Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The woods didn’t smell right.

The pine was sharp, the soil damp, the air still—but beneath it all, there was something fouler. Metallic. Wrong. Derek moved slowly, boots sinking into the moss and leaves. He’d parked the Camaro half a mile back; he had found it with the keys a few miles away. But Derek didn’t need headlights. Didn’t need light at all.

He’d been tracking the scent for hours.

At first, it had been faint—days old and carried by the wind. But now, it coated the inside of his nose. Blood. Rot. The bite of exposed flesh in open air. And pack.

His pack.

Laura.

The sound he made when he found her wasn’t human.

The clearing was small, choked with brush and the twisted remains of a broken log. Her body—or what was left of it—was half-covered in disturbed dirt and leaves. Her jacket was still on, torn through the back, and her long dark hair was matted with blood.

There was no lower half.

Derek stumbled forward and dropped to his knees.

“Laura,” he choked. His hands hovered uselessly over her shoulder, not quite touching. “No. No, no, no…”

He’d known. Of course he’d known.

From the moment he smelled her blood in Beacon Hills, he knew she wasn’t alive. He’d hoped maybe she was hurt. Maybe she was shifted. Maybe it wasn’t her. But this—

This was real.

He reached out and gently turned her enough to see her face.

Her eyes were closed.

Her lips were parted, just slightly. As if she might still be about to say something. Scold him. Tease him. Tell him to stop sulking and get up, to help her finish what they came here to do.

Instead, Derek sobbed.

Not loudly. Just a broken sound that didn’t go anywhere. It left his chest and vanished into the trees.

Her hands were curled near her chest. Her claws were out.

Derek froze. Swallowed hard.

Her knuckles were split. Her left wrist was broken—bone showing. Her right arm was scored with deep, ragged gashes that hadn’t had time to heal.

She’d fought.

She’d fought whoever did this to her.

He moved to her torso, hands shaking, and pressed a palm to her side. The cut was clean—too clean. A sharp line of severed flesh and torn muscle, right below the rib cage.

“Why—why would they do this?” he whispered. “Why would they—?”

This wasn’t a werewolf kill. This wasn’t a mauling. Something had sliced her in half. Something cut her in half.

And now he only had half of his big sister.

His stomach turned violently. He dropped his head to the dirt beside her, gagging, sobbing again as his fingers clawed helplessly at the earth.

“Why didn’t you run?” he whispered. “Why didn’t you call me?”

But she had. Somehow, she had. That’s why he was here, wasn’t it?

He thought back to eight months ago. The way Laura had held him after Hannah’s blood soaked into his clothes and Derek broken.

“I’m not leaving you,” she’d whispered. “You hear me? Not like she did. Not like Mom. Not like—any of them. I’m here. You’re not gonna be alone.”

And now she was gone too.

A high, gasping sob caught in his throat.

Derek pressed both hands to her blood-crusted jacket like he could hold her together, like if he just put enough pressure, the missing parts would come back.

“You said—” his voice broke. “You said you wouldn’t—”

He couldn’t finish.

Couldn’t breathe.

The memory of fire filled his nose. Screams. Smoke. The snap of his father’s neck. Paige’s scream. Kate’s hands on his skin. Hannah’s body cooling in his lap.

Now this.

Laura, torn apart.

And him, left behind again.

The wind had picked up by the time Derek stood again, bones aching from hours on the ground. His fingers wouldn’t stop shaking. His knees buckled once as he moved toward her. But he caught himself.

He had to do this.

He didn’t know where the rest of her was. Just this—this half. But it was her. It was Laura. And she deserved better than a shallow grave in a clearing like roadkill.

He slipped his arms under her body, one beneath her shoulders, the other beneath her knees.

Or where her knees should’ve been.

His vision blurred again.

He didn’t cry out. He didn’t scream. He didn’t even grunt with the effort. Just lifted what was left of her and held on.

Her blood soaked through his shirt. He didn’t care.

The walk to the old Hale house wasn’t long, but it felt like miles. The path had overgrown in the years since the fire. Vines snaked across the remnants of what used to be home, and ash still clung to the soil in places. But Derek didn’t pause.

He found what was left of the front yard and knelt in the dirt.

It was still there. Faded. Half-choked by weeds and soot, but still there.

Derek placed on the ground carefully like she was still here with him and he needed to be gentle.

He dug with his hands.

No shovel. No tools. Just claws and fingers and rage.

He tore at the earth like it had wronged him, like if he dug deep enough he’d reach some version of the world where none of this had happened.

The sun began to rise behind him. Pale gold spilling through the blackened ribs of their old house.

Derek lowered Laura’s body into the grave.

Pressed his forehead to her forehead one last time. Closed her eyes. Touched the tips of her fingers.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t enough,” he whispered.

And then he covered her.

Carefully. Slowly. One handful of dirt at a time. When he was done, he smoothed the soil flat with both palms and placed the spiral over the mound, tracing the lines until his fingers bled.

And then he sat beside her.

Knees drawn up. Arms around himself. Back to the morning sun.

He stayed there until the light reached his feet.

He didn’t pray.

He didn’t move.

***

The woods were alive with motion—shadows flickering between trees, flashlights cutting across the underbrush, voices echoing too close.

Derek shoved Scott behind a fallen log and crouched beside him, every muscle taut. His heart wasn’t racing, but Scott’s was. Out of control. Loud.

Too loud.

“They’re getting closer,” Scott whispered, panic threading through every syllable. His claws were out again. He hadn’t noticed.

Derek reached over and grabbed Scott’s wrist—tight enough to hold him still, not hard enough to bruise.

“Breathe,” Derek snapped.

“I am breathing!” Scott hissed back. “You're the one dragging me through the forest like this is some kind of war zone!”

“It is ,” Derek growled, eyes scanning the trees. “And you're not ready for it.”

Scott yanked his arm away. “You kidnapped her.”

Derek’s head whipped around. “What?”

“Allison,” Scott spat, teeth bared like he wanted to shift. “You took her from the party—”

“I protected her,” Derek snarled, voice low but lethal. “I drove her home, Scott. You were going to kill someone tonight when you lost control and you knew it.”

“You don’t get to decide that!” Scott shot back. “She’s not yours!”

“No,” Derek said. “But she’s not yours either. Not when you're like this.”

Scott surged to his feet, rage and shame crackling just under his skin. The moon hit him square in the chest, his shirt soaked through with sweat, claws flexed.

Derek rose with him, taller, steadier, eyes glowing faintly now. Not quite Alpha. But something old and heavy lived behind that stare.

“You don’t even know me,” Scott said, voice cracking.

“I know what you are,” Derek said, stepping forward. “And I know what happens when a Beta with no anchor loses control on the full moon. You don’t get to throw a tantrum about Allison when you almost tore someone’s throat out three nights ago just because they spilled a drink on you.”

Scott flinched. Derek didn’t stop.

“You think this is about love? It’s not. It’s about survival.”

From somewhere in the distance, a sharp whistle rang out. Two more flashlights cut through the trees. Chris Argent’s voice called: “Fan out. He’s still close.”

Derek turned sharply, listening.

“Go,” he told Scott. “Circle back to the road. Do not shift, do not make a sound, and if you see them— run. ”

Scott hesitated, chest heaving. “Why are you even helping me?”

Derek’s jaw twitched. “Because we’re brothers now.”

Scott’s eyes narrowed like he might ask more, but then the beam of a flashlight hit a nearby trunk. Wood cracked. Voices shouted.

Scott turned and sprinted into the shadows, crashing through the underbrush like a wild thing.

Derek watched him go, breath steady, heart slow.

Then he slipped into the opposite direction—silent as smoke.

***

The Jeep’s headlights cut through the morning mist like twin searchlights, illuminating the cracked edge of the old service road. Stiles saw him from a hundred feet out—curled on the embankment like a wet cat, hoodie smeared with dirt, jeans ripped at the knees, sneakers soaked and squishing slightly as he shifted his weight.

Scott McCall looked like hell.

Stiles didn’t kill the engine. Just threw it in park and leaned over to pop the passenger door open with a loud clunk .

Scott didn’t move at first.

Then, wordlessly, he pushed himself upright and limped the short distance to the Jeep, yanking the door open and collapsing into the passenger seat with a low grunt. He slammed the door shut behind him like punctuation.

Stiles waited a beat.

Then: “So... do we wanna talk about how you look like you spent the night losing a fight to a tree?”

Scott gave him a flat, unamused look. “Not really.”

“Cool. Awesome. Great catching up,” Stiles muttered, throwing the Jeep back into gear. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as they pulled onto the main road. “Next time you wanna get chased by heavily armed adults in the woods while halfway turned into a horror movie creature, maybe just text me a heads-up first. You know. For scheduling.”

Scott rubbed at his eyes. “I didn’t mean for any of that to happen.”

“No, I’m sure it was just a spontaneous full moon nature walk with bonus trauma,” Stiles snapped.

They drove in silence for a few minutes, the heater humming low and the faint sound of static crackling from the radio, too quiet to identify the song.

Scott stared out the window, jaw tight. His knuckles were scraped raw. There was a rip in his sleeve and a twig stuck in the cuff of his hoodie.

Stiles glanced at him again. His friend looked... young. Not wolfed-out. Not snarling. Just exhausted and ashamed.

“You need help, dude,” Stiles said finally, voice softer now.

Scott didn’t look at him. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Stiles said. “You’re literally turning into a werewolf, Scott. You’ve got fangs. Your eyes glow now. You almost snapped Coach’s clipboard in half on Monday because he made you run an extra lap.”

Scott didn’t respond.

Stiles drummed his fingers on the wheel. “Derek seems to know what’s going on. He’s got, like, a werewolf manual downloaded into his broody brain. Stuff we don’t even know to ask.”

“I don’t need Derek’s help.”

Stiles let out a noise of disbelief. “Really? Really ? Because from what I saw last night, you were about ten seconds away from turning into a growling murder-machine, and Derek seems like the only one keeping you from clawing someone’s face off.. . ”

Scott finally turned, his eyes flashing. “He took Allison.”

“Oh my God,” Stiles muttered, throwing up a hand. “He drove her home, Scott. He didn’t toss her in a sack and tie her to a tree.”

“You weren’t there—!”

“No, but I called her,” Stiles said, voice cutting through Scott’s protest. “After you ghosted her at the party like a complete tool, I checked on her. She said Derek didn’t say much, just made sure she got home safe. Sat in the car until she turned on the porch light.”

