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The cold seeped through Octavia McCall's dress as she knelt between her two best friends on the dew-soaked lacrosse field. Her fingers pressed gently but firmly against Lydia's wrist, feeling the alarmingly slow throb of her pulse. Beside her, Stiles shuffled anxiously, his breath shallow, his gaze flickering between the looming figure of Peter Hale and Octavia. His hand trembled at his side as though resisting the urge to reach for her, as if keeping her within arm's reach could somehow anchor him to sanity.

"No," Stiles' voice broke through the tense silence, shaky but determined. "I'm not just letting you leave her here."

"You don't have a choice, Stiles," Peter replied coolly, wiping his bloodied hands and chin with a pristine white handkerchief before stuffing it casually into his pocket. His eyes, cold and unyielding, latched onto Stiles.

"Just kill me," Stiles pleaded, his voice thick with emotion. "I don't care anymore. Just leave Birdie—leave Octavia."

"Stiles—" Octavia started, her protest cutting off as Peter's claws grazed Stiles' chin, tilting his face upward. The silent threat in his touch was more terrifying than words.

Peter's gaze flickered over Stiles with a predatory amusement before abruptly dropping his grip. "Call your friend. Tell Jackson where she is. That's all you get," he commanded, his voice laced with quiet menace.

Stiles swallowed hard, fumbling for his phone with trembling fingers as Peter turned away, an apparent dismissal. Octavia rechecked Lydia's pulse, her own heart hammering in her chest, an eerie sensation pressing at the edges of her mind. Something was wrong—something more profound than just fear. As she stood, brushing damp grass from her knees, the sensation sharpened, an icy prickling against her ribs.

"You're staying with Lydia," Stiles said, trying to force authority into his shaking voice.

"You're out of your damn mind if you think I'm letting you go with him alone," Octavia shot back, stepping into his space, her voice fierce. "He won't hesitate to hurt you, to kill you, Stiles. And I can't—I won't let that happen."

Stiles met her gaze, the weight of their unspoken fears crushing the air between them. "Birdie, I can't let you risk—"

"Don't." She cut him off, using his nickname for the first time in what felt like years. A rare reversal. "Don't make this about protecting me. We protect each other. That's what we do." Her voice softened, but her determination did not waver. "It's what we've always done."

The tension in the Jeep was palpable and oppressive as if the air had thickened into a miasma of silent fury and fear. Peter lounged in the passenger seat, the very picture of nonchalance, his relaxed posture in stark contrast to the tight grips and clenched jaws of his unwilling companions. The dim light from the dashboard cast eerie shadows across his face, highlighting the smirk that seemed permanently etched onto his features.

In the backseat, Octavia sat ramrod straight, her arms crossed so tightly that her nails dug painfully into her palms. Her eyes burned into the back of Peter's head, her gaze sharp enough to carve through steel. Every muscle in her body was coiled, ready to spring into action at the slightest provocation.

Stiles' grip on the steering wheel was vice-like, the whites of his knuckles glaring in the faint glow of the streetlights they passed. His jaw was clenched so tightly that a small vein throbbed perilously at his temple, a visible testament to the rage simmering just below his surface. The car hummed with the low rumble of the engine, a stark backdrop to the high-pitched whine of his barely contained anger.

"Don't feel bad," Peter's voice sliced through the thick silence, his tone dripping with a theatrical nonchalance that was as calculated as it was infuriating. "If she lives, she'll become a werewolf. She'll be incredibly powerful."

"Yeah," Stiles retorted, his voice a venomous hiss that seemed to vibrate through the cramped space of the Jeep. "And once a month, she'll go out of her freaking mind and try to tear us apart. Sounds great."

"If she lives," Octavia added, her voice low and dark, each word laced with bitterness. Her stomach churned with a mixture of fear and fury, the acidic taste of dread filling her mouth.

Peter hummed thoughtfully, feigning consideration. After a pause that stretched too long, he turned slightly, his eyes meeting Octavia's in the rearview mirror. His smirk widened. "Well, actually, considering that she's a woman..." Heavy with implication, he let the words hang before finishing with a taunting flourish, "Twice a month."

The words slithered under her skin like poison.

Stiles' body jerked as if electrocuted, his whole frame turning towards Peter with an expression of incredulous, seething hatred.

