he gave a detailed history of male circumcision," Bobby replied, deadpan.

"Well... that does have historical significance, right?" the sheriff stammered, visibly confused as he shifted nervously in his chair, trying to justify his son's unconventional response.

"Sheriff Stilinski, I teach history. Mr. Finstock teaches economics," Charlotte chimed in gently, smiling apologetically as she clarified the mix-up.

"Oh... well, shit," the sheriff muttered, rubbing his temples in disbelief.

Later, when Charlotte returned from the bathroom, she found she couldn't get back into Finstock's office. He had barricaded himself inside and was shouting through the closed door to the bewildered parents who had gathered nearby. The students standing with their parents seemed less surprised by the scene than their mothers and fathers.

"Greenberg! I told you your parents didn't have to come! I refuse to talk to them!" Finstock yelled through the door, his voice growing more agitated by the second.

Charlotte simply shrugged, glancing at the bemused parents and students. She sighed and moved on to her next meeting, shaking her head in amusement. She would never fully understand Coach Finstock, but at least he was always good for a laugh.

***

Charlotte stepped out of the school building, utterly drained. The crowd of parents swirled around her like a river, making her feel as though she were wading through an unrelenting current. Each step was an effort. She spotted Melissa McCall, looking increasingly frazzled, still trying to reach her son, her fingers anxiously tapping on her phone. Nearby, Chris Argent wore a similar expression of frustration as he scanned his surroundings, clearly also unable to contact Allison. Almost instinctively, Charlotte tensed as she watched the two sets of parents meet at the foot of the stairs, exchanging awkward glances before speaking.

"Excuse me. You're Allison's parents, aren't you?" Melissa asked tentatively, uncertainty in her voice. "I'm Scott's mom. And I hate to say this... but he's not answering his phone either."

"You're his mother?" Chris Argent responded, his eyes coolly scanning her from head to toe, his tone clipped and sharp.

"Funny how you said that like it was an accusation," Melissa shot back, her voice edged with annoyance.

"I wouldn't exactly call it a source of pride since he basically kidnapped my daughter today," Chris replied, raising his voice, his frustration boiling over.

"Chris..." Victoria murmured, trying to quiet her husband, but there was no mistaking her underlying displeasure.

"How do we know skipping school wasn't your daughter's idea?" Melissa fired back, the tension between the parents growing thicker by the second.

Charlotte, standing nearby, contemplated stepping in to de-escalate the situation, but before she could intervene, she noticed two familiar teenagers climbing out of a small silver Mazda. The confrontation between the parents ceased almost instantly as they, too, spotted Scott and Allison.

Suddenly, a bone-chilling scream sliced through the night air, causing everyone to freeze. The peaceful gathering of parents dissolved into chaos, panic spreading like wildfire. People began darting toward their cars, frantically trying to leave, creating a dangerous, frenzied scene.

Charlotte's eyes darted around as she saw Scott raise his head, clearly trying to filter the overwhelming mix of scents to detect any sign of an Alpha. But the sheer number of people and the noise made it impossible for him to focus, and soon he disappeared from her view entirely.

Charlotte's gaze shifted to Chris Argent, who had moved swiftly to his cherry-red SUV, retrieving something from the back. His daughter, Allison, stood beside her Mazda, looking nervously over her shoulder as the surrounding crowd grew increasingly chaotic. The panic among the parents intensified, their movements wild and uncoordinated. Several people bumped into Charlotte, but she stood firm, her senses on high alert as she scanned for the source of the danger.

She tasted the sharp, distinct fear in the air—a wave of panic that seemed to center on Allison. Charlotte turned, searching for the girl, and spotted her walking backward, her eyes wide with terror, fixed on something Charlotte couldn't see. In that instant, Charlotte's blood ran cold. A white Chevy barreled toward Allison, the driver oblivious to the girl's path. Time slowed as Charlotte sprang into action, racing toward her student with all the speed she could muster. Despite being smaller and lighter, Charlotte collided with Allison, knocking her out of the car's trajectory just in time. Both women tumbled to the pavement, narrowly avoiding disaster.

A sharp, painful groan escaped Charlotte as she landed heavily on her bruised arm. Allison wasn't much luckier, hitting the curb hard with her hip. Before either of them could fully process what had just happened, Victoria Argent rushed over, pulling them both to their feet, thanking Charlotte profusely for her quick thinking.

But the chaos around them continued unabated. The panic surged through the crowd as people scrambled to escape. Charlotte watched helplessly as Sheriff Stilinski tried to control the situation, only to be struck by the same car that had nearly run down Allison moments earlier.

"Scott! Scott!" Melissa's frantic voice echoed through the night, cutting through the din of the crowd. Charlotte spotted her between two cars just as the fleeing masses jostled her. Melissa bent down to pick up her phone, which had fallen to the ground, and froze. Her eyes locked onto something beyond the vehicles, her body tense with fear. Chris Argent appeared beside her, crouching down and pulling Melissa away from whatever had paralyzed her. In the next instant, both of them disappeared from Charlotte's view.

Then a roar pierced the air—primal and fearsome. Strangely, Charlotte felt a wave of relief wash over her. She recognized the sound; it wasn't an Alpha on the loose, but a wild animal. A cougar had triggered the panic. Moments later, gunshots rang out, silencing the commotion. Charlotte, along with Victoria and Allison, turned to see Chris Argent standing tall, his gun in hand, the barrel still smoking from the kill. The cougar lay lifeless on the ground, the source of all the chaos finally revealed.

Charlotte's gaze flicked to Scott, whose eyes were wide with shock. He was staring at Chris Argent, his face a mix of terror and awe. The calm, calculated way Chris handled the situation spoke volumes to the young werewolf. Charlotte nearly laughed at the absurdity of it all, but the moment quickly turned serious again as Chris met her eyes from across the parking lot. His expression was unreadable, but the subtle nod he gave made it clear he knew exactly who Charlotte was—and that she wasn't just Allison's teacher.