Scott swallowed hard.

“She was worried about you, ” Stiles added, quieter now. “She thought she said something wrong. Thought she scared you off. She was gonna go looking for you in the woods.”

Scott’s mouth opened slightly. “What?”

“Yeah. In her party dress. At midnight. On a full moon. Looking for her werewolf sorta-boyfriend who she didn’t know was a werewolf! I can’t believe I’m saying ‘werewolf’ like it’s a normal word.”

The Jeep hit a bump. Neither of them reacted.

“You’re lucky Derek took her home,” Stiles said. “You’re lucky she didn’t find you. Because you weren’t Scott anymore. Not really.”

Scott’s hands curled into fists in his lap. “He’s still a dick.”

Stiles gave him a long look. “He doesn’t owe you anything, you know.”

Scott blinked.

“Derek’s got his own nightmare going on. But he still showed up. Still tried to help. Still covered your ass.”

Scott didn’t respond, but his jaw twitched.

“I’m not saying you have to like him,” Stiles continued. “But maybe you stop acting like he’s the one making things worse.”

Scott leaned back, arms crossed, staring out the windshield. The sky was softening with the first pale light of dawn. “I don’t trust him.”

“Fine. Don’t trust him,” Stiles muttered. “But maybe don’t ignore the only person in town who actually knows what the hell is happening to you.”

Silence settled between them again, but this time it felt less brittle.

The Jeep rumbled on down the road.

***

The sun had finally broken through the morning clouds, but the chill lingered. The concrete courtyard was buzzing with noise—zipping backpacks, slamming lockers, the clatter of vending machines. Typical school chaos.

Scott spotted Allison at her locker between classes, tucking her hair behind her ear as she struggled with a jammed zipper. Her expression was calm, but tight around the eyes.

He hesitated—then walked over. “Hey.”

She glanced at him, smiled. Not cold exactly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Hey.”

Scott rubbed the back of his neck. “Did you get home okay last night?”

“Eventually,” she said, a little too brightly. “Your friend Derek made sure I got there.”

Scott blinked. “He’s not my friend.”

She raised a brow. “Oh? I thought he was. He showed up right after you vanished.”

“I didn’t vanish.”

“You kinda did,” Allison said, soft but firm. “It was our first actual date, Scott. And you bailed.”

Scott opened his mouth—then shut it. His heart thudded faster.

“I wasn’t trying to ditch you,” he said quickly. “There was just—something happened.”

Allison looked at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Okay.”

But her posture was stiff. Not angry—just hurt.

“I asked Stiles if he knew where you went. He didn’t. I was actually going to look for you, but Derek offered to drive me home. Said it wasn’t safe to go walking around that part of the preserve at night.”

Scott clenched his jaw.

“He didn’t say much,” she added, adjusting her bag. “Didn’t even park in the driveway. Just made sure I got inside before he left. He was... surprisingly nice.”

Scott’s hands curled slightly at his sides. “Derek’s not a nice guy.”

Allison looked at him again. “He didn’t seem like a monster.”

Scott didn’t answer that.

“Anyway,” she said, trying to move past it. “I’m glad you’re okay. Just... maybe next time, let me know if you're leaving? I mean you were my ride.”

Scott nodded, but his eyes were distant now.

“See you at lunch?” she asked.

“Yeah. Of course.”

She walked off toward class, boots clicking against the concrete.

Scott stood still for a second, fists clenched, jaw tight.

Derek drove her home. Derek made him look bad. 

His ears rang. His pulse jumped.

He turned and walked in the opposite direction, fast.

***

The air inside what remained of the Hale House was always colder than it should’ve been. Even with the sun high above the scorched beams and broken windows, it felt like the fire still breathed through the walls.

Derek stood in the center of the living room—what used to be the living room. Now it was nothing but a skeletal frame of blackened timber and warped nails, the ash worked so deeply into the floorboards it would never come out.

He didn’t move. Just stood there, eyes glazed, chest tight.

Here , right here, used to be the fireplace. There was a couch. Cora used to sleep on it during thunderstorms. Laura would sit cross-legged on the floor with three open textbooks and somehow still ace her math test. His mother’s voice would carry in from the kitchen—soft, commanding, warm.

Derek stared at the empty space like the memory might flicker back to life. But it didn’t.

He was the only one left.

The weight of that sat in his bones. Quiet. Crushing. A dull ache he couldn’t put down.

He walked slowly through the house—careful over loose floorboards and broken glass, like it mattered. His boots crunched over soot and old plaster. His fingers grazed what used to be the doorframe to his bedroom.

They’d lived here.

They’d loved here.

Gone now. Burned. Buried.

And he was still breathing.

A noise snapped him out of it—faint, but wrong. Too heavy for wind. Too careless for a hunter.

Footsteps.

Derek froze, then ducked low behind the splintered remains of the hallway wall. He listened. Breathing slowed. Pulse dropped.

The scent hit him a second later—sweat, anger, blood, and young werewolf. Scott.

Derek stood and stepped back into the open just as the shouting started.

“Derek! ”

Scott stormed through what had once been the back door, teeth clenched, fists shaking.

“You think you can just hide out here? Like none of this is your fault?”

Derek said nothing.

Scott’s eyes glowed gold now. He looked frayed—like a live wire sparking at both ends.

“You did this to me!” he shouted, voice cracking. “You bit me! You turned me into this thing!”

“I didn’t bite you,” Derek said coldly. “I don’t have that kind of power.”

“Don’t screw with me!”

Scott’s hands curled into claws. “You ruined my life!”

Derek stepped forward, slow and calm. “There’s another werewolf out there. An Alpha. That’s who bit you. The same one who killed my sister. ”

Scott faltered. “What?”

“He took the Alpha spark when he murdered her,” Derek said, voice flat. “That’s what made him Alpha. That’s who you should be mad at. Not me.”

But Scott wasn’t listening anymore. His heart was racing. His anger, his fear, his guilt—they all boiled over in a single, furious roar.

He lunged.

Derek ducked the first swing, but the second caught him square in the ribs and launched him through what used to be the dining room wall. The drywall crumbled like paper. He hit the ground hard, wood and soot scattering beneath him.

For a second, there was silence.

Then Derek stood.

Calm.

Deadpan.

He rolled his shoulders once, exhaled slowly, and tugged his jacket off.

He dropped it on the ground with a soft thump .

“That was cute.”

His eyes flared brilliant blue.

Claws extended. Fangs bared.

Scott charged again—but this time, Derek didn’t hold back.

He met him mid-stride, slammed a knee into Scott’s gut, then spun him by the collar and threw him against a support beam with enough force to crack it. The whole house seemed to tremble.

Scott growled and launched himself forward again—slashing wildly.

Derek dodged left, caught Scott by the wrist, twisted, and kicked out his knee in one smooth, brutal motion. Scott hit the ground with a thud.

“You’re not in control,” Derek snarled. “You’re not even close.”

Scott lunged from the ground—only for Derek to grab the front of his hoodie and slam him into the floorboards hard enough to leave a dent.

“You want to survive this? Start listening .”

Scott wheezed.

Derek let go and stepped back, chest rising and falling.

The fight was over before it really began.

Scott lay there panting, face scraped, lip bleeding, golden eyes flickering back to brown.

“You’re not a monster,” Derek said quietly. “But if you don’t get control, you will be.”

He turned away.

And Scott didn't argue. He pushed himself up off the floor and left without another word. 

Derek stood in the shadows.

Alone. 

***

The house smelled like garlic, slightly scorched parmesan, and whatever regret came from using pre-minced garlic from a jar. Stiles stirred the sauce one more time, brow furrowed, then gave up and turned the burner off. He grabbed two plates from the cupboard with one hand and checked the clock with the other.

6:42 p.m.

His dad was late. Again.

Stiles didn’t mind cooking. It gave him something to focus on. Something that didn’t involve claws or glowing eyes or trying to decode the hot-and-cold behavior of their local brooding werewolf.

The phone buzzed where it sat on the kitchen table, the screen flashing:

Scott

Stiles wiped his hands on a dishtowel and picked up. “Hey, I was just about to—”

“I found him.”

The words came fast. Breathless. Coiled with anger.

Stiles straightened. “Found who—wait. Derek ?”

“Yeah,” Scott snapped. “He was at the Hale house. Just standing there. Like he lives there or something. In the ashes. Alone. Like a complete psycho.”

Stiles blinked, slowly lowering into one of the kitchen chairs. “You went to the Hale house?”

“I had to,” Scott said. “After everything last night? He’s the only one who knows anything about this, right?”

“And... what happened?”

“He said it wasn’t him. He said he didn’t bite me. Said there’s another werewolf—some Alpha out there who killed his sister and took something called the Alpha spark. Like he’s trying to shift all the blame somewhere else.”

Stiles frowned. “Wait—there’s another werewolf?”

“Apparently,” Scott muttered. “Big bad Alpha out there running around biting people like it’s a hobby. Derek just dumped that on me like it wasn’t a big deal. And then we fought.”

“You fought Derek ?”

“I threw him through a wall.”

Stiles went still. “You what?”

“I don’t know,” Scott said, voice rising. “He just—he made me so angry. The way he talks, like he knows everything. Like none of this is my problem. Like I should just roll over and listen to him.”

Stiles exhaled. “So, what happened?”

“He kicked my ass,” Scott admitted after a beat. “He’s fast. He’s strong. He barely even broke a sweat.”

Stiles leaned forward, gripping the edge of the table. “Okay... but did he say anything else? About the Alpha?”

“No,” Scott muttered. “Just that he didn’t bite me. That the one who did killed his sister and now he’s Alpha.”

Stiles was quiet for a second, processing. Then: “Do you think Derek’s staying there?”

“What?”

“At the Hale house,” Stiles said. “Do you think he’s actually living there?”

Scott scoffed. “Who cares?”

“I care!” Stiles snapped. “Scott, think about it. He’s like, what? Eighteen? Nineteen? His whole family is dead. His sister was murdered. And now he’s sleeping in the ruins of his house alone like some kind of freaking tragic ghost. That’s not normal. That’s not okay. ”

“He’s dangerous.”

“He’s grieving! ” Stiles shot back. “And yeah, he’s scary and intense and makes me want to check the closet before bed, but he also drove Allison home, and he helped you when you lost control, and he’s not the one throwing people through walls right now!”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt him!”

“I know that!” Stiles said, voice softening. “But this—this isn’t you, man. This whole ‘growl first, talk never’ thing? It’s not Scott McCall. And don’t even try to tell me it is.”