"Oh, I see—so you're a sexist and a homicidal maniac. Fantastic. How are you still single?" Octavia retorted, still glaring with lethal intensity, allowing herself a fleeting, dark thought—three seconds where she imagined lunging forward, her hands closing around Peter's throat. The fantasy was visceral, a brief escape into a world where she could make him pay for every twisted word, every heartache he'd caused. But as quickly as the thought came, it passed, leaving her with the cold reality of their situation and the knowledge that any wrong move could be deadly.

The tires of Stiles' Jeep squealed against the coarse concrete, echoing through the cavernous expanse of the dimly lit parking garage as the vehicle skidded to an abrupt halt. The sudden silence that followed was almost deafening, punctuated only by the ticking of the cooling engine. Stiles killed the ignition, the brake lights flickering out, leaving them enveloped in the semi-darkness, the only light filtering down from the sparse overhead lamps.

Peter was the first to exit, his door slamming ricocheting off the concrete walls. He grabbed Stiles by the shirt, jerking him forward slightly as he got out, his movements sharp and deliberate. Octavia followed, her boots thudding quietly on the ground, her senses heightened to every shadow and sound in the eerie, deserted garage.

Peter led them briskly through a row of cars, his tall figure a dark silhouette weaving between them. They stopped at a nondescript dark grey sedan parked in a secluded corner, far from the entrance.

"Whose car is this?" Stiles's voice cracked the heavy silence, a hint of hesitation threading through his words as he eyed the unfamiliar vehicle.

"It belonged to my nurse," Peter replied, his voice unsettlingly calm, as if discussing something as mundane as the weather.

"Belonged?" Octavia echoed, her voice sharp with suspicion, her eyebrows knitting together in a frown. She wrapped her arms around herself, the air in the garage chilling her to the bone.

Peter fished out a set of keys from his jacket pocket, his fingers deft and assured. The metallic jingle of the keys seemed unusually loud in the quiet.

Stiles shot a worried glance at Octavia, his eyes wide with growing alarm. "What happened to your—" His question was cut off abruptly as Peter popped the trunk with a click, revealing the pale, lifeless body of his former nurse. The sight was so shocking, so brutally unexpected, that Stiles stumbled back, a hand clamping over his mouth. "Oh, my God!"

Peter seemed unfazed by their horror. He nonchalantly reached into the trunk, lifting the nurse's arm with a clinical detachment to retrieve a laptop bag. He then tossed the bag into Stiles' chest, who caught it reflexively, his hands shaking.

The trunk slammed shut with a definitive thud, the sound final and ominous. Peter finally turned to face them, his expression unreadable. "I got better," he stated casually as if discussing recovery from a common cold rather than the grim fate of the woman in the trunk.

Stiles and Octavia exchanged a look of sheer incredulity and fear, their stomachs churning. The air felt thick, suffocating, as the reality of the situation sank in. Peter's casual cruelty, the starkness of the act he had just revealed, left them both reeling, a mix of fear and disgust knotting tightly in their chests.

"Good luck getting a signal down here," Stiles quipped, shooting Peter a look as the older werewolf unzipped the laptop bag with calculated ease.

Peter didn't respond with words. Instead, he pulled out a small, sleek black device and tossed it toward Stiles, who caught it clumsily.

"Oh... MiFi," Stiles muttered, turning the device over in his hands. His eyes flickered toward Peter. "And you're a Mac guy? Huh. Is that, like, a universal werewolf thing, or just a personal preference?"

Octavia shot him a glare, the kind that screamed not now, dumbass, but Stiles, as always, remained undeterred. Peter, unsurprisingly, looked even less amused.

"Turn it on." Peter's voice carried an edge of impatience. "Get connected."

"You know, you're really killing the whole werewolf-mystique thing here," Stiles muttered under his breath, but this time, he felt Octavia shift beside him before he even saw her move.

"Stiles, I swear to God," she warned, her voice exasperated.

The weight of her stare finally made him straighten up, though he still let out a dramatic sigh as he flipped the device over, scanning the back for the SSID and WiFi key. Octavia hovered just a little closer, her presence grounding him even though he wouldn't admit it.

He typed in the credentials, and the rhythmic clicking of keys was the only sound in the tense silence.

Then he exhaled sharply. "Look, you still need Scott's username and password, and I'm sorry, but I don't know them." It wasn't the most convincing lie but worth a shot.

Peter's eyes darkened. "You know both of them."

"No, I don't," Stiles shot back, matching Peter's tone with as much defiance as he could muster.

