The Witch Vol.1 - Werewolves

January 15th 2011 - Saturday
The next morning, Charlie awoke slowly, relishing the cocoon of blissful unconsciousness where nothing in the world mattered. Unfortunately, a chilly gust of wind streamed through the open window, shattering her peace and reminding her she was alone in bed. She exhaled a sigh of relief. Rarely did she have the luxury of waking up after such an adventure, especially with a complete stranger. If she turned around now and found him still there, the embarrassment might just consume her. The Lurker had seized control of her a few times before, but never under such circumstances. She suspected it had something to do with her longstanding avoidance of predators of that ilk. Particularly after that one time nearly a decade ago when her old friend Deuc invited her to a rally as his Emissary. That adventure had ended in a bloody massacre, reinforcing her desire to steer clear of werewolves.
Charlie spent the weekend pondering her potential future encounter with Derek. If he was indeed who he claimed to be, avoiding the meeting would be nearly impossible. A chance encounter with Sharon interrupted her musings only as they both shopped at a market near the school.
"Charlotte," the dark-skinned woman greeted her, eyeing her with a curious glance.

Sharon was an embodiment of effortless elegance, her dark skin glowing with an inner radiance. Though not tall and a little overweight, she carried herself with a grace that commanded attention. Her almond-shaped eyes, sharp with intelligence, sparkled with mischief as she assessed her new friend. 

Her curly hair, often tamed into intricate styles, was today left free in a wild, yet controlled halo that framed her face perfectly. Dressed in a flowy, colorful blouse and well-fitted jeans, she exuded confidence and warmth, a stark contrast to Charlie's more subdued appearance.
Charlie, on the other hand, exuded a captivating bohemian vibe intertwined with a fierce biker chic aesthetic. Her fiery red locks were meticulously braided and adorned with vibrant beads and delicate feathers, creating a mesmerizing visual feast. Clad in a sleek, black leather motorcycle jacket reminiscent of the rebellious Harley style, she paired it effortlessly with a simple, yet alluring t-shirt. 
Her figure-hugging black skinny jeans stressed her slender frame, adding a touch of allure to her overall appearance. An array of necklaces, a combination of enchanting crystals and mystical symbols, along with contemporary jewelry, gracefully hung around her neck, emanating an aura of mystique. Completing her ensemble were stylish biker boots, exuding an air of confidence with every step. Her emerald green eyes, framed by delicate freckles, seemed to hold a universe of untold secrets, captivating all those fortunate enough to gaze into their depths.
"Did you have a good date yesterday?" Sharon's voice was smooth and teasing, her words dripping with playful curiosity.
"I..." Charlie stammered, wondering if the English teacher was clairvoyant. "Yes, something like that..."
"Girl, why did you let him out of bed? You still have soft knees... Ah, youth..." Sharon trailed off, seeing the redhead's embarrassment and not caring. She had taken a liking to her almost at first sight and wanted her to loosen up a bit, as she seemed perpetually tense.
 "Handsome? Intelligent? I don't have to ask about other qualities, because I can see that from you perfectly..." She smiled mischievously.
"Handsome... and probably not stupid... But it's more of a one-night thing..." Charlie tried to keep her cool, but conversations like this were completely alien to her. She had been rise differently, and while she was aware, some might see her as rigid or prudish, the rules were too deeply and strongly instilled for her to overcome them quickly.
"If he doesn't call you, it means he's stupid after all," Sharon commented. "But if he brings you breakfast in bed next time, you'd better chain him to the radiator and not let him out," she winked and walked away towards the tills.
Charlie stood for a moment by the dairy fridges, looking after the departing woman, shocked. Unpretentiousness had always been a trait Charlie admired. That's exactly what Luise was, but Sharon's level was definitely beyond her. Despite this, she knew Sharon wanted to be friends with her. The redhead had a feeling she was going to become the English teacher's private project in the coming days, but she just wasn't sure what its purpose would be.
🌙
January 17th 2011 - Monday
Scott stumbled into the locker room, every movement a lifeless echo of his despair. His eyes, hollow and vacant, betrayed a soul crushed under the weight of revelation. How could everything unravel so swiftly? Just moments ago, he was basking in a fragile sense of hope, reconciled with Allison, ready for a fresh start. But that glimmer of optimism was obliterated the instant he recognized her father's face – the very Hunter who had aimed a crossbow at him just days before.
The reality hit like a freight train. Not only was he grappling with typical teenage dilemmas, but he was also entangled in a deadly game of survival. Any father is thrilled about their daughter dating, but this was far beyond overprotective dad's territory. This was life-threatening. And while none of his friends faced mortal danger for their romantic choices, Scott's situation was a horrifying exception. After the chaos of the full moon, the transformations, and Derek's cryptic warnings, there was no denying the catastrophe his life had become.
Scott slumped against his locker, each breath a laborious effort. It was in this sorry state that Stiles found him.
Stiles, with his buzzed hair and wide, expressive eyes, which were now filled with concern, looked at his friend. His lean frame tensed up as he approached Scott, always the eager investigator, ready to dive into whatever mess Scott had gotten into.
"You apologize to Allison?" Stiles asked, eyes narrowing with concern as he assessed his friend's obvious distress.
Scott, his usually warm brown eyes now shadowed with worry, nodded. His dark hair was disheveled, and his normally tanned skin looked pale under the fluorescent lights. 
"Yeah..." Scott's voice was a mere whisper, still numb from shock.
"So, she's giving you a second chance?"
"Yeah."
"Then everything's good?" Stiles smiled, his relief palpable, but Scott's next words halted him.
"No."
"No?" Stiles echoed, his confusion deepening.
"Remember the Hunters? Her dad is one of them," Scott muttered, struggling to process the words himself.
"Her dad?"
"He shot me..."
"Allison's father?" Stiles repeated, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, barely believing the twist of fate.
"...With a crossbow."
"Allison's father..." Stiles's brain churned, trying to wrap around the improbability of it all.
"Yes, her father!" Scott's voice cracked, the enormity of it all crushing him. "Oh, my God... What am I going to do?"
"Scott, don't freak out!" Stiles grabbed Scott's face, trying to anchor him back to reality. 
"Okay... Did he recognize you?"
"No, I don't think so..." Scott finally strung together a coherent thought.
"Does she know about him?" Stiles pressed.
"I... I don't know." Scott's eyes darted fearfully. 
"And if she does? It's over..."
A whistle blew from the pitch, momentarily diverting Stiles's attention.
"All right, okay, we'll figure it out. Just... Just concentrate on practice. On lacrosse," Stiles said, handing Scott his gear with forced nonchalance.
As they jogged onto the field where Coach Finstock was bellowing instructions, they noticed Ms. Benoit, the history teacher, begrudgingly fulfilling her promise to assist with the team. Ms. Benoit, with her fiery red hair intricately braided and adorned with beads and feathers, exuded an air of confident eccentricity, contrasting with the typical teacher ensemble.
The day's disaster escalated when Scott, overwhelmed by a surge of aggression, injured a teammate. Ms. Benoit sprang into action, directing Stiles to get Scott off the field and calm him down. She barely spared the injured player a glance before her focus snapped to Derek, who was lurking near the stands, his intent gaze fixed on her.
Realizing the gravity of the situation, she pursued Stiles, who was fleeing the locker room clutching a fire extinguisher like a lifeline. His terror was clear, and he attempted to block her entry. She brushed past him, finding Scott, who looked as scared and confused as a cornered animal.
"Stiles... What happened?" he asked. Stiles hesitated, uncertain how much he could divulge with her present. Setting the extinguisher aside, he took a deep breath, fighting off his anger and fear.