Scott was silent.

Stiles continued, more quietly now. “I miss my best friend. The guy who cared when people were hurting. Who didn’t turn into an angry werewolf every time someone said something he didn’t like.”

Scott’s breath hitched. “I do care.”

“Then act like it,” Stiles said. “Because right now, all I see is the claws and the temper and the guy who’s too pissed off to ask why someone like Derek might be falling apart.”

Scott didn’t answer.

And even through the silence, Stiles could hear it—the guilt. The hesitation. Scott knew he wasn’t handling this well. He knew Stiles was right. But pride and fear were louder than reason right now.

“You’re taking his side,” Scott said, voice sharp.

“No,” Stiles said, exasperated. “I’m trying to see his side. And I’m asking you to do the same.”

There was another pause.

Then, softly, with nothing but wounded anger: “I can’t.”

The line went dead.

Stiles pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at the screen for a second, jaw clenched.

The front door creaked open.

Keys jingled.

Boots on hardwood.

“Something smells good,” John Stilinski said as he stepped into the kitchen, tugging off his jacket. “You didn’t set the kitchen on fire, right?”

Stiles turned toward him, voice flat. “Not yet.”

***

The gas station was nearly deserted—just flickering fluorescent lights, a row of closed pumps, and the hum of bugs hitting the overhead glow.

Derek stood beside the Camaro, nozzle in hand, the smell of gasoline sharp in the back of his throat. He hadn’t said more than three words to anyone in two days. He didn’t want to now.

The pump clicked off.

He reached to remove the nozzle when headlights bloomed behind him—high beams, angled, too many. Two black SUVs rolled in from opposite ends of the road and boxed him in.

Derek didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

            Of course.

Of course it was tonight.

Of course it was them.

The doors opened in tandem, like a rehearsed play. Chris Argent stepped out of the first vehicle—casual in a sharp black coat, sleeves rolled. A few other men followed, fanning out. They didn’t draw weapons. They didn’t have to.

Chris smiled like they were old friends.

“Nice ride,” he said, glancing at the Camaro. “Black cars though—hard to keep clean.”

Derek didn’t speak. He just let the gas pump click back into its holder and tightened the cap.

Chris walked forward, calm and deliberate. Picked up the windshield scrubber from the pump and started wiping the Camaro’s glass with smooth, precise strokes.

“It’s a beautiful car,” Chris continued, tone casual. “Really beautiful. I’d say classic, even. Something to take pride in.”

Derek stared at him, jaw clenched.

Laura’s car.

She’d driven it across state lines. Blasted her music loud enough to make the speakers rattle. Bitched about the handling but loved the sound of the engine. She’d made fun of the way Derek always adjusted the mirrors when he drove it.

Now he drove it alone .

Because she was dead .

“I’m a big believer in maintenance,” Chris said, still washing the windshield like this was just any late-night errand. “When you’ve got something this nice, you take care of it. You make sure it’s protected. Safe. Intact.”

He paused. Glanced at Derek again.

“Personally, I’m very protective of the things I love. And that’s something I learned from my family.”

He let the silence stretch.

“And you don’t have much of that these days, do you?”

Derek’s shoulders tensed. His hand flexed by his side. The faint crack of a claw pressing through skin and retracting again.

He wanted to snap the man’s wrist. He wanted to scream. He wanted to fall to his knees and beg for them to just try it.

But he stood still.

Silent.

He was not giving them that satisfaction.

Chris smiled, like he was pleased with Derek’s control. “There we go,” he said softly. “You can actually see through your windshield now. Makes everything so much clearer, doesn’t it?”

He dropped the scrubber back into the bucket. Gave a sharp nod to the others.

Turned away.

Started walking.

Derek’s voice broke through the quiet like a knife:

“You forgot to check the oil.”

Chris paused.

Looked over his shoulder at one of the men. “Check the man’s oil.”

The hunter smiled like it was a joke and didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward, lifted a tire iron, and smashed the driver’s side window with a single vicious swing.

Glass rained across the seat.

“Looks good to me,” the man said.

Chris nodded once, crisp and satisfied. “Drive safe, Derek.”

They got in their SUVs. Tires squealed against the pavement as they pulled out—leaving Derek alone beneath the humming lights.

For a long second, he didn’t move.

He just stood there.

The scent of glass dust and gasoline filled his nose. Blood from his own hand where he’d clenched too tight.

His throat burned.

He didn’t know if it was anger or grief.

Or if, at this point, it made any difference.

The gas station door creaked open. The clerk stepped out—a thin man with tired eyes and in an old sweatshirt that had seen better days.

“Hey, uh—man, are you okay? I saw... Should I call the cops or something?”

Derek shook his head. Voice flat. “No.”

“You sure?”

Derek didn’t answer.

He opened the driver’s side door, brushing shards of glass from the seat with one trembling hand, and slid inside.

The Camaro roared to life. A noise too loud for the quiet night.

He drove off without looking back.

The road curved upward into the hills, narrow and winding, the kind of place teenagers snuck off to for parties or make-out sessions. Derek didn’t stop until the trees thinned and the Camaro reached the old turnout with the rusted guardrail and the faded road sign that nobody bothered replacing.

The engine ticked as it cooled. The wind moved through the trees below. Beacon Hills glittered in the valley like it didn’t know what it was standing on.

Derek put the car in park but didn’t turn it off.

Glass crunched faintly under his boot as he got out and left the door open behind him.

He walked to the edge of the overlook.

The smell of gasoline clung to his hands.

He stared down at the lights. At the little houses and the sleeping streets. Somewhere down there, people were safe. Eating dinner. Laughing. Sleeping in warm beds. Hugging their kids.

Somewhere down there, someone was holding a sibling close.

And Derek had buried his .

The Camaro’s broken window whistled faintly behind him, like a ghost trying to get his attention.

He didn’t move.

Not for a long time.

Then his knees buckled.

He didn’t fall hard. Just... folded. Slowly. Quietly. Like his body gave up before his mind could catch up.

He sat there, on the cold gravel, legs drawn up, hands buried in his jacket. His breath came short and shallow.

His vision blurred.

And the grief cracked him open from the inside out.

No roaring. No screaming. Just a sound like he’d been holding his breath for years and finally exhaled.

His hands trembled against his thighs.

Laura was gone. Again. And this time, there was no coming back. No halfway hope. No spark left to follow.

He’d failed her. Failed his family. Failed Hannah. And now he was alone again. Just like he always ended up.

The sob broke free before he could choke it back.

It hit like a wound.

Then another.

And another.

His whole body shook.

The Camaro sat behind him like a gravestone.

And Derek sat in the dark—claws buried in the dirt, jaw clenched, heart breaking in silence—because it was the only way he knew how to fall apart.

***

The pasta was a little cold by the time John sat down, badge still clipped to his belt, shirt sleeves rolled up like he never fully stopped working.

Stiles pushed half of his spaghetti around on his plate. “I mean, I know it’s mostly sauce, but it’s still technically food.”

John snorted, already mid-bite. “It’s good, kid. Seriously.”

Stiles nodded, but he didn’t look convinced. His phone buzzed on the counter again, and he glanced at it, then flipped it over screen-down without checking the message.

John caught the motion. Didn’t say anything.

They ate in silence for a minute.

Then John's radio crackled on the hallway shelf. The dispatcher’s voice filtered through, muffled but urgent.

He stood slowly. “Excuse me.”

Stiles kept eating.

John walked to the radio and pressed the call button. “Stilinski.”

“Sheriff, you’re gonna want to hear this. Tip just came in—anonymous. Said there might be a body buried on the Hale property. Near the old house.”

John stiffened. “You get a name on the caller?”

“No, sir. Called from a blocked number. Male voice, said we’d find fresh dirt about twenty feet from the porch.”

John closed his eyes for a beat.

“All right. I’ll meet the team there in twenty. Have Forensics bring a dig kit.”

He clicked off the radio.

Stiles looked up from his plate, already tense. “What’s going on?”

John grabbed his jacket and keys. “Hale property. Possible burial site.”

Stiles went still. “Is it... like, an old site?”

John looked at him. “Fresh dirt, they said. We’ll see.”

He paused at the door. “You ever been out there?”

Stiles blinked. “What?”

“The Hale house. You and Scott were seen talking to Derek at that party Lydia threw last week.”

Stiles sat back in his chair, arms crossing slightly. “So?”

“So,” John said gently, “you sure you don’t know where he is?”

A long pause.

Stiles shrugged. “Nope.”

John studied him.

The lie hung there, awkward and heavy.

He didn’t press. Just gave Stiles a quiet look that said I know you better than you think.

Then he nodded once. “Stay in tonight.”

“Yeah,” Stiles murmured. “Of course.”

*

John Stilinski stood just behind the marked line of yellow tape, boots crunching against frost-hardened grass, breath misting in the cold. His flashlight beam tracked over the fresh-dug earth, catching on the uneven line of disturbed soil.

He didn’t need to wait for the forensic report to know what they’d find.

The tech’s voice confirmed it seconds later: “We’ve got a body. Female. Top half only.”

John exhaled through his nose, slow and grim.

Not a surprise.

Not anymore.

The lab had confirmed it a week ago: the bottom half of the body they found near the trailhead in the woods belonged to Laura Hale. DNA match. The press didn’t have it yet, but John had known from the start that this would be the trigger.

This is what brought Derek Hale back into town.

John stepped closer, careful not to cast a shadow on the excavation team. The techs were gentle, reverent even, brushing away the final layer of soil like they were uncovering something sacred.

They were.

Laura Hale had been a teenager the last time John saw her. Quiet, watchful, protective of her little brother in that way older siblings just were. And now—

Now, what was left of her had been buried just a few feet from the wreckage of her childhood home.

The body was positioned deliberately. Arms placed across the chest. Hair smoothed. Eyes closed.

It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a dump site.

It was a burial.

Someone had taken their time. Someone had grieved her.

John’s jaw tensed.

This didn’t line up.

Whoever killed Laura had left the other half of her body out in the open. Exposed. Mutilated. Like a warning.

This?

This was... care.

Affection.

Remorse.

And that was the problem.

Because now, Derek was a person of interest.

The only one who made sense on paper.

Young man, unknown alibi. Last seen with the victim—his sister. Rumored temper. Reputation for being violent. Already tied to the house, the party. Hell, even Stiles had been seen talking to him. The connection was obvious.

