(POV Stiles Stilinski)
The kitchen clock read nearly eleven at night, and the Stilinski dining table had disappeared under a mountain of manila folders, crime scene photos, and stained coffee mugs.
I stood in the doorway, clutching a dark glass bottle, and watched my dad rub his eyes with the weariness of someone carrying the weight of the entire town on his shoulders.
"What are you doing?" I asked, approaching the table.
He didn't even lift his head from the report he was reading.
"Work."
"Can I help with anything?"
He let out a heavy sigh, leaning back in his chair and taking off his reading glasses.
"You know, if you poured me a glass of whiskey, that would be great."
I walked over to the cabinet, grabbed a low glass tumbler, and poured the amber liquid. I didn't pour a standard shot. I poured a triple. The strong smell of alcohol filled my nostrils, making me feel like the worst son in the world.
"Any leads?" I baited him, trying to sound casual.
"You know I can't discuss that with you." He shook his head.
I poured a little more into the glass.
"Not too much!" he warned, eyes widening at the amount.
"Right. There you go, Dad," I said, handing him the full glass.
"Thanks," he said, raising the glass.
"Cheers."
He took a long sip. The alcohol hit his exhausted system almost instantly. He blinked a few times, letting out a long breath, and the rigid sheriff posture began to melt into the chair.
"You know," his voice came out a bit more slurred, "Derek Hale would be a real hole of..."
He frowned, struggling with the word.
"Hale of a lot of...?"
"A lot of trouble?" I tried to help.
"For sure..." He swirled the glass, looking at the liquid. "He'd be much easier to catch if we could get a picture of him."
I frowned, genuinely confused. I pulled out a chair and sat across from him.
"How do you not have a picture of him? He's been arrested before."
"It's the weirdest thing..." He pointed a finger at me, his voice thick. "It's like, every time we tried to take a mugshot, two laser beams were pointed at the camera. Ruined the film."
Glowing eyes, I thought, feeling a shiver down my spine. Of course. The flash reflects off his tapetum lucidum, just like a cat's eyes in the dark.
"Cool," I murmured.
My dad downed the rest of the glass. He squeezed his eyes shut tight.
"Oh, my God... Ohhh! God, that shot hit me like a punch."
He opened his eyes, seeming suddenly aware of who was in front of him.
"And I've already said too much, and if you repeat any of this..."
"Dad, it's me," I said quickly, leaning over the table. "I won't say anything. Come on, go on."
He looked at me for a long moment, the professional barrier finally yielding to alcohol and exhaustion. He pulled one of the manila folders closer.
"See, the thing is, everything connects..." he mumbled, pointing to the scattered photos.
"I mean, the bus driver who died? The one the animal attacked? He was an insurance investigator assigned to the Hale house fire."
My eyes widened. I pulled the driver's file, turning the page.
"'Fired under suspicion of fraud,'" I read aloud.
"Exactly."
"Who else?" I asked, my mind spinning. What had Nathan said about the Alpha not killing randomly? About it being calculated?
"The video store clerk who had his throat slashed weeks ago?"
My dad tapped his finger on the crime scene photo.
"He's a convicted felon. With a history of arson."
"What about the other two guys, the guys who were killed in the woods at the start of all this?"
"Criminal records all over the place, including..."
"Arson," I finished, letting the air out slowly. The realization dropped with a deafening thud.
"So, maybe they all had something to do with the fire..."
Revenge. The Alpha wasn't just hunting. He was crossing names off a list.
I grabbed the whiskey bottle.
"Another shot?" I offered, already tilting the bottle.
"No, no, no. That's enough," he tried to cover the glass with his hand, but he was too slow.
"Dad, come on! You work hard, okay? You deserve it," I insisted, filling the glass again.
He looked at the drink, his resistance weakening.
"Oh, God... I'm gonna have a hell of a hangover..."
"You mean you're gonna have a great night's sleep!" I forced a cheerful smile.
As he brought the glass to his mouth, I turned my face away, guilt crushing my stomach like a stone.