"You tried to kill him..." Ms. Benoit stated flatly. "It's because of the anger. The blood circulates faster and triggers change."
"But that's lacrosse. It's a pretty violent game if you hadn't noticed." Scott's voice wavered, tears threatening to spill. He even didn't realize that she should know nothing about him.
"It will be even more so if you kill someone on the field."
"You can't play Saturday, you have to get out of the game," Stiles insisted, siding with Ms. Benoit.
"But I'm first line," Scott protested weakly.
"Not anymore..."
"Can you talk to me about it?" Ms. Benoit interjected, reminding them of her presence.
The boys straightened, their fear palpable. Stiles quickly recovered, calculating his next move.
"Charlotte Benoit... Have you graduated in cultural anthropology at Princeton, perhaps?" he asked, revealing his impressive detective skills.
"Exactly, just like my mother and grandmother. It's kind of like the family business," she smiled warmly at him, then turned her concerned gaze back to Scott. "You can't handle this alone, Scott. Wolves are social animals; they live in packs, and two of you are definitely not enough... How about some tea and a chat after you get changed?"
Scott shot her a skeptical look, silently pleading with Stiles for an explanation.
"Turns out Ms. Benoit, certainly a completely coincidental coincidence," Stiles noted sarcastically, "is one of our country's most respected specialists in creatures from fairy tales and myths... like werewolves."
"A coincidence, indeed, but not by chance. I'm here to solve a problem that you guys, by coincidence, have stumbled upon and can't escape without my help."
They reluctantly followed her to her classroom, where she patiently explained what Scott could expect from his newly altered body. Stiles, of course, interjected constantly, proving they, or rather he, was already fairly informed. After about an hour, she dismissed them, ensuring they had time for homework. She then packed up and left the school, the weight of the day's revelations heavy on her mind.
🌙
Scott trudged home, a dark cloud of despair hanging over him. The day had been a complete disaster, conspiring against him at every turn. Derek had tried to convince him that the bite came with benefits, but to Scott, it felt more like a curse. His girlfriend's father was hell-bent on killing him, he was benched for the next game, and nothing seemed to go right. The thought that his improved fitness, which earned him a spot on the first line, was just because of the bite gnawed at him. Like any typical teenager, he preferred to sink into the depths of despair and see only the dark side of things.
He flung himself onto his bed and buried his head under a pillow, hoping to shut out the world. His mother's voice abruptly interrupted his self-pity party as she entered his room.
"Late shift again for me," she announced. Scott noticed she was already dressed in her nurse's uniform, ready to head out. "But I'm taking a night off to see your first game."
"Mom, you can't."
"I can and I will," she declared with a smile, walking up to him. She put on a serious face, staring at him. "One shift won't break us. Not completely." She leaned over him, running her fingers through his tousled hair. "What's wrong with your eyes?" she asked, concern clear in her voice. "You look like you haven't slept in days."
"It's nothing. Just kind of stressed," Scott replied, sitting up on the bed and pulling away from her.
"Kind of? Nothing else? You're not on drugs or anything?" Melissa's worry deepened.
"Right now?" Scott looked away, unsure of what to say.
"Right now?" she repeated, emphasizing the word. "What do you mean right now? Have you ever taken drugs?" Her disbelief was palpable.
"Have you?" Scott shot back, his voice unnervingly calm, as if this were a routine conversation.
Melissa froze, her mouth half-open in shock. 
She glanced helplessly around the room before standing up. "Get some sleep," she said softly, stroking his hair one last time before leaving, her car keys jingling in her hand.

Scott lay back down, intending to take her advice, but the sound of his computer thwarted his plans signaling an incoming video call. Reluctantly, he moved to his desk and opened his laptop, greeted by the sight of Stiles, who was brandishing a toy gun with flashing lights.

"What'd you find out?" Scott cut straight to the point, his friend's antics pulling him back to reality.
"It's bad. Jackson's got a separated shoulder," Stiles announced, showing no sympathy for their disliked classmate.
"Because of me?"
"Because he's a tool. It's not your fault," Stiles corrected him.
"Is he going to play?" Scott asked, guilt creeping back in.
"They don't know yet. But now they're all counting on you for Saturday," Stiles replied. His face blurred on the screen momentarily, the internet connection faltering.
Scott fell silent, lost in his thoughts as Stiles' face zoomed in, blocking out the rest of the room. The teenage werewolf focused on his friend's mole-speckled face, trying to decipher what was going on.
"What?"
Stiles seemed frightened, his fingers tapping frantically on the keyboard. The camera image continued to blur intermittently. Suddenly, a dialogue box appeared on the screen: "Looks like..." The cursor changed to a spinning circle, indicating the connection had crashed. The screen froze.
Impatiently, Scott read the message aloud, moving the mouse as if it would help. The image jerked back to life, and another message popped up next to Stiles' face: "...someone's behind you." Scott's breath caught in his throat as he leaned closer to the screen. In the shadowy background, near the bathroom door, a human silhouette loomed.
Scott spun around in his chair but was grabbed by two strong hands and slammed against the wall. The impact knocked the wind out of him. His laptop crashed to the floor as he struggled against his attacker. His arm was twisted painfully behind his back.
"I saw you on the field," Derek's hushed voice growled in his ear.
"What? What are you talking about?" Scott gasped, trying to catch his breath.
"You shifted in front of them!" Derek shouted. "If they find out what you are, they'll find out about me. About all of us. And it's not just the Hunters who will come after us; it's everyone," he explained, his voice lowering to a dangerous whisper.
"But they didn't see. No one did..."
"The redheaded teacher saw," Derek growled.
"She won't say anything. She knew about us beforehand. I think she's also..." Scott tried to explain, still struggling to breathe.
"No one else is supposed to know! If you try to play that game on Saturday..." Derek's voice dropped to a deadly whisper, "...I'll kill you myself."
Suddenly, Scott felt the grip on him loosen. He turned around, but the room was empty. 
Derek had vanished as quickly as he had appeared.
🌙
As Charlotte stepped into her house later that evening, an unsettling feeling gnawing at her. She placed her keys on the console by the door. Isle, despite her mobility issues from a broken paw, always came out to greet her, but tonight there was no sign of her. Instead, a visibly stressed Behemoth and Astra awaited her in the hallway, their anxious energy palpable. She quickly discovered the reason for their strange behavior upon entering the kitchen.
There, leaning casually against the cupboards with a mug of coffee in hand, stood Derek Hale. Her little traitor of a dog was busily wagging its tail, happily nuzzling Derek's legs. The unannounced visitor met her gaze with a defiant lift of his eyebrow and slid a second cup of coffee across the counter towards her, evidently feeling right at home.
All the scenarios she had meticulously envisioned for their next meeting crumbled in an instant. Frozen in the doorway, she crossed her arms and returned his gaze with equal defiance. She realized that without the raging Darkness she usually wielded, she probably looked more amusing than threatening. Nevertheless, she hoped he understood her displeasure.
"Derek... if that is indeed your name... to what do I owe this very unexpected visit?" she asked, trying to keep her eyes on his face, though the temptation to glance at his form-fitting T-shirt and jeans was strong.
"I am who I said I was. It's you I have my doubts about. And it is to this that you owe my visit today," he replied, his eyes betraying a mix of curiosity and suspicion.
Even with her long black jeans, leather jacket, and tactical boots, he found himself irresistibly drawn to her. Her hair, cascading in loose waves around her shoulders, was adorned with beads and feathers—a touch he found peculiar. He considers it to be too alternative or hippie-like, an unusual contradiction to his direct and practical mindset. But he had to maintain control; he needed to find out who this mysterious woman truly was. He struggled to believe she wasn't a threat, yet it was also possible she wasn't an enemy. After all, the previous morning, he had woken up alive and well in her bed, her petite figure snuggled trustingly against his side. That moment had almost completely dispelled his fears, which returned only hours after he quietly left her house at dawn.