Too obvious.

But John had been wearing a badge for a long time.

Murderers didn’t bury people like this.

They didn’t dig spiral symbols into the dirt. They didn’t smooth hair away from their victims’ faces like they were tucking someone into bed for the last time, but disregard the other half of the body.

John’s flashlight beam dropped to the spiral again. It was shallow, but deliberate. Familiar.

He didn’t know what it meant. Not exactly.

But it wasn’t the kind of thing you carved into the ground if you were trying to hide a crime.

It was grief.

Ritual, maybe. But not malice.

Still—rules were rules. Circumstances were what they were.

“Mark the area,” he told the lead tech quietly. “Photograph everything. And put out an alert for Derek Hale. We need to bring him in for questioning.”

The words tasted wrong.

He stood there long after the team had started cataloging evidence, watching the trees like they might give him a better answer.

But they didn’t.

They never did.

***

The pasta sat cold on the stove. Two half-full plates still rested on the kitchen table, untouched since John left.

Stiles hadn’t touched them either.

He paced the living room in tight, agitated loops. Every few steps, he stopped—checked his phone, stared at the dark screen, shoved it back into his pocket, and resumed.

He didn’t have Derek’s number.

Of course he didn’t. Derek Hale wasn’t exactly the “drop me a text” type. He just appeared in the woods like he was summoned by something.

Stiles rubbed both hands through his hair, palms jittery, scalp tingling with nerves.

He thought about calling Scott.

But that meant explaining why he wanted Derek’s number.

And that meant explaining what he saw.

            What I didn’t say. What I should’ve said. What I promised myself I wouldn’t say.

Because the last time he and Scott passed by the Hale house, just two days ago, he saw it.

The fresh earth.

Turned soil near the ruins. Neat, clean. Out of place in the wreckage.

He hadn’t said anything.

He hadn’t planned to say anything.

Back then, he thought—no, he knew —Derek had buried her. The rest of her. The bottom half had already been found in the woods. It just wasn’t public knowledge that it was Laura yet. But he figured... maybe Derek was doing what no one else had. Trying to give her peace. Trying to make her whole again, the only way he could.

It hadn’t felt like a crime.

It felt like grief.

And now it was a crime scene.

Stiles dropped onto the couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

He’d lied. Not just to his dad—but to Scott, too. He never told Scott about the fresh dirt, and Scott was too wrapped up in his own transformation to notice anything Stiles wasn’t yelling about directly.

But if he called Scott now?

He’d ask questions.

And Stiles wasn’t sure he wanted to answer them.

He didn’t want to give Derek up. But he didn’t want to lie to his dad. Not about this. But what would he even say?

The front door opened, breaking the silence.

Stiles jumped to his feet instantly, heart leaping into his throat.

John walked in, tired and quiet, his badge already unclipped and tucked into his back pocket. His shoulders sagged the way they always did when a case felt like it was going to follow him home.

He glanced at the still-lit kitchen, then looked at Stiles.

“Thought you’d be asleep by now.”

Stiles shrugged, too fast. “Wasn’t tired.”

John nodded slowly. “You finish eating?”

“Not really.”

He made it halfway into the kitchen, then stopped, studying his son for a second longer than normal.

Stiles tried to look casual, but he could feel the tension in every part of his body. His limbs felt like steel cables stretched too tight.

John didn’t say anything. Didn’t push. Just set his keys in the bowl near the door and crossed to the fridge to grab a water bottle.

Stiles swallowed, palms clammy.

He wanted to say something.

Should say something.

But the words wouldn’t come.

And Derek Hale—alone, hunted, grieving—was probably out there with no idea the cops had just dug up his sister’s body and put a target on his back.

*

The house was silent.

Too silent.

Stiles lay on top of his blankets, fully dressed, sneakers still on, staring at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed him. His room was dark, save for the faint blue glow of his digital clock.

1:13 a.m.

He hadn’t slept at all.

Not even close.

His mind was looping the same reel on repeat: Derek standing over the Camaro, knuckles bloodied; the fresh dirt behind the Hale house; Laura’s body, half-buried; his dad’s face when he got that call.

And the worst part—Derek didn’t even know. He didn’t know what was coming for him.

Stiles sat up slowly, heart thudding.

He couldn’t let Derek get arrested. Not for this . Not when all he’d done was mourn his sister the only way he knew how. Stiles didn’t have the full story, but he knew this much: someone who buries the body with care isn’t the same person who tears it apart.

He moved quietly.

Pushed his window open.

The cold night air hit him like a slap, sharp and bracing. He slipped his backpack on—he hadn’t packed it with anything useful, just... reflex. Flashlight. Water bottle. A hoodie. His dad’s old field notebook he'd borrowed for no reason he could explain.

He climbed out the window like he’d done a hundred times before—only this time he wasn’t sneaking off to meet Scott or to prank coach.

This time he was chasing a ghost.

He had no idea where to look. The Hale house was a start, maybe, but Derek wouldn’t go back there—not now. Not with flashing lights and deputies swarming the place. He wouldn’t go to the woods near the trailhead either—not with the memory of Laura still staining the earth.

Stiles climbed into the Jeep and started it without turning the headlights on right away.

“Okay,” he whispered to himself, hands gripping the steering wheel. “Where do emotionally devastated, grief-riddled werewolves go when they’ve lost everything and think the world’s turned against them?”

He sat there for a beat, then clicked the lights on.

He’d start driving. That’s all he could do.

Drive until instinct kicked in.

Drive until something in him pulled toward whatever thread Derek Hale might’ve left behind.

The Jeep rumbled softly down the street, tires barely crunching against the road.

The Stilinski house disappeared in the rearview.

And Stiles drove into the night, chasing nothing but a gut feeling and the hope he wasn’t already too late.

*

The roads were mostly empty, the occasional streetlamp casting long, flickering shadows as the Jeep cruised through Beacon Hills. The radio was off. Stiles didn’t need noise. His thoughts were loud enough.

Every corner he turned, he expected to see something—paw prints, shadows, glowing eyes.

Nothing.

He’d checked the Hale house. Twice. Parked far enough away and watched the yellow tape glint in the moonlight while deputies stood guard near the dig site. No sign of Derek. Not even a trail— not that he’d know how to track one.

He tried the old woods trail by the preserve.

Then the culvert where Derek had shown up bleeding once before.

Nothing.

Stiles ran a hand through his hair, gripping the wheel tighter.

“This is insane,” he muttered. “You don’t even know if he wants to be found. Hell, you don’t even know why you’re looking, you just—”

He hit the brakes.

The words caught in his throat.

Ahead—past the next turn—the overlook.

He didn’t know why he thought of it.

He just did.

His hands were moving before he decided, turning the Jeep onto the winding road that cut into the hills. The tires crunched gravel as the trees thickened again, the road climbing.

And then—there it was.

The pull-off.

The rusted guardrail. The faded road sign.

And the Camaro.

Stiles’ heart leapt to his throat.

It was parked at a sharp angle, driver’s side window shattered. A smear of glass sparkled in the dirt. The whole car sat like it had been abandoned in the middle of a breakdown.

Stiles killed the engine and eased out of the Jeep, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

He didn’t call out.

Didn’t even speak.

Something about the quiet here felt heavy. Like grief had weight and took up space.

He walked slowly toward the edge of the overlook, the cool night wind pressing against his hoodie, gravel shifting under his shoes.

Then he saw him.

Derek was sitting on the ground, back against the metal rail, knees pulled up, arms draped over them. His head was bowed, his shoulders tense.

He hadn’t heard the Jeep. Or maybe he had and didn’t care.

The stillness in him wasn’t peaceful. It was hollow.

Stiles took another step forward.

“Hey,” he said softly, like a question.

Derek didn’t move.

Stiles tried again. “Derek...?”

A breath hitched.

Not loud. Not sharp. But enough to crack through the stillness.

Derek turned his head slowly, eyes rimmed red—not glowing, just tired. Human.

He looked like someone who’d lost the fight hours ago and hadn’t bothered getting back up.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Derek rasped.

“Neither should you,” Stiles replied gently.

A long pause.

Then Derek looked back toward the valley, jaw clenched like holding his own mouth closed was the only way to stay in control.

Stiles took one step closer.

“I think you’re in trouble,” he said quietly. “My dad—he doesn’t know everything. But he found...”

Derek nodded once, just barely. “I know what he found.”

Stiles hesitated. “You buried her, didn’t you?”

Derek closed his eyes.

That was answer enough.

Stiles sat down slowly on the gravel, keeping a respectful distance. He didn’t speak again right away.

The two of them just sat there, the whole valley spread out before them like it meant something. Like it might offer answers.

But it didn’t.

It just held the silence.

And—for once—Stiles let it.

*

Every breath felt like a bruise.

Like inhaling hurt worse than the memories.

Worse than the image of Laura’s face after he brushed the dirt from her hair.

Worse than hearing her voice in his head—telling him not to be such a broody idiot, calling him out like only she could, always knowing what he needed before he did.

He couldn’t cry anymore. His body had wrung itself dry hours ago.

But the pain was still there. Caught behind his ribs. Thick in his throat. Pressing in at the corners of his mind like it was trying to find a new way to hollow him out.

And then Stiles showed up.

He hadn’t expected that.

He hadn’t even heard the Jeep pull in, which said more about where his head was at than he liked to admit.

He should’ve told him to leave.

Should’ve snarled, barked, growled—anything to make him go.

But he hadn’t.

And now Stiles was sitting a few feet away, quiet, respectful, trying not to make it weird.

And he smelled like—

God.

Derek gritted his teeth.

He smelled like cinnamon.

Warm. Familiar. Sharp at the edges.

Not quite the same as her—but close. Too close.

It was wrong.

There was something else mixed in—something faint and clinical, like antiseptic or latex gloves. A hospital scent. But underneath it—

Cinnamon.

And it punched straight through his chest like a hot blade.

Not her. Not Hannah. Stiles smelled like himself, like sarcasm and impulse and late-night coffee and whatever weird chemical humans drowned their clothes in. But the cinnamon was there too, it was strong, and Derek couldn’t breathe around it.

It made something in him ache in a way he couldn’t afford.

He turned his face back toward the valley, away from Stiles.

He needed distance.

He needed to not want this human—this infuriating, relentless, kind human—to sit closer. To talk. To be something familiar in a world that had gutted him.

He couldn’t survive losing anyone else.

So he wouldn’t get attached.

Not again.

Not ever.