"I'm going to spend eternity in the deepest circle of hell," I grumbled to myself.
As I watched the glass lower, Nathan's voice echoed in my head, cold and surgical, like a scalpel cutting through the school parking lot that morning:
"When are you going to stop being Scott's support and start being your own foundation? Everything you do revolves around him."
I was getting my own father drunk. I was betraying the trust of the town Sheriff, exploiting the exhaustion of the guy who raised me alone, all to get crumbs of information to keep Scott safe.
Nathan was right. I had no moral boundary line if the subject was my best friend. That realization made me feel sick with myself.
My dad was staring at the wall, the second empty whiskey glass in his hand. His eyes were unfocused, lost in the mysteries haunting this town.
"Stiles," he murmured, his voice thick, almost a whisper. "There are so many questions..."
"Like what?" I asked, forcing my attention back to the folders, trying to push the guilt down.
"Like, if Derek wanted to kill everyone involved in the fire... why start with his sister?"
He turned his face to me, his expression full of confusion.
"I mean, Laura had nothing to do with it. Why kill her? And why make it look like some kind of animal did it?"
I froze. It was a massive flaw in the logic. If the Alpha wanted revenge for the fire, killing his own niece made absolutely no sense. There was a missing piece.
My dad continued, oblivious to my internal shock.
"When that mountain lion showed up in the school parking lot last week, I contacted animal control."
He shook his head slowly.
"Do you know that reports of wild animals have gone up seventy percent in the last few months? Seventy percent. It's like they're going crazy, running out of the woods... I don't know..."
"Or something is scaring them," I muttered, remembering the roar I heard the night we found the half-body. The apex predator driving out the lesser predators.
"That's not counting the weird stuff that doesn't bleed," my dad grumbled, rubbing his tired face.
"Your school principal called me yesterday about a problem with a student's paperwork. I went to investigate and... nothing."
"Nothing how?" I asked, curiosity spiking.
"The kid just didn't exist before last month," he explained, frustration evident even under the influence of alcohol.
"No valid previous school records, no authentic birth certificate. The emergency contact numbers lead to dead or non-existent lines."
I felt the hair on my arms stand up.
"Dad, what's his name?"
"Joseph something," my dad waved his hand, dismissing the detail.
"But you know what's worse? I went to the school today to question the teachers, try to find out who the hell signed his enrollment. And nobody cares."
"Everyone acts with a... bizarre indifference. It's like people's minds slip away when they try to focus on him or the lack of documents."
My breath hitched for a second. The gears in my brain turned too fast.
Elias.
Someone new in town. Someone who blends in. Nightmare level.
Nathan's words hit me with the weight of an anvil. The Dark Mage wasn't hiding in a cave in the woods. He was walking the same hallways as us, manipulating teachers' minds to go unnoticed.
I opened my mouth to ask what he looked like, if my dad had seen his face, but the tone of the Sheriff's voice changed suddenly.
The investigative timbre vanished, replaced by an emotional weight that caught me totally off guard.
"You know," my dad murmured. "I miss talking to you..."
I looked at him, the urgency about Elias colliding with the brutal vulnerability of that moment.
"It feels like we never have time..." he continued, his gaze falling to his own calloused hands on the table.
The alcohol had broken down the investigation's barriers, but it had also torn down the walls he used to endure the loneliness. The pain of the guilt I felt before returned, multiplied by a hundred.
"Dad, you know, I need to make a call," I said, getting up from the chair too fast, the legs scraping against the floor. I couldn't stay there.
"Sorry, I'll be right back."
"Yeah..." he agreed, his voice very low, sounding incredibly old and tired.
"I miss this... and I miss your mom..."
I froze in the middle of the room. The air seemed to vanish from my lungs.
I turned slowly, looking at my father's curved back under the dim kitchen light.
"What did you say?" I asked, my throat so tight the voice barely came out.
He didn't turn around.
He just raised the hand holding the empty glass, a small, drunken, defeated gesture.
"Thanks."
[...]