"The last one too..." she muttered involuntarily, feeling a flush of heat creep up her neck and spread across her cheeks.
He looked away, clearly embarrassed but quickly recovering. "You're not a Hunter, I believe you, but you're no mundane human either. You hang around my house too often. I have a right to be suspicious. Besides, you know about the kid."
"I, at least, don't enter your house without an invitation," she shot back, her fury rising. How was it he could so easily stir the Lurker within her? She felt its tentacles slowly unfurling from the dark space wrapped tightly around her heart. She took a few deep breaths, struggling to suppress the urge to lash out. If she gave in, the results could be tragic. She could feel his gaze on her, watching her intently, sensing something strange was happening to her. Without a word, his eyes followed her movements as she walked to the counter and reached for the mug of coffee he had made.
"You're right. I'm sorry," he said softly when he saw she had calmed down. "Our acquaintance began... unusually." He hesitated, collecting his thoughts. "But we both know that neither you nor I are standard members of society. You are here for a reason, and your actions indicate that this reason is similar to mine. You are also looking for Laura, aren't you?"
"Yes," she replied, sipping her coffee and leaning against the cabinets on the opposite side of the kitchen. Keeping as much distance as possible was now her biggest priority. With the Lurker awakened, two things could happen: she could either kill him or end up in bed with him, again. For now, she planned on neither. "I've been trying to contact her since I arrived. In fact, I came here at her request."
He straightened up at her last words, measuring her with a surprised gaze before relaxing again. "You don't look like I imagined you. And I know Laura only asked one person for help... the Witch, the Old Witch..." He hesitated at the last words, feeling they were too fairytale-like, even for his supernatural background.
"Well, maybe I'm holding up well for my age... or maybe I'm younger than the rumors say," she smiled crookedly, gripping her cup tightly. It was amusing to her that both statements were true, even though she didn't like it when anyone but Louise brought up her age. She was sure they both heard the quiet crackle of the mug breaking. She barely felt it when pieces of porcelain slammed into her palm and the hot liquid spilled over her skin.
Derek jumped forward before the porcelain hit the floor and before the first drops of blood appeared on her hand, mixing with the coffee. Only then did she feel the pain and look at her palm, now held in his much larger hand. A piece of the cup was lodged in her flesh, looking almost like bone. Derek dragged her hand under the cold water, rinsing off the remnants of the drink. He wanted to clean the wound, but she stopped him.
"No, it will bleed harder. I can't heal like you." she looked at him, feeling the blood drain from her face too quickly for her liking. "I have to go to the hospital to get it stitched up."
"I'll drive you," he announced, his expression leaving no room for objection. She could sense waves of guilt emanating from him, even though she knew it was the Darkness responsible for the accident. However, since the Lurker had awakened because of Derek's presence, she accepted his help.
The hospital wasn't particularly crowded at this hour, and a warmly smiling woman in her early forties with long black hair and clearly Hispanic roots greeted them at the reception desk. Her smile vanished when her gaze fell on the patient's arm, still held up by Derek, but she remained professionally calm. She led them both to a treatment room, where she gently but firmly persuaded Derek to let go of Charlotte's hand and examined the wound. She summoned a doctor to stitch up the cut while she busied herself cleaning the wound. 
Charlotte felt her head spinning; the Lurker had raised her blood pressure, causing her to bleed more profusely than she should have. 
She could see Derek's grey-green eyes staring back at her and the nurse's dark brown eyes full of calm. As her head drooped, she noticed the nurse's badge read: Melissa McCall.
"You are Scott's mum..." she murmured, catching Derek's attention.
Melissa was taken aback but quickly confirmed, her face lighting up with pride. She asked how they knew her son, but Charlotte could no longer respond, slipping into blissful unconsciousness. Derek explained on her behalf, mentioning that she was a history teacher at Scott's school. He had done a thorough background check on her, and now he could learn more about the teenager as well.
When Charlotte woke, she noticed Derek still by her bedside, alert and attentive. He heard her change in breathing, rose from his chair, and ran his fingers over her forehead to check her temperature.
"You've been out for a while. The doctor said I can take you home, but he needs to check on you first. You've lost a lot of blood."
She sighed and nodded. Melissa appeared almost immediately, smiling warmly again. 
Charlotte liked her, feeling a strange, longing sensation fill her heart. Together, they completed the paperwork, and the nurse escorted them to the hospital exit, bidding them goodbye.
There was an awkward silence in the car that Derek finally broke when he followed Charlotte into her house.
"You know Laura's dead," he quietly announced, returning to the subject interrupted by the accident.
"I hoped I was wrong..." she lowered her head, feeling crushed by the thought that she might have been too late to save Laura.
"I have to find the culprits. It's the Hunters, the Argents. Their presence is no coincidence, and they have hunted our family before," he said, anger simmering in his voice, but underneath it lay another feeling she couldn't quite identify.
"I can help you, but we both know this isn't our only problem. There's an Alpha prowling around who bit my student. We have to deal with him too because I have a feeling this is only the beginning..."
They sat in the kitchen for a long time, discussing recent incidents and twists of fate, trying to devise a plan. Despite their efforts, they still had too little data. They decided, for now, to focus on the teenager who had gained the furry problem, believing his situation was closely linked to at least one issue they needed to address. Charlotte explained that while she was aware of beings like Derek, she wouldn't be able to help the boy master the necessary skills. She had too much trouble controlling her own anger. She saw questions lurking in Derek's eyes, questions he didn't voice, for which she was eternally grateful.
They talked until dawn, and when he finally left, Charlotte felt a little less alone and slightly less terrified of the impending threats.
🌙
January 20th 2011 - Thursday
The beginning of the week had been uneventful, a calm that was almost unsettling, leaving Charlotte in a state of anxious anticipation. To pass the time, she immersed herself in the archives of the Beacon Hills Chronicle at the city library, scanning both old and new editions with a growing sense of determination. Her instincts told her that the recent events were only the tip of an iceberg, their roots buried deep in the past.
Her focus sharpened on articles from six years ago, recounting the tragic Hale house fire. She remembered how she had dispatched Louise to Beacon Hills to manage the aftermath, to support the two orphaned werewolves—the sole survivors of the blaze who were away from the house at the time. Her cousin had organized the funerals and arranged for the siblings to move to New York, hoping to distance them from their haunting memories. Despite these efforts, both had returned, and Laura had been brutally murdered.
Charlotte had called Louise, seeking any forgotten details about the incident. Luise's response was brief but pointed: Peter Hale. Derek's uncle had survived the fire, but was left in a state that could hardly be called living. Intrigued and concerned, Charlie visited the Long Term Care Unit to verify the facts. 
Despite being denied entry to his room, she could glimpse him through the glass—a figure, emaciated and slumped in a wheelchair, staring blankly out the window. Peter Hale, once a strikingly handsome and confident man, was now reduced to a lifeless shell. The sight of him, juxtaposed with her memories of his sarcastic wit, filled her with a profound sadness. No one deserved such a fate.
A stern nurse with dyed-red hair shattered her reverie at the door and brusquely escorted her out, reminding her that only family members were permitted in that section. Charlotte had half a mind to fabricate a story, but the nurse's no-nonsense demeanor left her no room for argument.
Back in the library, she continued her research, seeking any clue that might explain Laura's return to Beacon Hills. The girl on the phone had hinted that another survivor might exist, but Charlotte doubted it was Peter. In his condition, he was incapable of orchestrating anything. Yet, she found no recent news that could lure werewolves or hint at their presence. Similarly, the Hunters seemed to have arrived concurrently with her, providing no leads.