The silence stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. Not yet.

Then Stiles broke it, voice low. “Why here?”

Derek didn’t look at him.

“What?”

Stiles hesitated, then asked again. “Why bury her here-there? By the house.”

Derek clenched his jaw. Every part of him tensed.

He didn’t want to talk about this.

Not with him . Not with anyone.

But Stiles didn’t push. Not at first. He let the question hang in the air, waiting, giving Derek time. Space.

Then, gently—like pulling a splinter without tearing skin—he said, “I just think you probably had a reason. That’s all.”

Derek closed his eyes. His voice, when it came, was cracked and rough.

“She told me once,” he said. “If she died... she wanted to come home.”

Stiles didn’t reply.

Didn’t fill the silence.

Just nodded slowly, like he understood.

Like that answer was enough.

Derek hated that it helped.

That saying it out loud felt like releasing something sharp from his chest, even for just a moment.

He hated that Stiles was here.

He hated that it made things feel a little less unbearable.

And more than anything, he hated that part of him already didn’t want Stiles to leave.

The wind picked up, brushing over Derek’s skin like a memory he didn’t want.

The gravel dug into his back where he sat slumped against the rusted guardrail, but he didn’t move. Didn’t shift. Didn’t try to make himself more comfortable.

Comfort didn’t feel like something he deserved.

Stiles hadn’t left.

That was starting to bother him for a whole different reason.

“You know,” Stiles said after a long pause, “my dad... doesn’t think you hurt her.”

Derek blinked once. Kept his gaze fixed on the town below, lights twinkling like they meant something. “Your dad’s the sheriff.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, not rising to the bait. “But he’s a good one.”

Derek huffed—just air, no humor. Not agreement. Just... something between disbelief and exhaustion.

“He just wants to question you,” Stiles added, quieter now. “That’s it. That’s where things stand right now.”

Derek didn’t respond.

Didn’t need to.

Stiles didn’t expect him to.

They sat in silence for another stretch of time that felt both long and strangely okay.

Then, cautiously, like testing thin ice: “If you turned yourself in... it might not go badly. My dad’s smart. He listens. He’s already questioning the official story. That could work in your favor.”

Derek didn’t answer.

But he nodded.

Just once.

He saw Stiles clock it out of the corner of his eye. No comment. No push. Just noted .

The kind of respect people rarely gave him anymore.

Then, gently: “What happened to your window?”

Derek tensed.

There it was.

The moment he shut down.

He didn’t mean to. It just... happened. Like muscle memory. Like locking a door he didn’t remember opening.

He could feel himself retreating—eyes hardening, posture stiffening, pulling everything back into the vault he lived behind.

Stiles didn’t fill the space this time. Just waited.

A different kind of silence. Not demanding. Just... present.

Derek hated how much that chipped at his defenses.

He exhaled slowly. Then, quietly: “Argent.”

Stiles frowned. “Chris?”

Derek nodded, still not looking at him. “Cornered me at a gas station. Two SUVs. No weapons drawn. Just... enough of them to send a message.”

He flexed his jaw. “He washed my windshield. Told me he’s protective of the things he loves. Said I don’t have much left.”

Stiles didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

“The window?” Derek continued, voice flat. “I told him he forgot to check the oil.”

A humorless half-smile tugged at the corner of his mouth for half a second before it died. “He sent one of his guys to ‘check.’ That was the result.”

“Jesus,” Stiles breathed, voice low.

Derek shrugged like it didn’t matter. “They didn’t touch me. That was the point. To make sure I knew they could .”

Another pause.

Derek stared out over Beacon Hills and felt something behind his ribs shift—just barely. A breath he didn’t know he’d been holding eased out of him.

Stiles was still sitting a few feet away.

Still quiet.

Still here .

And that... meant more than Derek wanted to admit.

He didn’t look at him.

The silence had started to settle again—gentle this time, like a blanket being pulled over everything that hurt.

Derek thought maybe Stiles would leave it there.

But of course he didn’t.

Stiles cleared his throat softly, then shifted where he sat. “So, uh... you ever realize how creepy gas stations are at night?”

Derek didn’t answer.

“And not just in a ‘don’t trust the weird beef jerky’ kind of way,” Stiles continued, undeterred. “I mean, think about it. You’re alone, the lights flicker, everything smells like rubber and despair... it’s basically the setting for every murder podcast intro ever.”

Derek didn’t turn his head.

But his eyes flicked sideways, just barely.

Stiles kept going.

“I once got stuck at a gas station at 3 a.m. because I locked my keys in the car while trying to buy a granola bar. Not even a good one—like, dry peanut butter that tastes like sawdust and sadness.”

He let out a breath that could’ve been a chuckle if the air didn’t feel so heavy.

“Anyway, my dad had to come get me and he wouldn’t stop laughing. I think he brought it up every day for a month. Called me ‘Captain Crunch.’ Still does sometimes. I think he thinks it’s hilarious.”

He trailed off for a second, then added with a shrug, “It’s not.”

Derek didn’t respond.

But something in his chest pulled tight—sharp and hot and unsteady.

Because it was the way Stiles talked.

That rambling rhythm. The casual humor laced with nervous energy. The compulsive need to fill the quiet so it didn’t swallow him whole.

It wasn’t the same voice, but it was the same cadence.

The same heart.

Hannah.

God, it hurt.

She used to talk like that—babbling stories half-laced with meaning, bouncing from joke to observation to emotional gut-punch like it was nothing. And he’d always pretended to be annoyed, always grunted or rolled his eyes or said “you talk too much”—

—but he’d loved it.

Because she’d made the silence bearable.

And now Stiles was doing the same thing without knowing it.

Without even trying .

Derek pressed his palm against his knee to stop the shaking.

His throat burned.

There was nothing left in him to cry with—but his body hadn’t gotten the memo. The grief clawed at his chest, desperate for release, but he held it back.

He would not break down in front of Stiles.

Not this boy who smelled like cinnamon and talked like a ghost.

Not the one he already felt too much for.

Not again.

“Are you okay?”

The question was quiet. Soft enough to be forgiven if it didn’t get an answer.

Derek’s jaw clenched.

He couldn’t speak.

He couldn’t even look at him.

His throat was too tight, his chest too raw, and if he opened his mouth, everything would come out.

So he didn’t.

He just sat there.

Staring out over the town like if he looked hard enough, he could disappear into it.

He heard Stiles shift again, heard the breath he took like he might say something else.

But he didn’t.

He just stayed.

And that was somehow worse.

And somehow better.

The quiet stretched again.

Stiles didn’t fill it this time.

Maybe he was running out of words. Maybe he understood that Derek couldn’t take any more. Maybe he just knew when to stop.

Derek didn’t know what time it was. Didn’t care.

The air had gotten colder. The town below was still wrapped in shadow, but the horizon had started to pale—edges of the world softening into the gray haze of dawn.

Then Stiles’s phone buzzed.

He flinched slightly. Pulled it from his hoodie pocket and glanced down.

Even from a few feet away, Derek heard the breath catch.

“Shit,” Stiles muttered.

Derek looked at him for the first time in minutes.

“What?”

Stiles ran a hand through his hair, already rising to his feet. “It’s my dad. He’s up. I... I didn’t realize I was gone that long.”

Derek’s eyebrows pulled slightly together.

Stiles held the screen up briefly—just enough for Derek to read the message.

Come home. Now.

“Guess five-thirty a.m. is wake-up time for law enforcement,” Stiles said with a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And I left the house sometime around one, so... yeah. That’s fun.”

He was already moving toward the Jeep when Derek opened his mouth.

And nothing came out.

He tried again.

Still nothing.

His throat was too dry. His chest was still shaking from the inside.

But this time, he forced the words.

“Why did you come looking for me?”

Stiles froze.

Turned halfway, standing in the soft wash of early morning light. The expression on his face shifted—gentle, surprised, like he hadn’t expected Derek to speak again at all.

Then: “Because you matter.”

The words were simple.

Spoken without hesitation.

Derek looked away, jaw tightening. That ache in his chest burned deeper.

Because he didn’t believe it.

Not really.

But Stiles had said it like it was a fact.

And Derek didn’t know what to do with that.

Stiles lingered for another second, like he wanted to stay, like he would stay if Derek asked.

But he didn’t.

Because Derek didn’t ask.

He just nodded once.

Stiles climbed into the Jeep. 

The Jeep rumbled to life. Its headlights cut a path down the hill and disappeared around the curve.

And then he was alone again.

But not like before.

Stiles’ words lingered in the air like smoke.

“Because you matter.”

Derek stared at the horizon, the first light of dawn bleeding into the edges of the sky.

The words echoed.

Louder than they should’ve.

Because not a very long time ago, someone else had said something almost exactly the same.

“Because everyone should matter to someone.”

Hannah.

She’d said it like it was obvious.

Like it was universal law.

And he hadn’t known what to do with it then, either.

Now it hit him like a bullet.

Right in the chest.

Derek gritted his teeth, breath catching in his throat as something inside him cracked open—just a little.

No tears.

He didn’t have any left.

But the ache that ripped through him was sharp enough to feel like breaking.

He pressed his palm to the center of his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like he could hold it together by force.

But it didn’t help.

The pain was there.

And it wasn’t just grief anymore.

It was memory.

It was hope he couldn’t afford.

It was someone seeing him.

Still sitting there.

Still breathing.

And not running away.

***

The front door clicked shut behind him, but the house already felt too still.

The kitchen light was on.

Stiles stepped into the hall like he was walking into a courtroom. Heart pounding. Palms sweaty. Hoodie zipped up too tight.

His dad didn’t look up at first—just stood at the counter in pajama pants and a T-shirt, pouring a second cup of coffee with the badge already clipped to his waistband like he hadn’t slept at all.

“I assume you got my text,” John said.

“Yeah,” Stiles mumbled. “Sorry.”

“You left at, what? One in the morning?” His voice was low. Measured. “Didn’t tell me where you were going. Phone on silent. Location off.”

“I didn’t turn it off,” Stiles lied poorly. “Battery thing.”

John turned slowly. His eyes were sharp but not furious—just disappointed. That was always worse.

“Stiles,” he said, voice even. “Where did you go?”

Stiles opened his mouth—then closed it again.

“I don’t think Derek Hale killed his sister and I know you know that,” John added. “But he’s still a person of interest. And I’m pretty damn sure you went looking for him.”

Stiles stared at the floor. “I can’t tell you where he is.”