The social map of Beacon Hills was slowly taking shape. Scott and Allison's juvenile romance had cooled off after the disastrous escape on her birthday.
Jackson, desperate to become a werewolf, was investing in Allison to blackmail Scott into turning him. What he didn't know was that he had already gotten what he wanted—and was oblivious to the imminent danger he was in.
Meanwhile, Chris Argent suspected Jackson was Peter's beta, and the Dark Mage had simply vanished.
No attacks on anyone close to me, no hunting down my mana trails—and I had scattered plenty on purpose. This absolute silence confirmed one of two possibilities: either he already knew who I was and was just waiting for the right time to strike, or he didn't give a damn about me and my insignificant level of magic.
My father was also strangely passive regarding him—something very different from the initial stance he adopted when facing a red mana monster.
Despite my efforts, the canon still held firm, following its course... but I was already starting to notice small differences.
The main one was Lydia. She seemed to have accepted the fact that Jackson didn't put her first better than expected—or maybe it was exactly the opposite, and I was completely fooling myself.
Why only these two possibilities?
Because, for the first time since I arrived in Beacon Hills, Lydia Martin sent me a message.
The notification appeared in the corner of my phone like a discreet lure—a white box with the name "Lydia" and three blue dots. My thumb hovered over the screen before I even looked at the content. There was something about the way her name glowed that put me on alert, like when a sensor picks up a micro-variation in mana.
I opened the message calmly. It was short. Cold on purpose:
Lydia: "Can you talk? Now. It's not about Jackson."
The first reaction was automatic: suspicion. Lydia almost never asked to talk to me alone. When she did something out of pattern, it almost always had a purpose—information, a social test, or subtle manipulation to move three pieces on the social board. That "it's not about Jackson" sounded exactly like a note you leave to convince someone to do what you want.
My Level 4 Vision, which I had been trying not to use like a nervous tic in public, gave me more than simple digital ink. A weak residue—almost imperceptible—blinked around the text: signature of intent. Lydia was agitated. It wasn't panic, but there was an urgency there that escaped her usual control.
I remembered, in a flash, our last interactions: her hand landing "accidentally" on my arm when Jackson passed by; the calculated look she threw when I talked to Allison. In several scenes, Lydia behaved like someone testing the water temperature. Consolation? Maybe. A desire to bruise Jackson's ego using the "new student"? Very likely.
The real problem wasn't Lydia's vanity. It was Jackson. I spent the last few weeks swallowing my pride and agreeing with his speeches of grandeur just to be close enough when the Kanima toxin started to act. If Lydia decided to use me as a trophy just to make him jealous, Jackson would cut me from the circle instantly. And a Kanima loose without supervision was a recipe for a massacre. I simply couldn't afford to become the center of a teenage drama right now.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair, and typed a reply trying to nip it in the bud, but without being a complete jerk:
Me: "Five minutes. Where? And this better not be to use me to make him jealous, Lydia. My drama quota is already maxed out for today."
Her reply blinked on the screen almost before I finished locking the device.
Lydia: "Back parking lot. Near the bleachers. And get over your ego, Nathan, the world doesn't revolve around who you kiss. I'm serious."
I let out a nasal laugh. Classic Lydia. Her defensiveness only confirmed that I had touched a nerve, but that final "I'm serious" carried that signature of urgency again.
I threw the blanket aside, feeling the shock of the cold wooden floor under my feet. Laziness tried to hold me in bed, but paranoia spoke louder. I put on dark jeans, a random t-shirt, and threw my leather jacket over it. I grabbed the Charger keys and my backpack, skipping down the stairs two at a time.
The house was already filled with the strong smell of roasted coffee. In the kitchen, the scene was the typical Salt family contrast: Alice was leaning against the counter, calmly sipping her steaming cup, while Marcus, already up and perfectly groomed, analyzed notes in his field journal with the posture of a general reviewing a war map.
I walked straight past the marble island, grabbing a red apple from the fruit bowl in the center of the table.
"Going to school early today," I announced, taking the first bite and already turning toward the garage door.