The week passed in relative quiet until Thursday's class brought an unexpected crisis. As Charlotte recounted the exploits of General Carter, one of her favorite students—a tall, pale, and quiet blonde named Erica—collapsed in a violent seizure. Thankfully, Sharon had forewarned her about Erica's epilepsy, so the witch immediately recognized the symptoms.
Her students, however, were unprepared, crowding around Erica with panicked suggestions to put something between her teeth. Charlotte's voice cut through the chaos with commanding authority. "Stand back! Greenberg, call an ambulance. Stilinski, run to the office and tell them what happened." She knelt by Erica, turning her on her side and supporting her head to prevent injury. "Erica, you're safe. Everything's fine. Just relax," she murmured, more to comfort herself than the unconscious girl.
The paramedics arrived and whisked Erica away, leaving Charlotte to realize her mistake—half the class had recorded the incident on their phones. She hadn't even thought to instruct them to delete the footage before one of them uploaded it online.
Furious, she stormed into the staff room, demanding an immediate meeting about bullying with the educators and principal. An epileptic seizure was already traumatic enough without becoming fodder for ridicule. She couldn't let Erica, who was already burdened by her condition, be laughed at.
After classes, she visited the hospital to speak with Erica's parents. Mr. and Mrs. Reyes were grateful for her quick action, but seemed oblivious to the social media storm brewing. They didn't grasp how devastating such footage could be to a teenager's reputation.
Charlotte spent some time at Erica's bedside, trying to lift the girl's spirits, but Erica was inconsolable, tears streaming down her cheeks. She already knew what the online world had seen, and the weight of that knowledge was crushing her.
🌙
January 21st 2011 - Friday
Charlotte sauntered into the staff room, craving that first jolt of caffeine before her day officially started. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee was her beacon, but a human obstacle halted her. She collided with Scott McCall's backpack, a lacrosse stick swaying precariously from it. Scott was deep in conversation with Coach Finstock.
"What do you mean, you can't play the game tomorrow night?" Coach Finstock's voice was filled with a mix of confusion and playful suspicion.
"I mean, I can't play the game tomorrow night," Scott repeated, oblivious to Charlotte's collision as he emphasized the 'can't' with a tone that suggested he was explaining it to a particularly slow child.
"You can't wait to play the game tomorrow night?" Coach Finstock corrected, crossing his arms and leaning against the table. Charlotte had just settled into a chair, hoping to enjoy a quiet moment before her first lesson. She had taken out a book, trying to look engrossed in its pages. Too late, she realized it was upside down and hastily flipped through it.
"No, I can't play the game tomorrow night," Scott enunciated each word with exaggerated clarity.
"I'm not following," Coach squinted, a look of deep suspicion settling over his features.
Scott sighed, clearly exasperated. "I'm having some personal issues."
Coach Finstock leaned in, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Like what? Is it a girl?"
Charlotte could barely contain her laughter. Coach Finstock's knack for digging into his students' personal lives was legendary, if not entirely appropriate.
"No," Scott's frustration was palpable.
"Is it a guy? You know our goalie Danny is gay," Coach stated matter-of-factly, as if that solved everything.
"I know, Coach. But that's not it." Scott was looking thoroughly confused.
"You don't think Danny's a good-looking guy?" Coach pressed on, relentless.
"No, Danny's good-looking. But I like girls. And that's not it anyway..." Scott stammered, his face reddening with the effort to keep his cool.
"Is it drugs? Are you doing meth?" Coach asked, his face serious. "My brother was hooked on meth. You should've seen what it did to his teeth. All rotten and cracked." He mimed a ghastly smile, his fingers drawing jagged lines around his mouth. "It was disgusting. He was a mess."
Scott, looking alarmed, asked, "What happened to him?"
"He got veneers. They look perfect now," Coach replied nonchalantly, as if that was the obvious outcome. "Is that it? You're worried about getting hurt?"
"No, I'm just having some issues with... aggression," Scott admitted, the weight of the word hanging in the air.
"Well, that's exactly why you play lacrosse," Coach tapped a finger on Scott's chest. "Problem solved."
Charlotte wanted to back Scott up, but Coach bulldozed over any attempts at intervention. 
"Listen, McCall. Part of playing first line is taking on the responsibility of being the first line in the game. If you can't shoulder that responsibility, then you're back on the bench until you're ready."
Scott looked stunned. "If I don't play the game, you're going to take me off the first line?"
"Play the game, McCall," the coach cut off all objections, shooing the student out of the staff room. 
"Don't talk back. He's one of my best players, and aggression is a big part of the sport," he announced, turning to Charlotte as she opened her mouth to speak. His eyes, slightly arched with intensity, fixed on her as he poured himself a coffee, effectively silencing any comment she might have had.
Charlotte shrugged, hearing the bell ring. She needed to get to her classroom before the students. As she walked down the corridor, a chill ran down her spine, the hair on her neck standing up. She felt eyes on her, but a quick glance revealed only Allison Argent at a distant locker. Allison nodded a greeting and darted towards her French class.
Charlotte took another wary look around, shook off the feeling, and continued to her classroom, her thoughts circling back to Scott. What would he do if he couldn't convince the coach to let him sit out the game? The uncertainty gnawed at her as she headed to face her first lesson of the day.
🌙
The classroom buzzed with the quiet tension of concentration. They had just been discussing Civil War issues, with the teacher quizzing Lydia Martin and Scott under the table. Both were assigned the task of writing down the names of commanders and the strengths of both sides of the conflict. Lydia was efficiently completing the Confederate section of the chart, her chalk gliding smoothly across the blackboard, while Scott fumbled through the Union details, his brow furrowed in frustration.
Then Lydia broke the academic silence with a pointed question. "Why is there a rumor going around that you're not playing tomorrow?" she asked, her voice steady and clear, unaffected by her multitasking. In stark contrast, Scott gnashed his teeth and rolled his eyes at the interruption.
"Because I'm sort of... not," Scott replied, the defeat clear in his tone.
Lydia wasn't having any of it. "I think you sort of ARE," she emphasized, her eyes narrowing at him with an angry stare. "Especially when you brutally injure my boyfriend by ramming into him."
"He brutally injured himself ramming into me," Scott retorted, incredulity coloring his voice as he met Lydia's glare.
"Jackson's going to play Saturday," Lydia declared, her tone defiant. "But he won't be at peak. I prefer my boyfriend at peak performance." She gave Scott a withering glance, her eyebrow arching significantly. The teacher nearly choked on her coffee, the youth's audacity far beyond her competence.
"Okay..." the teacher began, attempting to regain control.
"See, I date the captain of a winning lacrosse team," Lydia continued, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "If they start off the season losing, I date the captain of a losing lacrosse team. I don't date losers. You understand how that works?"
"Losing one game isn't going to kill anyone," Scott's voice rose, a menacing edge to his words. At this, the teacher, Charlie, scraped her chair loudly, attempting to drown out his words and capture the class's attention."In fact, it might save someone," Scott added ominously.
"Fine. Don't play. We'll probably win anyway. We'll go out after, like we're planning. I'll introduce Allison to all the other hot players on the team. And while she gets the attention she deserves, Scott McCall can stay home surfing the net for porn," Lydia shot back, her words sharp as a blade. She put down her chalk and took her seat, leaving Scott and the teacher stunned into silence.
Charlotte scanned the blackboard, her gaze stern as it landed on Scott. "You're not even close to solving this task, Scott... Sit down." She couldn't grant him any more time; his mind was clearly elsewhere.
"Tell me about it," Scott muttered under his breath as he slunk back to his seat.