John took a breath. “Is he hiding?”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

That got a pause.

“Did he ask you not to say anything?”

“No,” Stiles said quickly. “He didn’t ask me for anything. He didn’t even know I was going to show up.”

“Then why are you protecting him?”

“I don’t know!” It came out louder than he meant. “I just... I can’t. I can’t send you after him. Not like this.”

John’s expression softened, but his voice stayed firm. “Look—I’m not here to hurt him. I just need his side of the story.”

“I get it. I do. But I can’t help you.”

The silence stretched tight between them.

Stiles’ voice was quieter when he asked, “Do you know who tipped off the station?”

John gave him a look. “Even if I did, I couldn’t tell you.”

“So you don’t know?”

“It was anonymous. Blocked number. Male voice. That’s all we’ve got.”

Stiles nodded slowly, then hesitated.

“Was it Chris Argent?”

John blinked. “Why would you think that?”

Stiles rubbed the back of his neck. “He, uh... smashed Derek’s car window last night.”

John straightened immediately. “ What? ”

Stiles backpedaled. “I mean—not personally —he had one of his guys do it. With a tire iron. As a ‘message.’”

John stared at him. “Where did this happen?”

“A gas station. Late. Derek didn’t tell me which one.”

“Jesus,” John muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

“I’m just saying... if anyone wanted to make sure Derek looked guilty, it’s probably the guy who cornered him with two SUVs.”

John looked like he was trying very hard not to immediately storm out the door.

Stiles added, “Just... be careful, okay? Not everyone’s playing fair.”

Another long pause.

John finally gave a quiet nod. “Go get some sleep.”

Stiles hesitated, then turned and headed toward the hallway, voice almost too soft to hear.

“I just think someone should be on his side.”

John didn’t answer.

But he didn’t stop him, either.

***

The sky was still gray when John pulled out of the driveway, coffee in hand, uniform shirt wrinkled under his jacket. His badge weighed heavier than usual on his belt.

He kept seeing Stiles’ face—the way his son had looked back at him, guilt and conviction all tangled up behind bloodshot eyes. The way he’d refused to give Derek up. Like it wasn’t even a question.

John didn’t understand it.

Not yet.

Stiles wasn’t reckless—not in ways that mattered. He could run his mouth, sure, but when it came down to people— real people—he didn’t let his instincts misfire.

Which made it worse.

Because if Stiles believed Derek was worth protecting... maybe he was.

Or maybe Stiles was already in deeper than he realized.

And John couldn’t shake the feeling that something bigger was brewing underneath all of this—something he hadn’t seen yet. Something someone didn’t want him to see.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw as the radio murmured low in the background. He didn’t feel like music.

Didn’t feel like anything.

He pulled into the gas station he always stopped at—on the edge of town, quiet, nothing flashy. Routine. Comfort.

But when he stepped out of the cruiser, coffee in one hand, his boot crunched on something sharp.

He looked down.

Glass.

Small, scattered.

His eyes narrowed. He followed the trail with his gaze—leading just past the pump and toward the corner stall.

More glass. Dark. Almost black.

John’s jaw tightened. He capped his coffee and stuck it in the cupholder before picking up the gas nozzle and setting it to pump. Then he turned toward the station’s entrance.

The bell jingled overhead.

Behind the counter stood Dave—a guy in his forties with a goatee and a Beacon Hills baseball cap, someone John had known for years. Worked nights, liked Sudoku, hated dealing with drunk teenagers.

“Sheriff,” Dave greeted with a tired nod.

“Hey, Dave. You working last night?”

“‘Til eleven,” Dave said. “Why?”

John leaned against the counter, voice casual. “You get any trouble?”

Dave snorted. “You could say that.”

John’s brows rose. “Tell me.”

Dave rubbed the back of his neck. “Bunch of guys pulled in. Two black SUVs. The big, tactical-looking ones. Didn’t have plates I could see. They boxed in some kid at pump five.”

John felt his pulse shift. “What kid?”

“I don’t know—early twenties maybe? Could’ve been a teenager, hard to say. Dark hair. Looked beat to hell. Didn’t say more than one word to me.”

“Did he drive a black Camaro?”

Dave nodded. “Yeah. That thing’s loud as hell. Heard it idling for like five minutes after they left.”

John leaned forward slightly. “What happened?”

“They didn’t draw guns or anything, but the vibe was bad. One of the guys took a tire iron to the driver’s side window. Just smashed it. The kid didn’t react. Just stood there.”

“You call 911?”

Dave shook his head. “Tried. Kid stopped me. Said no. Then drove off.”

John swallowed hard. “He look okay?”

“No,” Dave said honestly. “He looked like someone trying not to fall apart in public.”

That did it.

John straightened, rubbing the back of his neck. “You recognize any of the guys in the SUVs?”

“Nope. But they didn’t look local.”

John exhaled. “All right. Thanks, Dave.”

“You want me to pull the camera feed?”

John hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. If you’ve still got it.”

Dave moved toward the back room without another word.

John stepped back outside, eyes drifting toward the shattered remnants of the window.

Derek hadn’t reported the incident.

He’d just driven off.

And Stiles—Stiles knew.

Stiles hadn’t told him everything.

John looked down at the broken glass scattered at his feet, then at the horizon, where the sun was just starting to rise.

Something wasn’t right here.

Not just with the case. With everything .

And he was starting to think that what his son was protecting wasn’t a suspect—

—but a survivor.

*

The scent of cheap coffee and printer toner filled the station like always, but John felt off the moment he stepped inside.

He nodded at the morning shift as he passed them, but didn’t stop to chat. He went straight to his office, locked the door behind him, and dropped the gas station USB stick onto his desk with a quiet clack.

He sat heavily, boots creaking, and opened a new file in the system.

Incident: Vandalism/Intimidation – Gas & Go Market.

He didn’t know what exactly he was typing yet, but his fingers moved anyway. Call time: unknown. No 911 report. Eyewitness: David Montero, store clerk. Suspect: Unknown. Or maybe not.

John plugged in the USB and queued up the footage.

The timestamp blinked: 7:12 p.m.

He fast-forwarded the idle time, watching the dark feed flicker in shades of grainy gray-blue. Then—headlights. The Camaro pulling in.

Derek stepped out.

And John’s chest tightened.

He looked young.

Not just physically—though that was clear too—but in his posture. His stillness. Like someone waiting for something to happen and already resigned to whatever it was.

Then the SUVs rolled in.

John slowed the video.

Two vehicles. Tinted windows. Pulled in fast and precise. Almost tactical.

Men stepped out. Four total. One in particular—center frame, face turned slightly toward the pump light.

John hit pause.

Zoomed in.

Chris Argent.

No doubt about it.

John leaned back in his chair, jaw tight.

The next few minutes played out like some twisted PSA on intimidation: Argent approaching Derek, speaking with casual calm. The windshield being wiped like a goddamn threat wrapped in manners. Derek not moving, not even flinching.

The tire iron came next.

John watched the man step up to the driver’s side window and smash it—glass exploding, Derek still as stone. Not a shout. Not a lunge. Just... stillness.

The kind that didn’t come from strength.

The kind that came from knowing what happens when you fight back.

John froze the video again. Hands clenched.

This wasn’t a confrontation.

It was a warning.

And Derek Hale had just stood there and taken it.

Nineteen years old. Alone. Already the subject of a homicide investigation. And a group of full-grown men had surrounded him in the middle of the night and destroyed his car like it was sport.

John exhaled slowly, throat tight.

There was a difference between suspicion and harassment.

And this?

This crossed a line.

He clicked the incident file open again and typed faster now. Words came easier when the anger had somewhere to go.

Video evidence confirms presence of multiple adult males. Primary suspect identified as Christopher Argent. Victim (Hale, Derek) did not engage physically or verbally. Vandalism—driver’s side window destroyed with tire iron. Victim refused assistance and departed scene.

He stared at the screen.

Then added:
Recommend follow-up. Possible intimidation. Cross-reference with active homicide case (Laura Hale).

He saved the file.

Then leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face.

He had more questions than answers.

But one thing was starting to become very clear:

Derek Hale wasn’t acting like someone with something to hide.

He was acting like someone who’d been hunted before.

***

He woke up with the sun in his face and pain in every joint.

The backseat of the Camaro was cramped, but he hadn’t moved since he’d climbed in hours ago. Jacket still zipped, jeans stiff with dried mud, boots hanging off the edge.

His mouth tasted like metal and ash.

For a long time, Derek didn’t move. He just stared at the gray lining of the car roof, like maybe if he focused hard enough, everything would vanish. The fire. Laura’s body. Stiles’ voice.

"You should turn yourself in."

It had replayed on a loop while he dozed in and out of shallow sleep. Over and over. Quiet and impossible to shake.

And the worst part?

It hadn’t felt like a command. Not even a demand.

It had felt like someone believing he could.

That maybe he deserved to be seen, not hunted.

Derek sat up slowly, spine aching. He rubbed his face with both hands and winced as his fingers brushed over the forming bruise on his jaw—Scott’s lucky shot.

He was healing too slow.

He needed to take care of his body, he wasn’t really eating much.

Everything hurt.

Physically, emotionally, metaphysically.

But he started the car anyway.

He didn’t know where else to go.

***

He didn’t remember half the drive.

One second he was on the back roads out of the preserve, the next he was parked in front of the sheriff’s station—halfway into a parking spot, engine still running, fingers white-knuckled around the steering wheel.

He should go.

He should leave.

Every inch of his body screamed at him to run. To disappear. That walking in there would only end one way: cuffs. Cell. Questions he couldn’t answer. People who didn’t care why.

But then there was Stiles again, tucked behind his ribs like a memory that wouldn’t let go.

"Because you matter."

He didn’t believe it.

But he wanted to.

He turned the engine off.

Still didn’t get out.

He sat for fifteen minutes, motionless, staring at the now missing window that Chris hadn’t even touched last night.

*

“He’s here,” Smith said, peering out the front window. “Black Camaro. Been sitting there a while.”

John looked up from his desk.

Walked over.

Sure enough—Derek Hale, slouched behind the wheel, unmoving. Tension visible from thirty yards out.

“Want us to go get him?” Johnson asked from nearby.

John shook his head. “No. Let him come in on his own.”

Johnson frowned. “Sir, he’s still a person of interest in an active homicide case.”

“I know,” John said. “But if he wanted to leave, he would’ve done it already.”

Nobody argued.

John didn’t take his eyes off the parking lot.