Marcus looked up from the notebook. His analytical gaze crossed mine in a split second, always looking for any sign of danger.
"Did something happen?" he asked, voice deep and calm. "Any new trace? Halloway?"
"No," I shook my head, chewing. "Nothing magical. Just... school politics. I was summoned for an emergency meeting of the teen drama committee."
Alice let out a soft laugh, shaking her head.
"Be careful with those 'meetings', sweetie," she teased. "Bored teenagers can be crueler than real monsters."
Marcus didn't find it as funny. He narrowed his eyes slightly. "Your mother is right. Their politics might not use claws, Nathan, but it bites just the same. Keep your eyes open. Whittemore's toxin should be reaching the incubation point."
"I'll keep my neck protected, Dad," I promised.
I gave a quick wave to both of them.
"See you later."
The garage door closed behind me, muffling the sound of the house. When I started the Charger, the V8 engine roar echoed off the walls before I tore down the street toward the school.
The morning mist of Beacon Hills hadn't completely dissipated yet, leaving the town with that pale, ghostly look as always. I took the sharp turn to enter the school and drove straight past the main entrance, circling the building to the back parking lot, near the lacrosse field and metal bleachers.
I killed the engine. The morning silence was only broken by the distant sound of some students arriving out front.
Before opening the car door, I took a deep breath and let mana flow to my eyes. Level 4 Vision activated, not out of invasive curiosity, but out of pure survival instinct. I wasn't walking into a blind conversation.
And then, I saw her.
Lydia Martin was standing leaning against the bleacher railing, arms crossed over an expensive coat, the heel of her boot tapping impatiently on the asphalt.
I turned off Magic Vision with a blink, letting the mana recede to my core. I didn't need magic to read what was about to happen. Biology and the cruel sociology of high school would handle the rest.
I got out of the car. The sound of the door slamming echoed in the empty lot.
Lydia was leaning against the bleacher railing. The cold morning wind gently swayed her perfect strawberry-blonde hair. She wore a coat that probably cost more than a college tuition payment, but her posture betrayed pure boredom and irritation.
"Five minutes sharp," she said, lifting her chin when I stopped two meters away. "At least you're punctual."
"And you're direct," I replied, shoving my hands into my jacket pockets. "So, what did Jackson do to earn me a VIP summons before the bell rings?"
She rolled her eyes, pushing off the railing.
"I said in the message it wasn't about him," Lydia shot back, her voice gaining a velvety tone. She took a step forward, closing the distance between us. "Beacon Hills is boring, Nathan. People are predictable. The qualifying game for State is today, and Jackson is so obsessed with his own navel and McCall that he forgot life exists outside the field."
She stopped in front of me. Too close. The smell of floral perfume invaded the cold air.
"And you aren't predictable," she whispered, tilting her head slightly upward. Her green eyes focused on my mouth.
That's when it clicked. The original script hit my head.
The kiss.
In season one, Lydia kissed Scott out of nowhere. It wasn't a grand Machiavellian plan. It was pure impulse. The action of a bored "mean girl," acting superficially just because her boyfriend was neglecting her and she needed to prove to herself that she could still have any boy in school with a snap of her fingers.
And now, with Scott out of focus and me circulating in the elite group, I had become the perfect shiny toy for her ego.
"Lydia..." I started, holding back a smile and taking a half-step back, breaking the magnetic field on purpose before she could press her lips to mine.
She blinked, the mask of seduction faltering instantly. Her eyes sparked with incipient rejection.
"The game is today," I said, voice calm, almost conspiratorial, changing the angle of the conversation to not wound her pride. "Jackson is under pressure, acting like a blind idiot, and you're bored. I get it. But if we kiss here, I stop being the interesting new guy and just become another band-aid for your ego."
She crossed her arms, posture hardening. The flirtation vanished completely, giving way to the popular girl who hated hearing "no."
"You think you're pretty smart, don't you?" she hissed.