The lesson ended, and Charlotte made her way to the staff room for yet another coffee. However, she paused mid-step at the sight of police officers conversing with the headmaster. Eavesdropping, she learned they planned to impose a curfew for underage civilians. She smiled at the sensible decision, though she believed it should be a year-round policy given the town's nocturnal dangers.
Her smile vanished when she noticed two particular students also eavesdropping—Stiles and Scott. Their expressions were anything but reassuring. As she moved to confront them, Stiles vanished, leaving Scott talking to Allison. Hoping her instincts were wrong, she decided not to disturb them.
"So Lydia's introducing you to everyone?" Scott asked Allison, his eyes trailing after the departing teenagers.
"Yeah, she's been unbelievably nice. Usually, the popular girls are totally evil when I move to a new place. But she's making it really easy for me," Allison replied, blissfully unaware of Lydia's ulterior motives.
"I wonder why..." Scott mused.
"Maybe she gets how much being the New Girl can suck," Allison speculated.
Scott's gaze fell on the jacket in Allison's hands—the same one Derek had used to lure him into the woods. "Where did you get that?" he asked, suspicion lacing his voice.
"My jacket? It was in my locker. I think Lydia brought it back from the party. She has my combination," Allison explained.
"Did she say she brought it back? Did someone give her the jacket?" Scott's questions came rapidly.
"Like who?" Allison asked, confused by his intensity.
"Like Derek."
"Your friend?" Allison clarified.
"He's not my friend. How much did you talk to him when he drove you home?"
"Not much at all," she replied, feeling increasingly uncertain.
"What did you say?" Scott pressed.
"Mrs. Benoit..." she began, but then changed her mind. "Sorry, but I have to get to my next class. Can we talk later?" she said, turning to leave, leaving Scott standing there, his mind racing with unanswered questions.
🌙
When he arrived at his destination, an old burnt-out house on the reserve's border, he dismounted his bike with a fury that sent it crashing to the ground. His eyes darted around, scanning the desolate area, but it was a strange, metallic scent that grabbed his attention. Following his nose, he found a patch of freshly dug earth—suspiciously like a fresh grave. His heart pounded in his chest, the sound almost deafening in the eerie silence.
Derek emerged from the crumbling porch, moving with a calm and unhurried demeanor that was a stark contrast to his usual intense presence. Clad only in a grey long-sleeved v-neck and jeans, he seemed almost casual.
"Stay away from her! She doesn't know anything!" the teenager shouted, his voice cracking with the strain of trying to project confidence.
"What if she does?" Derek's tone was cool, cutting. He knew exactly who the boy was referring to—the daughter of the Hunters. Derek had once been just like him, consumed by his own concerns, oblivious to the larger picture. "You think your buddy Stiles can Google werewolves and now you've got all the answers? Or has the Witch's good advice fortified your convictions?" he added sarcastically, walking over to Scott and bending to pick up his rucksack lying beside the bike. "You don't get it yet, but I'm looking out for you. Think about what could happen. You're on the field. The aggression takes over. And you shift in front of everyone." Derek's gaze bore into the stick he was holding. "Allison, your mother, your friend..." he pushed Scott with the stick, inflaming his anger further. "And when they see you, everything falls apart," he declared, dramatically breaking the stick with his claws. He tossed it up, knowing Scott would catch it effortlessly.
When Scott lifted his gaze from the stick, now bearing the marks of Derek's claws, Derek had vanished as silently and suddenly as ever.
Seething, Scott stormed home and impatiently waited for Stiles, whom he had called. As soon as Stiles burst through the door, Scott launched into his questions without so much as a greeting.
"What did you find? How did you find it? Where did you find it?" he demanded breathlessly, his eyes wide, hands gesturing wildly. "And yeah, I've had a lot of Adderall," he added, trying to calm down under Stiles' bemused gaze.
"I found something at Derek Hale's," Scott announced, suddenly composed.
"Are you kidding? What?"
"Something's buried there. I smelled blood."
"That's awesome! I mean, that's terrible. Whose blood?"
"That's what I need you to help me find out. And when we do, we're going to help your dad nail Derek for murder." Scott was resolute. 
"Then you and Mrs. Benoit are going to help me figure out how to play lacrosse without shifting. Because there's no way I'm missing that game," he stressed, tying the last string in the lacrosse stick net he was repairing.
He set the stick down and followed Stiles out, both climbing into Stiles' blue Jeep. They drove to the hospital to compare the scent Scott had detected in the woods with that of the half-corpse found by the police.
In the hospital morgue, Scott confirmed his suspicion—the scent matched the girl's blood he had detected under the Hale house. This revelation only solidified his belief that Derek was the murderer. They grabbed shovels and headed back into the woods.
Night had fallen, and they waited outside Derek's house, their nerves on edge. Just half an hour later, Derek left in his black Camaro, giving them the opportunity they needed.
"Something's different," Scott murmured, halting mid-step.
"Different how?" Stiles whispered, fear creeping into his voice.
"I don't know..." Scott shrugged. "Let's get this over with," he said, thrusting his shovel into the fresh earth.
They dug, sweat beading on their foreheads. The hole was waist-deep, and Scott was growing increasingly anxious.
"This is taking too long," he muttered.
"Just keep going."
"What if he comes back?"
"Then we'll run."
"What if he catches us?"
"I have a plan for that. You run one way, I run the other. Whoever he catches first? Too bad."
"I hate that plan," Scott groaned, digging faster, casting nervous glances toward the road.
"Stop! Stop!" Stiles shouted suddenly, his shovel striking something solid. He crouched, raking away the remaining soil with his hands to reveal a black sack tied with rope. His fingers, slick with cold sweat, fumbled with the knots.
Scott crouched to help, their combined nervousness making the task difficult. Eventually, they untied the last knot and unraveled the bag.
Stiles yelped and jumped back, followed quickly by Scott. Inside the bag, instead of a human body, lay the head of a wolf, its glassy eyes staring lifelessly at them.
"What the hell is that?"
"It's a wolf," Scott said, disbelief in his voice.
"I can see that! I thought you smelled human blood?"
"I told you something was different."
"This doesn't make sense," Stiles said, scanning their surroundings for clues.
"We gotta get out of here."
"Help me cover this up," Scott replied, but froze as his gaze fell on a lone purple flower near the hole. He plucked it, the stem easily giving way. It was Wolfsbane, tied with a string.
"What's wrong?" Scott asked, busy covering the wolf's body.
"Do you see this flower? I think it's Wolfsbane."
"How do you know that?"
"Haven't you ever seen The Wolf Man? Lon Chaney Jr.? Claude Rains?" Stiles asked, exasperated. "The original classic werewolf movie! You are so unprepared for this."
Stiles pulled at the plant, revealing more rope buried in the mulch. He followed it, unwrapping it to reveal a spiral around the grave. When Scott looked down, he recoiled in horror. Instead of the wolf's head, he saw the glassy eyes of a girl staring back at him—the same girl he had seen the night he was bitten. Stiles, seeing Scott's expression, looked down as well.
"Shit!" The coil of rope fell from his hands.
🌙
January 22nd 2011 - Saturday
The police arrived promptly, yet as dawn broke, they found themselves still at the charred remains of the house. The search dragged on far longer than expected. When a sleek black Camaro pulled up, Derek Hale stepped out, confusion painting his features at the sight of the flashing lights and bustling officers. No sooner had he set foot on the property than police surrounded him, handcuffed without a struggle, and led towards a waiting van. As the officers dispersed to continue their meticulous search, Stiles, ever the opportunist, slipped into the front passenger seat of the police car, while Scott leaned nonchalantly against his friend's vehicle, eyes vigilant.