*

He finally opened the door.

Stepped out.

The wind cut through his jacket and shirt. He leaned against the Camaro like his legs couldn’t quite hold him up yet. Took another five minutes just to breathe.

The glass from the driver’s side window crunched under his boots when he shifted.

He hadn’t swept it out.

Didn’t really care.

His heart was hammering again—too loud, too fast—but he forced himself upright. Hands shaking. Jaw clenched.

One step.

Then another.

And then he was walking through the front doors.

Into the belly of the wolf.

*

The second Derek walked through the front doors, every sound felt too loud.

Phones ringing. Radios crackling. A chair scraping across linoleum. It made his ears ring, made the hairs on his arms rise.

He didn’t know where to stand.

Didn’t know if he was supposed to sit.

He felt twenty eyes on him, even though only three people looked up.

Behind the front desk, a young deputy—maybe early twenties, sharp buzz cut and zero sense of tact—raised an eyebrow.

“You Derek Hale?”

Derek nodded once. Swallowed.

The deputy waved him toward the front counter. “Need you to empty your pockets. Weapons, phone, anything like that.”

Derek hesitated.

Then reached slowly into his jacket.

He pulled out his keys. A folded paper with Laura’s handwriting on it. A matchbook from the motel he hadn’t stayed in. No wallet.

The deputy frowned. “No ID?”

“No,” Derek rasped.

“Right. Have a seat over there,” the guy said, gesturing to the hard plastic bench near the holding area. “You’re not under arrest, but don’t leave the building. We’ll be with you when we can.”

Derek sat.

The bench was cold. His jacket stuck to his arms. His body still hadn’t warmed up from the night before. Every breath felt like it came with splinters.

Another deputy passed by and did a double take. “That the Hale kid?”

Derek looked down at his hands.

They were shaking.

He tucked them into his sleeves.

The first deputy came back holding a clipboard. “You got a middle name, Hale?”

Derek didn’t answer.

“You’re not making this easy, you know,” the deputy muttered, clearly annoyed. “You wanna act guilty, fine, but don’t waste our time.”

The words barely hit before a quiet voice cut across the room.

“Deputy Carver. That’ll be enough.”

John Stilinski stepped into the room, coffee in hand, expression unreadable.

Carver stiffened. “Sir, I was just—”

“I’ll take it from here,” John said, already turning toward Derek. “Come with me.”

Derek stood on reflex.

Didn’t make eye contact. Just followed the sheriff through the bullpen, past desks and coffee cups and sideways glances, all the way to the office at the end of the hall.

John held the door open, let Derek walk through, then closed it behind them with a soft click.

*

John shut the door softly behind them, the click echoing louder than it should in the quiet office. Derek hovered just inside, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to sit down.

"Anywhere’s fine," John said, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk. "This isn’t formal. Not yet."

Derek eased down into the chair, back ramrod straight, eyes darting once toward the window, then settling somewhere near the floor.

John sat across from him, watching the kid—because that’s what he still was, nineteen, even if the sunken cheeks and drawn expression made him look older. Too much older.

He turned on the recorder. The little red light blinked to life.

"This is Sheriff John Stilinski, conducting a preliminary interview with Derek Hale regarding the remains discovered at the Hale property. Derek, you're not under arrest. You don’t have to talk to me, but I’d appreciate it if you did. Do you understand?"

Derek gave a small nod.

"Verbal confirmation, please."

"Yeah. I understand," Derek said, voice raw.

John nodded. "Okay. Let’s start simple. When was the last time you spoke to your sister?"

"About two weeks ago. She called me. Just to check in."

"Did she say why she was coming back to Beacon Hills?"

Derek shook his head. "No. She said she needed to handle something. I thought maybe it was about the house. Our old place."

John made a note. "And what made you come back to town yourself?"

"She stopped answering my calls. Texts. Everything. I got worried. Booked the next flight."

John paused. Derek’s voice was steady, but his hands were curled tight in his lap, knuckles pale. He looked exhausted. Clothes rumpled. A smudge of grease on his cheek, like he’d forgotten how to function.

"Where did you find the body?"

Derek’s mouth pressed into a line. "North Preserve. About a mile past the firebreak."

John jotted it down. "Did you call it in?"

"No."

"Why not?"

There was a long pause. Derek looked up at him, eyes hollow.

"Because I knew how that would look. I didn’t… I didn’t kill her. But if I was the one who found her, who moved her—who buried her—” he trailed off.

John tapped the pen against his pad once. "So you were just walking and found her?"

Another pause.

"Yeah." It was too quick. Too neat.

John clocked the lie, but didn’t press. Not yet.

"Why bury her at the house?"

This time, Derek didn’t hesitate.

"Laura told me once… that if she died, she wanted to come home. I didn’t think it’d be so soon."

The rawness in his voice caught John off guard.

He looked at the kid again. Saw the bags under his eyes. The haunted set to his shoulders. The way his fingers trembled slightly as they curled tighter.

Whatever else this kid was, he didn’t look like someone hiding guilt.

He looked like someone grieving.

John nodded slowly and leaned back in his chair. "Okay. Let’s talk about the timeline from there. When exactly did you arrive in town?"

Derek swallowed, eyes darting to the window again.

And the interview continued.

*

Eventually, John clicked the recorder off. The little red light faded, leaving silence behind.

He didn’t speak right away. Just watched Derek for a moment—how the younger man’s shoulders hadn’t relaxed once since he sat down, how his fingers curled tightly around the armrest like he needed something to hold him upright.

“So,” John said finally, tone deceptively casual, “want to tell me what happened at the gas station?”

Derek didn’t flinch. But he did go still.

Too still.

His eyes dropped to the corner of the desk. Jaw set.

John leaned back. “It wasn’t a hard dot to connect, Derek. Broken window. Glass on the pavement. Clerk said a bunch of guys in black SUVs boxed you in. You didn’t want him to call 911. Then you drove off.”

Derek stayed silent.

John didn’t let up. “We both know who those men were. One of them was Chris Argent.”

That got a reaction—barely. A breath sucked in too fast, a flicker of something across Derek’s face.

Not surprise. Just confirmation.

John folded his hands over the case file. “You want to tell me why a local businessman and his friends are targeting you at a gas station? Or why they felt justified breaking your window?”

“I don’t want to file a report,” Derek said quietly.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Derek’s eyes lifted, guarded but direct. “It won’t matter. They’ll say it didn’t happen like that. That I provoked them.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

John nodded slowly. “Then why not report it?”

Derek looked away.

And that— that —told John more than any answer could.

It was the kind of look people gave when they’d reported things before and nothing ever came of it. When they were tired of being disbelieved. Or blamed. Or worse.

John kept his voice even. “You’re not in New York anymore. I’m not one of them.”

“You’re still a cop,” Derek murmured.

The words weren’t sharp. They weren’t bitter. Just tired. Like someone stating a fact that had been proven too many times to doubt.

John exhaled.

He didn’t press right away. Let the silence stretch. Let Derek decide if he’d fill it.

He didn’t.

So John said, “I don’t know what kind of things you’ve dealt with before, but that window didn’t smash itself. If you make a statement, we can hold them accountable.”

Derek shook his head, slow and resigned. “No, you can’t.”

John frowned. “You think I won’t try?”

“I think you’re not the one who’d pay for it if you did.”

That made John pause.

Because Derek wasn’t scared for himself.

He was scared for someone else.

John studied him again. Young. Fractured. Coiled so tight he might break apart.

He nodded once, quietly filing that fear away.

“Alright,” he said. “I won’t force you to make a statement. Not today.”

Derek didn’t thank him.

Didn’t relax.

But he did look relieved. Just a flicker.

And John took that as a win.

***

“Bowling,” Allison said brightly, balancing her yogurt in one hand and nudging Scott with the other. “Lydia’s idea, but still. Could be fun.”

Scott perked up immediately. “Yeah, totally. I’m in.”

Jackson groaned across the table. “Why do I have to go?”

Lydia barely glanced at him. “Because you’re my boyfriend and you have the bone structure for cute couple photos. Try not to embarrass me.”

Stiles, seated on the end with a half-eaten granola bar and a very full chemistry binder, looked up at the word bowling like he’d just realized they were speaking English again.

Allison turned toward him with that soft, genuine smile of hers—the kind that didn’t feel weaponized like Lydia’s. “You should come too, Stiles. Make it a full group thing.”

Stiles blinked. “Oh. Uh…”

His mouth opened, about to say sure, but then Jackson’s eyes flicked toward him, bored and mildly annoyed.

And Scott… Scott gave him that quick little glance. The one that said don’t. That this wasn’t for him. That he wasn’t part of this .

Stiles' stomach turned.

“Thanks,” he said, smile tugging into place, “but I’ve got a whole stack of homework and a movie night planned with my dad. Bonding and all that.”

Allison frowned just a little. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” He took a swig of his soda. “Besides, I’m terrible at bowling. Like, you’d lose points just being on my lane.”

Lydia didn’t bother convincing him. She was too busy showing Jackson an Instagram poll for which shoes she should wear.

Scott looked relieved.

And Stiles?

He sat back, stretching his legs out under the bench, and told himself he didn’t care.

He’d rather be at home anyway.

Reading The Paranormal Pulse: Volume III , Googling "werewolf rituals + death inheritance," and maybe—maybe—figuring out where Derek Hale had disappeared to after last night.

Because someone had to care.

And right now?

That someone was him.

He hadn’t told Scott about last night.

And he didn’t plan to.

***

Stiles kicked the door shut behind him, backpack thudding as he dropped it by the stairs. “Hey, I’m home,” he called out, expecting the usual silence or maybe the hum of the TV from the living room.

Instead, he found his dad already there—jacket still on, standing in the kitchen with a half-empty mug of coffee and the kind of look that made Stiles’ pulse hitch.

“Hey,” John said. Calm. Too calm.

Stiles blinked. “You’re… early.”

“I took a half day.”

“Okay. Um.” He glanced around like maybe this was a trap. “Everything alright?”

John nodded slowly. “Derek Hale came by the station this morning.”

Stiles froze, hand still on the fridge handle. “Wait—what?”

“Walked in, gave a statement about his sister. Quiet. Collected.” John took a sip of coffee, eyes never leaving his son’s face. “Didn’t say much about anything else, though.”

Stiles opened the fridge. Closed it again. He wasn’t even hungry.

“Didn’t think he would,” Stiles muttered.