"I think you're too smart to lower yourself to an impulse kiss just to feel better for five minutes," I replied, offering a conciliatory smile. "Jackson is a moron for ignoring you today, Lydia. Everyone knows that. But you don't need to use me to prove your worth. You already own this school. Don't let his paranoia diminish you to the point of acting like a teenager desperate for attention."
The word "desperate" made her eyes shine with dangerous indignation. For a split second, I thought she was going to slap me. But Lydia Martin was too proud to show she had been truly hit.
She blinked, expression hardening, and then flashed a cold, perfectly rehearsed smile.
"Desperate? Please, Nathan." She laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "I was just testing your reflexes. Wanted to see if you'd stutter with the proximity. apparently, the new boy's nervous system works just fine."
She took a step back, adjusting the collar of her own coat.
"See you in class."
And with that, she spun around. The sound of heels hitting the asphalt echoed in a furious rhythm as she marched back to the main building without looking back.
I let out the air I didn't realize I was holding. I ran a hand over my face, feeling the adrenaline start to drop. I grabbed my backpack and locked the Charger.
I walked toward the school entrance. As soon as I crossed the double doors, the chaotic hum of high school hit me. Huge hand-painted posters covered the metal lockers, and cheerleaders passed by laughing loudly. Today was the qualifying game for State. The event Jackson treated as the center of the universe.
I already knew the result of that match. They would win, the whole school would go into ecstasy, and the focus would shift to the celebration. My only worry was the mess that almost always happened in the shadows while everyone was looking at the scoreboard.
I walked straight past the excited cliques and went directly to my first class. I entered the room, tossed my backpack onto the back chair, and sat down, crossing my arms. The morning had barely started and I was already exhausted.
I closed my eyes for a moment, listening to the noise of students entering, and waited for the bell to ring.
The harsh buzz of my phone vibrating in my jacket pocket broke my brief moment of peace.
I opened one eye, saw the teacher was still writing on the board with his back turned, and pulled out the device, hiding it under the desk.
The name "Stiles" glowed on the screen.
I answered quickly, keeping my head down and voice in a whisper.
"Talk."
"Nate. Wake up. I found the guy," Stiles' voice came from the other end of the line, breathless, accompanied by the typical echo of someone locked in a bathroom stall.
"I spent the whole night digging through my dad's stuff after I... well, after yesterday. I already passed the report to Scott, now it's your turn."
I straightened my posture in the chair, tiredness vanishing instantly.
"Found Elias?"
"He's not using Elias," Stiles corrected quickly, his investigative brain working a mile a minute.
"Obviously, right? It'd be stupid to use his real name when you're a fugitive sonic maniac."
"In my dad's notes and the school system, he's registered as Joseph. Joseph Blake."
"Ghost paperwork, forged school history, the full undercover psycho package."
"His enrollment appeared out of nowhere last month and no teacher seems to question it."
"Subtle mind control," I muttered to myself, understanding the tactic.
"Did you get a picture of him from your dad's files?"
"I did," Stiles confirmed, and I heard the sound of paper crumping on the other end.
"I took a picture of the photo with my phone."
"Listen closely to the description: he's white, thin, with that face of someone who survives on energy drinks and hatred and hasn't slept in a month."
"Dark hair, kinda messy, short on the sides."
"He has a look... empty."
"It's the exact type of guy who sits at the back of the room and nobody notices he exists until the moment the whole school explodes."
"Age?" I asked, my eyes already instinctively scanning the students finishing entering my room.
"Seventeen. Or at least that's what the fake ID says," Stiles replied, voice getting tighter.
"He's in our year, Nate."
"He's not a teacher, or a janitor."
"He's a student."
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Holy cow, you guys sent way too many Power Stones! I really wasn't expecting that. I wanted to apologize for the wait—I've had these chapters ready for a while, but I hit a wall with Chapter 17. I wanted the final chapter of this combo to be something unique, not just a filler, so I got stuck trying to make it perfect. I've been writing all day and still haven't finished. Sorry it's only 4 chapters for now, but I promise the rest will be out tomorrow!