Derek's gaze, dark and intense, settled on the jittery teenager.
"Just so you know, I'm not afraid of you," Stiles declared, his voice wavering slightly as he met the werewolf's piercing eyes. Derek's lips twitched, almost forming a smile, a reaction that sent a chill down Stiles' spine despite the bars separating them. "Okay, maybe I am. Doesn't matter. I just need to know something." His eyes darted to the window, ensuring their conversation remained private. "The girl you killed... She was a werewolf, but different, wasn't she?"
Silence was Derek's only response, his eyes a storm of unreadable emotions.
"She could turn into an actual wolf. I know Scott can't do that. And I think you can't either. Is that why—"
Derek interrupted with a weary sigh, "Why are you so worried about me? Your friend's the problem. When he shifts on the field, what do you think they'll do? Cheer him on? I can't stop him from playing. But you can." His face inched closer to the partition, and Stiles instinctively recoiled, swallowing hard, his throat bobbing visibly. "And trust me, you want to."
The car door swung open. Stiles was yanked out by his father, the sheriff, and was dragged back to Scott, who had been watching from a safe distance.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" the sheriff demanded, exasperation lacing his tone, though his expression suggested his son's antics did not entirely shock him.
"Just trying to help," Stiles replied, his tone defiant.
"Help me understand exactly how you came across this?" the sheriff pressed, his patience wearing thin.
"We were looking for Scott's inhaler," Stiles explained, sighing dramatically as if the answer were obvious.
"Which he dropped when?" With narrowed eyes, the sheriff scrutinized the scene.
"The other night..."
"The other night when you were out looking for the first half of the body?" The sheriff's knowing look froze his son in place.
"Yes!" Stiles said, hands diving into his pockets in a show of casual indifference.
"The night when you told me you were out alone and Scott was home?" Stilinski's voice dropped an octave.
"Yes! No! Crap..." Stiles realized his blunder too late.
"So you lied to me?"
"That depends on how you define lying."
"I define it as not telling the truth. How do you define it?"
"Reclining your body in a horizontal position?" Stiles muttered under his breath.
"Get the hell out of here," the sheriff snapped, finally losing his temper.
🌙
Charlotte finally managed to get out of bed and make her first cup of coffee that morning. Suddenly, there was an unexpected knock on her front door. She furrowed her brow in confusion. So far, the only people who had visited her were the courier she was expecting and Derek, who never bothered with knocking and simply appeared in random rooms at random times. The knocking came again, more urgent and nervous this time.
Clutching a steaming mug in one hand and cradling a book under her arm, she swung open the front door to face a gangly, taller-than-her boy with cropped dark hair and wide, apprehensive brown eyes.
"Stiles," she greeted him, arching an eyebrow and leaning casually against the doorframe. Her cats wove between her legs, clearly plotting to claim her visitor as their new pet.
"Mrs. Benoit..." he panted, looking thoroughly flustered. It was clear he'd run the short distance from his blue Jeep, parked haphazardly at the curb, to her porch steps. "Scott ran away..."
"What do you mean, he ran away?" she shot back, not budging from her spot. The full moon had passed, rendering the boy harmless, or so she assumed.
"We found that girl's body last night, and I had that wolfsbane with me. Scott started feeling sick because of it, and when I threw it away, he just vanished..." His words tumbled out in a frantic rush, leaving Charlotte scrambling to piece together his meaning halfway through his breathless tirade.
She ushered him inside, brewed a calming herbal tea that she practically forced into his hand, and seated him at the kitchen table. Astra, her white cat, leaped into his lap, demanding pets and offering her unique brand of feline therapy. Stiles's fingers sank into her soft fur, and he took a deep, steadying breath, holding it for a moment. Charlotte was relieved to see the teenager regaining control, sparing her from using her magical and empathic abilities, which she loathed to wield over others.
"So there's this guy, Derek Hale, living in a burnt-out house in the woods. Scott figured out he was the one who killed that girl and buried her in his yard. He sniffed it out, like police dog..." Stiles recounted the night's events, concluding with how he'd stashed the wolfsbane in his backpack before the police arrived, and how Scott had disappeared as they made their way home.
When he finished, a heavy silence settled over the kitchen. Charlotte struggled to collect her thoughts. The boys' conclusions were wildly off-base. Derek wasn't a murderer, or at least he hadn't killed his sister. The reason for his wolf's eyes being blue, indicating a killer, was still a mystery she needed to solve, but it wasn't pertinent to the current crisis. She studied the anxious teenager, gauging how much to reveal. She bypassed her own knowledge of the older werewolf and direct her attention to the discoveries about the grave.
While rummaging through one of the many unpacked cardboard boxes in the adjoining room, she made Stiles wait. She returned with a medium-sized box, setting it before him with a knowing smile.
"It's a Polaroid, the type of camera that prints pictures instantly," she explained. "I know everyone uses their phones now, but I want you to use this. If you see something suspicious—a person, place, or thing—snap a picture and bring it to me ASAP. You can use your phone too, but physical prints are very important to me."
She could almost see the gears turning in the boy's head as he processed her instructions. His expression brightened momentarily, only to fall again.
"You're the Witch Derek told Scott about," he blurted out, catching her off guard. "He knows about you, which means you're in danger..."
"No more than you and your friend," she corrected, downplaying the situation. "I can handle myself far better than you two."
"So, you're a witch ... What does that even mean? Like a sorceress? A fairy?" he queried, his curiosity piqued.
"I think witch is the best term, but it's a bit inflated. I can't hurl fireballs or foresee the future. Nothing like Harry Potter. I'm just a regular person with a bit more knowledge," she continued briskly, preventing any further digressions. "But back to you. You said you arrested a man for murdering a girl in the forest?" He nodded. "Was she buried under a wolfsbane spiral as a wolf?" she asked. Another nod. "So, this Derek knows Scott's a werewolf?"
"Derek's a werewolf himself. He's the one who bit and turned Scott," Stiles clarified.
"He willingly surrendered and is now either in custody or undergoing interrogation. Meanwhile, Scott is out there somewhere, either in the woods or the city, in god knows what state? And he's planning to play in a game that both I and the adult werewolf who turned him advised him not to?"
Stiles's wide grin faded as the gravity of the situation dawned on him. He glanced around the kitchen, finally fixing his gaze on Astra's blue eyes, still unconsciously stroking her fur.
"Seems like it..."
The teenager spent several hours in her house, meticulously reconstructing the events leading to the discovery of Laura's body. 
Charlotte asked him to draw the exact layout of the spiral and the grave, which he did with surprising precision. All the while, she pondered how the boy had got her address—a troubling thought, but not a priority. She considered visiting the police station to check on Derek, but dismissed the idea. He had her number; if he needed help, he'd call. No sense in drawing attention to their acquaintance.
As for Scott's disappearance, she chose not to worry. His wolf's instincts would likely drive him to hide and recover from the mild aconite poisoning he'd inflicted on himself. She conveyed this to Stiles, reassuring him so he could finally head home.
Eventually, evening descended, and Charlotte made her way to the school's lacrosse game. She hoped Scott had found his way back by now, although she had heard no updates. Perching herself in the stands just behind the substitutes' bench, she exhaled a sigh of relief when she spotted the teenage werewolf gearing up for the game.
"You going to try to convince me not to play?" Scott's words drifted over to Charlotte, directed at his friend.
"I just hope you know what you're doing," Stiles responded with a mixture of concern and resignation.
"If I don't play, I lose first line. And Allison."
"Allison's not going anywhere. It's just one game you don't have to play," Stiles tried again, following Charlotte's advice.