John leaned against the counter. “Tried asking about the incident at the gas station too. That went about as well as you'd expect.”

Stiles rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, he’s… not big on the whole trust and share thing.”

“No kidding.”

They stood there for a moment, silence stretching between them like a third person in the room.

“I’m guessing you’re surprised he actually turned himself in,” John said finally.

“Yeah,” Stiles admitted. “I didn’t think he’d actually do it.”

“Neither did I.” John gave him a long look. “But he did. And now we let the case move forward however it does.”

Stiles nodded, unsure of what else to say. Derek Hale voluntarily walking into a sheriff’s station wasn’t exactly on his bingo card for the week.

Then John cleared his throat. “You’re not going out tonight.”

“What?”

“I mean it. No sneaking out, no late-night drives. I get why you did what you did last night, but you’re grounded, Stiles. One night of lockdown at minimum.”

Stiles sighed. “Yeah. Okay. That’s fair.”

“Good.” John’s voice softened. “I know you think you’re helping. And maybe you are. But if something happens to you while you’re chasing after kids with missing siblings and trauma in their eyes—I won’t forgive myself.”

Stiles looked down, guilt curling tight in his stomach. “I’ll stay in.”

John nodded, stepping back toward the hallway. “There’s leftovers in the fridge. I’m gonna grab a shower before dinner.”

Stiles waited until he heard the water running upstairs before he sank into the kitchen chair.

Derek had actually done it.

And now he was officially in the system.

Stiles didn’t know if that made him feel better or worse.

But he knew one thing.

Tonight wasn’t going to be restful.

***

He didn’t know how long he’d been driving.

Hours, maybe. The sun had long since sunk behind the hills, and the sky was bruising with the kind of purple that made Beacon Hills feel like a ghost town. The Camaro’s engine purred under him, familiar and too loud in the quiet streets. He didn’t have a destination. Just the humming static in his head and the echo of his own voice, still stunned that he’d walked into a police station and handed over his grief like it could be filed in a report.

Derek exhaled, rolling to a stop near a deserted stretch of old storefronts. A diner sat half-lit, a few flickering signs struggling against the dark.

And then—

Something shifted.

A ripple in the air, not sound, not scent—but presence. Rage and blood. Familiar. Wrong.

Red eyes.

He was out of the car before he even thought about it, heart hammering, claws itching to shift as his boots hit pavement and he darted between buildings. The blur had disappeared, but the scent still clung to the air—wet earth and decay, rusted metal and something sickly sweet.

The Alpha.

The one who killed Laura.

His feet hit the first fire escape before his brain caught up, body moving on instinct. He scaled the side of the building, hands gripping steel, every sense screaming hunt .

He landed on the rooftop with a thud—just in time to see a streak of fur and muscle vanish over the edge of the next roof.

He chased.

Across shingles and broken gravel, claws tearing at concrete as he pushed himself faster. He could hear it now—heavy breathing, something snarling ahead of him. His heart pounded in his throat.

He was close. So close.

And then—

Bang.

The pain exploded before the sound hit. A white-hot burst through his shoulder, spinning him mid-run. He hit the rooftop hard, skidding sideways, blood already slicking down his arm.

He growled, low and animal, flipping over with claws extended—

“Tsk.”

The voice slithered out of the shadows like a snake.

“Damn dogs need to learn their place.”

Female. Confident. Arrogant.

Something in his chest seized.

He couldn’t see her clearly through the pain, but he knew that voice. It lived in his nightmares, wore perfume like poison and smiled with teeth.

She hadn’t recognized him. Not yet.

She didn’t need to.

Derek’s breath came in short, sharp bursts. He clutched his bleeding arm, rolling toward the next edge, body screaming move . Another shot rang out, but missed as he dropped down and vanished between buildings.

He ran.

Staggered. Limped.

Hands scraping brick as he forced himself forward, blood painting every surface behind him. His vision tunneled. His body was failing.

But his mind?

It was screaming one name.

Kate.

The woman who ruined him.

The woman who burned his family alive.

And now she was back.

*

He didn’t know where he was going.

Didn’t know how long he’d been running.

Everything hurt. His lungs burned, his legs shook, his shoulder—God, his arm—was on fire, poisoned fire, the kind that spread and pulsed with every panicked beat of his heart.

            Wolfsbane. She shot me with wolfsbane.

Of course she had. Of course she had.

Kate .

Her name echoed through his skull like a gunshot. Again. Again. Again.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The world was narrow and spinning, the shadows closing in tighter with every heartbeat. The air smelled wrong. Metallic. Chemical. Her . The perfume that coated his nightmares. The leather of her gloves. The press of lips and lies and matches striking against wood.

Derek stumbled over cracked pavement. Hit his knees once. Didn’t stop.

            No one can help me.

            No one will.

            Not again.

            Not ever again.

The rooftops blurred past him. Streetlights smeared into the dark. He couldn’t even hear his own footsteps anymore over the roar in his ears. The blood loss was getting worse. He knew that.

And then—

Cinnamon.

It punched through the fog like a lighthouse in a storm.

He staggered.

            No.

            No no no—

            Not that cinnamon.

Not the warm kitchen. Not the sugar-laced laughter. Not the sketchbook and blanket and paint-stained hands.

Not her.

But it wasn’t her.

It was different . Warmer. Messier. Chaotic and earthy and laced with something clinical—like antiseptic. Like new books and graphite pencils and that cheap shampoo from the drugstore aisle.

Still cinnamon.

Still close enough to hurt.

His legs moved on their own.

            Don’t go there. Don’t do this. You’ll break if you go there.

But his body didn’t listen. His wolf—wounded, reeling—dragged him toward warmth. Toward safety.

Toward him .

He scaled the side of the Stilinski house like a ghost, half-dead and weightless. His boots slipped once. The wound throbbed. He tasted copper.

He didn’t have words.

Didn’t have hope.

He had one knock left in him.

His knuckles brushed the windowpane once.

And then he collapsed against the frame, breath shallow, shaking—half from pain, half from the part of him that still remembered Hannah’s voice whispering, you’re safe here.

*

Stiles yanked him through the window, heart hammering like a jackrabbit. Derek hit the floor hard, groaning, his hand clutching at his upper arm—blood seeping between his fingers.

“Jesus,” Stiles panted. “Okay. Okay. That’s a lot of blood. You—what happened?”

Derek tried to speak, head rolling toward him. “Wolfsbane.”

Stiles’ breath hitched. “That’s bad, right? That’s like— really bad?”

Derek grimaced, voice barely more than a rasp. “It’s not in me. Not anymore.”

Stiles blinked, confused. “Wait—what?”

“Clean shot,” Derek breathed. “Straight through.”

“Okay, so—good?”

“No. Don’t know what kind it was. Need… another bullet.”

Stiles squinted. “You want me to get you shot again ?”

Derek’s eyes flashed briefly, sharp even through the haze. “Need the wolfsbane. Same kind. From the hunter.”

“You want me to rob a hunter ?!”

Derek groaned, and it might’ve been a laugh. Or pain. Probably both. “Bullet. Fire purifies it. Needs to go back in.”

Stiles went still.

“Back in your body?”

Derek gave a weak nod.

“Like, ‘Here, let me light this magic murder rock on fire and shove it back into your wound’ kind of back in?”

Another nod.

Stiles dropped his face into his hands. “Oh my God, this is so far past first aid, I need a freakin’ shaman. Or a backup. Or a brain transplant.”

He looked up again. Derek’s breathing had gone shallow. His pulse fluttered under his jaw.

“Okay,” Stiles whispered. “Okay. Just hang on, Sourwolf. We’ll… we’ll figure this out.”

Derek didn’t answer. But Stiles swore, just before his eyes closed again, Derek almost smiled.

He stirred on the floor, face slick with sweat and skin gone ashy pale. His breathing was short and ragged, every inhale more like a gasp.

“Derek,” Stiles said, crouching low, hand hovering over his shoulder but afraid to touch him. “Hey—hey, stay with me, okay? You said we need the bullet, who shot you?”

Derek’s lips barely moved. “Hunter.”

“Yeah, I got that part—who?”

Derek’s eyes cracked open, bloodshot and distant. “Kate.”

Stiles froze.

“Kate… Argent.”

And just like that, Stiles felt the floor drop out from under him.

“Allison’s aunt?” His voice pitched high. “You’re telling me Allison’s aunt is out here playing sniper with werewolves?! What the actual—okay, okay, okay—no time for a meltdown.”

He bolted out of the room like a shot, knocking over a lamp in his scramble for the hallway closet. The first aid kit was in there somewhere. Bandages. Antiseptic. Gauze. God, did they even have rubbing alcohol?

            Think, Stilinski. Move.

He grabbed the kit, a bottle of water, and a towel, then raced back to his room—and nearly dropped it all when he saw Derek again.

He was somehow worse.

Slack-jawed, twitching slightly. His shirt soaked through with blood. Eyes not quite tracking anymore.

“Okay, okay, nope, not dying on my bedroom floor,” Stiles muttered. “Absolutely not allowed.”

He dropped to his knees and started working—cutting away the fabric, wiping down the blood, trying not to panic at how hot Derek’s skin felt under his fingers.

“Come on, man, don’t crash on me. You’re too dramatic to die quietly.”

Derek flinched at the touch but didn’t pull away. “Need… bullet…”

“I know , I know , I’m working on it.”

With one shaky hand, Stiles pulled out his phone and typed furiously:

Stiles:

            Derek’s dying

            You have to go get a wolfsbane bullet.

            From Kate—Allison’s aunt.

            SCOTT I’M SERIOUS

No response.

“Scott, if you’re at a bowling alley ignoring me right now I swear to God—”

A sound pulled his attention back—Derek, whispering something, voice hoarse and barely there.

“You smell… like her…”

Stiles blinked. “What?”

Derek’s eyes fluttered closed. “You smell like… her…”

Stiles stared, heart stuttering. “Like who?”

But Derek didn’t answer.

A knock jolted him upright—sharp and familiar.

“Stiles?” his dad’s voice called. “You’re up?”

Stiles’ stomach plummeted. “Shit.”

He looked from the door to Derek and back, frantic.

“I’m up! Yeah! Just—getting ready for bed! Late night studying!”

Another knock. “Can I come in for a sec?”

Stiles stood frozen, hands still covered in Derek’s blood.

“Um—just a second!”

He spun toward the window. No way to sneak Derek out now. No plan. No backup. Scott was MIA, Derek was barely breathing, and his dad was right there.