"I want to play. I want to be on the team, I want to go out with Allison. I want a semi-freaking normal life. Do you get that?" Scott's voice wavered with nerves, teetering on the edge of desperation. Charlotte understood his longing for normalcy but felt powerless to intervene.
"I get it," Stiles conceded after a pause. "Just try not to worry too much while you're out there, all right? And try not to get angry." He plopped down next to Scott, his back to the field, and shot Charlotte an apologetic glance.
"Got it."
"Or stressed..."
"Got it."
"And don't worry about Allison being there. Don't think about her father trying to kill you," Stiles added, unaware this was news to Charlotte. "Or Derek trying to kill you. Or the girl he killed. Or that you might kill someone..." He rambled, visibly flustered, ignoring Scott's increasingly horrified expression. "If the hunter doesn't kill you first." Realizing he had overstepped, he finally muttered, "I'll shut up now."
A familiar voice called out from just above Charlotte's head, and as she turned, she saw Melissa McCall, Scott's mom, sitting on the bench above. They exchanged pleasantries, Melissa inquiring about Charlotte's injured arm. The witch engaged in friendly conversation, but kept a watchful eye on the crowd. Further up in the stands, she spotted Allison and an older man who had to be Chris Argent, her father, and a hunter.
"Scott," Lydia Martin's voice cut through the air as she grabbed Scott by the shirt, pulling him close. "I just want you to remember one thing for tonight..." She leaned in, her height aided by high heels.
"Winning isn't everything?" Scott guessed, uncertain.
"Nobody likes a loser," Lydia corrected with a saccharine smile, smoothing his jersey before sauntering off.
Charlotte half-listened as Melissa tried to explain the rules of lacrosse, a game neither of them particularly enjoyed. Her attention, however, remained fixed on the unfolding events. She sensed an underlying tension, a harbinger of the evening's potential chaos. As the players charged onto the field, Stiles remained on the bench, soon joined by his father, the sheriff, in informal attire.
"Hey, kiddo," the sheriff greeted. "Any chance you'll be seeing some action tonight?"
"Action? Definite possibility," Stiles muttered, his mind clearly elsewhere.
The sheriff took his seat beside Melissa, who introduced him to Charlotte as Noah, unaware they'd already met under less pleasant circumstances.
From the outset, the game went poorly for Scott. His teammates ignored him, passing the ball among themselves. When Scott finally had a chance, one of his own team members, number 37, shoved him aside to score a goal, further souring his mood. Melissa's half-hearted applause mirrored Scott's frustration, exacerbated by Allison's reluctant banner-waving for Jackson Whittemore, the team captain.
"This is not going to be good," Stiles muttered, his concern echoing Charlotte's sentiments.
From her vantage point, she couldn't see Scott's face, but she felt the simmering aggression. Even the opposing team seemed wary, avoiding direct confrontations with him. Her gaze flicked to the Argents. Chris was leaning in, speaking to Allison, but Charlotte couldn't catch the words. The hunter's presence was troubling; he wouldn't ignore the signs of a werewolf on the field.
With the Beacon Hills Cyclones trailing by two points, the tension in the stands was palpable. Lydia and Allison held up another banner for Jackson, though Allison's expression was conflicted. Charlotte had a sinking feeling that Scott's focus was elsewhere, ignoring everything that didn't fit his immediate reality.
As the game resumed, Scott's frustration boiled over. He executed a near-impossible acrobatic leap, scoring a goal and eliciting cheers from the crowd. Charlotte bit her thumb nail nervously, aware of the implications of his display. Stiles cheered wildly, momentarily forgetting the potential fallout.
The ball came back into play, and Scott, now more aggressive, scored again, nearly tearing through the goalkeeper's racket. With 40 seconds left, the teams were tied.
"What? Did you see that?" Melissa exclaimed, pride lighting up her face.
Charlotte didn't respond, her focus on Scott, who was acting like a cornered animal. His opponents regrouped, surrounding him, but he remained eerily calm, scoring the winning goal with seconds to spare.
Spectators flooded the field, celebrating. 
Stiles exhaled in relief, but Charlotte's unease persisted. She watched as Scott, hidden from view, examined his hand. She knew what he saw: claws instead of nails. He bolted off the field, Allison trailing behind, with her father watching closely.
Stiles stayed by Charlotte's side, scanning the crowd. Suddenly, the sheriff's phone rang, disrupting the moment. He answered, his expression darkening. After hanging up, he informed Stiles, "The results from the coroner came in. The body belongs to Laura Hale. She was killed by an animal. We have no grounds to detain the suspect any longer, so they released him. Stiles, be careful. The guy has a right to be mad at you, and he doesn't look nice."
Noah headed toward the parking lot, presumably back to work. Stiles stood frozen, absorbing the news, while Charlotte's mind raced, contemplating the night's implications.

Stiles sprinted to the locker room to relay the new information to his friend, leaving Charlotte alone in the stands. Her eyes fell on Jackson Whittemore, the team captain, who was scrutinizing a glove he had picked up from the grass. A jolt of anxiety coursed through her as she realized the potential evidence in his hands. When he abruptly looked up, Charlotte followed his gaze and saw Derek standing near the bleachers, locking eyes with Jackson. The younger man quickly looked away and walked off, while Derek started towards her.

"Shall I drive you home?" Considering her car was parked nearby and he had surely seen it, Derek's question seemed like an oddly inappropriate opening. She did not know where his vehicle was, as he must have arrived right after his release from custody.
"I think it's better if we go in my car. I won't leave it in the parking lot all weekend," she replied with a smile, thinking of her beloved Chevelle.
Derek nodded in agreement and, without waiting for her, headed toward her car. Once they were on their way, Charlotte decided she would not let him stay silent the whole trip, as he had last time.
"I heard you had a rough day..." she began gently, imagining how she would feel in his shoes.
"Thanks to your students..." he sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his tired face. The experience of being detained, coupled with the heartbreak of identifying his sister's body, had clearly taken its toll.
"And just so you know... you didn't say a word about meeting them directly. I thought you were supervising Scott from afar. Stiles said... Do you live in your old house?" The question slipped out before she could stop it.
"Yes, I haven't had time to find anything more suitable. I'm looking for clues and monitoring the teenagers. It's getting beyond me," he admitted, the exhaustion clear in his voice.
She glanced at him, noticing the dark shadows under his eyes and his pallor. "Do you even have water in there?" she asked, but received no answer. You know what? Let's go grab some of your belongings, and then you can come over to my place. You can freshen up and have a proper meal. I can't imagine detention was all that comfortable... She barely finished the sentence, feeling like she sounded like a desperate spinster. Her face flushed from neck to forehead, but she stubbornly stared at the road ahead, already entering the forest. She felt his calculating gaze on her for a moment.
"Yeah, it's not a terrible idea. Honestly, I'm dreaming of a hot shower," he replied quietly, looking away. He hoped she wouldn't take him for a pervert, although, being honest with himself, he wouldn't mind if the evening ended that way.
Derek didn't even enter the crumbling house, announcing that he would follow her in his car, in which he had everything he needed. She pulled into her driveway, gesturing for him to park his Camaro in the garage.
Once inside, she sent him to the bathroom, then realized she hadn't given him a towel. Trying to rectify her mistake, she called through the door, but he didn't hear her, likely over the sound of the water. Odd, given his heightened senses. So she quietly opened the door, intending to leave the towel on the cupboard. The sight reflected in the mirror above the washbasin stopped her in her tracks. She had never considered herself voyeuristic, but Derek's shapely silhouette, blurred by the steam, left her breathless.
"You just looking or you gonna join me?" His cheeky, confident voice made her jump, her heart pounding.
"If you wanna repay me for crashing at my place, you better whip up some breakfast tomorrow," she shot back, giving a sarcastic look and strutting forward with more confidence than she actually had. The Darkness within her stirred, tempting her to give in. She knew she shouldn't, that every time she did, the shadows around her heart grew stronger, but Derek's grey-green eyes were irresistible.
After a moment of hesitation, she shed her clothes and pinned her braid into a bun. Without waiting for another invitation, she stepped into the steamy shower, feeling the space shrink around Derek's muscular frame.
She looked up into his eyes bashfully, aware he could hear her heart racing. His predatory smile sent shivers down her spine. He closed the glass door and placed a hand on her hip, turning her so he could see her back. His soap-covered hands massaged her neck, and she moaned in pleasure, realizing how tense she had been all day. His hands worked wonders on her tight muscles, and he murmured with satisfaction as she relaxed under his touch. As the water rinsed away the suds, he kissed her neck and shoulders, marking a sensual trail with his lips.
With a firm hand, he signaled her to lean over. She complied, bracing herself against the cool tiles, the contrast to the warm water adding to her arousal. His hands moved from her buttocks to her thighs, quickly finding her most sensitive spot. She trembled, pressing harder against the wall as her swollen nipples rubbed against the cold tiles. She sighed, her hips instinctively moving back to meet him.
Derek emitted a low, guttural growl, his senses heightened as he experienced the sensation of her smooth, supple skin pressed against his. Every nerve in his body tingled with a mixture of excitement and restraint, his desire evident in the trembling of his eager member. With a delicate touch, he skillfully caressed her labia and clitoris, relishing in the quivers that rippled through her body, a silent confession of her pleasure.
"More." Her voice, deeper than usual, commanded him.
Without hesitation, he yielded. His strong hands firmly grasped her hips, guiding her into a position of utter ease before plunging into her with effortless grace. A symphony of pleasure echoed through the room as she let out a passionate, unrestrained moan, her teeth sinking into her lip with a fervor that drew forth a taste of metallic sweetness. The air, thick with humidity, became infused with the intoxicating scent of their arousal, heightening the intensity of the moment.
"More," she gasped, her voice strained and desperate, as she pushed her hips harder against him. As he held her steady with one hand, his fingers skillfully teased her clit, evoking another moan of pleasure from her.
Water cascaded down her back, glistening in the dim light of the bathroom. She strained to find purchase on the slick tiles, her fingers slipping slightly as she held on. Derek's rhythmic movements engulfed her, electrifying every nerve ending, overwhelming her senses. The soft sound of his quiet growls blended with her delicate whimpers, creating a harmonious melody of ecstasy that resonated through the steam-filled air.
However, the Darkness within her grew impatient. It simmered and churned, urging her to take control. With a swift movement, she pulled away, turning to face him. As her eyes met his, they radiated an unnatural, piercing green glow. The air crackled with anticipation. His heartbeat quickened, a symphony of desire echoing in his ears. A sly, predatory smile crept across her face as she delved into his thoughts, effortlessly deciphering his deepest desires. Her slender arms wrapped around his neck, causing his muscles to tighten in expectation. With a graceful leap, she entwined her legs around his hips, guiding him back into her. The sensation was electrifying, a fusion of pleasure and urgency that consumed them both.
They both let out a low, throaty moan, their voices intertwining in a symphony of pleasure. His powerful hands tightened their grip on her supple ass, providing unwavering support as his eager fingers sank into the velvety flesh, creating a deliciously pleasurable ache.

Amidst their passionate entanglement, a fleeting thought flitted through her conscious mind, noticing the diminishing warmth of the shower water. Yet, the scalding heat radiating from their entwined bodies effortlessly subdued any hint of a chill.

The aroma of the forgotten dinner wafted through the air, but it was inconsequential in their world. Lost in each other, their connection grew more intense, engulfing their senses and eclipsing everything else around them.

🌙
Allison walked into the dimly lit corridor, her heart pounding as she searched for Scott. The jubilant cheers of the fans and the victorious team echoed faintly behind her, but the locker room ahead was eerily silent. She halted abruptly, spotting Scott's helmet abandoned on the floor. She stepped cautiously through the doorway to the locker room, her shoes crunching on broken glass, catching the glint of shattered mirrors above the sinks.
"Scott?" she called out, her voice barely escaping her throat. The room's oppressive atmosphere weighed heavily on her, evoking the unsettling sense of a horror movie setting. 
Summoning her courage, she pressed on, the feeling of being watched prickling her skin. 
She whirled around, but only darkness and rows of lockers greeted her.
"Scott," she tried again, her voice just a whisper. Anxiety tightened her chest, her stomach knotting with apprehension. She moved forward, convinced she heard something beyond the wall where the showers were.
Rounding the corner, she found Scott. Still clad in his uniform, he leaned against the wall, his back to her, panting heavily.
"Are you alright, Scott?" She grabbed his arm, turning him to face her. His eyes held a flicker of fear, but otherwise, he seemed fine. "You scared me. Are you okay?"
"Sorry. Just felt really light-headed for a sec," he mumbled, regaining his composure.
"Maybe it's the adrenaline," she suggested, a smile breaking her worried expression. "You were pretty amazing out there."
"Thanks. And sorry for acting completely weird today."
"It's okay. I can handle weird," she replied with a broad smile, reflecting on her nomadic life and her parents' unusual but legal business as arms dealers. Weird was her normal, and Scott's stress was just another facet of it.
"To be totally honest, you make me kind of nervous," Scott confessed, embarrassment coloring his voice.
"I do?"

"Kind of really nervous." They both laughed, the tension easing.

"I just want to make sure I get my second chance."
"You already have it," she said, her eyes locking with his. "I'm just waiting for you to take it." She smiled flirtatiously, stepping back slightly, her heart racing with a mix of embarrassment and anticipation.
Scott slowly stepped closer to her, his gaze unwavering as he drank in every detail of her face. The faint scent of her perfume lingered in the air, adding a touch of sweetness to the moment. As he leaned in, the sound of their breaths mingled together, creating a symphony of anticipation. Their lips met gently, like a delicate brushstroke on a canvas, before gradually deepening into a passionate embrace. The warmth of their connection enveloped them both, sending shivers of pleasure down their spines.
Just then, Stiles burst into the locker room, breathless. He froze mid-step, not wanting to interrupt, and quickly hid behind a locker, peeking out to see if what he witnessed was real.
"I need to get back to my dad," Allison said, breaking the kiss, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and happiness. She turned to leave, nodding at Stiles as she spotted him, then exited with a light step and a smile playing on her lips.
Scott stood there, a blissful smile on his face, lost in the moment. Stiles approached, silent but grinning, knowing words wouldn't penetrate Scott's cloud of happiness.
"I kissed her..."
"I saw."
"She kissed me..."
"I saw that too," Stiles said, trying to be patient with his love-struck friend. "It's pretty good, huh?"
"I don't know how, but I controlled it. I pulled it back. Maybe I can do this. Maybe it's not that bad," Scott said, his voice filled with wonder, his eyes unfocused.
"Yeah, we should talk later then," Stiles suggested, patting Scott on the shoulder, ready to leave.
"What?" Scott asked, sensing something serious in Stiles' tone.
"The medical examiner looked at the other half of the body we found," Stiles revealed. Scott gestured for him to continue. "It's simple. Medical examiner determines the killer of the girl to be animal or human. Derek is human, not animal. Derek not killer. Derek let out of jail."
"Are you kidding?" Scott couldn't believe it.
"No, and here's the bigger kicker. My dad ID'd the dead girl. Both halves. Her name was Laura Hale."
"Hale?" Scott's confusion was evident.
"Derek's sister," Stiles clarified, a slight smile of disbelief on his face at the bizarre coincidence.