Peter tilted his head slightly, the way a predator does before striking. "Even if I couldn't hear your heartbeat, I'd still be able to tell you're lying."

"Dude, I swear to God—"

A quiet yelp cut him off.

Stiles' heart nearly stopped.

Peter had Octavia against him in a blink, one hand gripping her arm tightly, the other barely grazing her throat's delicate skin with sharp, clawed fingers. A not-so-subtle reminder of what he could do.

The way she stiffened was immediate, her breath hitching, but her eyes remained locked on Peter, filled with silent defiance despite the shudder in her chest.

"I can be very persuasive, Stiles," Peter murmured, his voice silk over steel. "Don't make me persuade you."

"Okay! Okay!" Stiles all but shouted, hands flying up in surrender. "Just—just let her go."

Peter held on a beat longer than necessary before his fingers finally fell away from Octavia's throat. He kept a firm grip on her arm, though, like he was reminding them that he was in control.

Stiles swallowed, his fingers twitching before he forced them to the keyboard. Every click felt like a nail in a coffin.

He hesitated, staring at the screen as if it might offer him another way out. "What happens after you find Derek?" he asked, his voice quieter, strained.

Peter sighed, almost like he was bored. "Don't think, Stiles. Type."

Stiles clenched his jaw. "You're gonna kill people, aren't you?"

Peter gave a lazy shrug. "Only," he said, drawing out the word, "the responsible ones."

Octavia's voice cut in, firm despite the way Peter's grip hadn't loosened. "If he does this—if he helps you—you have to promise to leave Scott out of it."

Peter hummed, tilting his head toward her. "Little witch, do you know why wolves hunt in packs?"

Octavia's lips parted slightly, a flicker of recognition flashing in her eyes. "It allows them to take down larger prey animals that would be difficult for a single wolf to subdue," she answered evenly.

Peter's smile was slow and knowing. "Precisely." His fingers flexed around her arm, not enough to break the skin, but enough to bruise. "I need Derek. And Scott. I need both of them."

Stiles tensed. "He's not gonna help you."

"Oh, he will." Peter's grip tightened just enough for Octavia to hiss in pain. "Because it'll save Allison. And you will because it will save Scott—your best friend, whom you know so well, you even have his username and password."

Stiles inhaled sharply, his fingers tightening into fists before finally pressing against the keys. Defeated.

Peter peered at the screen. "His username is 'Allison'?" He blinked.

Stiles typed again.

"His password is also 'Allison'?"

A tense silence.

"I'm the smart one."

"Still want him in your pack?" Stiles deadpanned, and Octavia had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Even now, Stiles had to push back just a little.

Peter rolled his eyes, unimpressed.

Stiles zeroed in on the screen, tracking Derek's location through Scott's phone. His brows furrowed. "Wait, what the—That's where they're keeping him? At his own house?"

Peter's eyes narrowed slightly before realization dawned. "Not at it. Under it. I know exactly where that is."

And then—

A howl.

Low. Long. Eerie.

The sound cut through Octavia like a knife.

She barely had a second to register it before a sharp, overwhelming pressure crashed through her skull, sending a wave of nausea spiraling through her stomach. It wasn't just sound—it was a presence that wrapped around her ribs and squeezed.

Her breath hitched, and suddenly, the room tilted. Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out everything except the weight of that howl pressing into her bones.

She stumbled in Peter's grip, her head snapping back as a choked gasp left her lips.

Her vision blurred—black and red and something deeper, something ancient pulling at her—and then nothing but darkness.

Stiles lunged forward instinctively. "Birdie!"

Peter barely glanced at her limp form in his grip. Instead, his eyes widened in realization again.

"And I'm not the only one."

Peter tossed the laptop bag into the back seat of his- or what was his nurse's—car. He paused after he closed the backdoor, staring off into the distance at a sound only he could hear and only Octavia could sense. "Give me your keys." He directed Stiles, who held onto Octavia protectively, his arm around her waist.

Stiles looked at him in exasperation, lips parted as he rolled his neck and reached for his keys with a defeated sigh. "Careful." He said as he handed Peter the keys. "She grinds in second."

Peter clenched his fist around the keys, crushing them with his bare hand. He lifted them up by the small metallic keychain that matched Octavia's bracelet. The teens looked confused as Stiles reached for his keys, and Peter opened the driver's side door.

"So you're not gonna kill us?" Stiles asked exactly what Octavia was thinking. Peter paused, closing the car door and slowly inching closer to the two. "Oh, God."

"Don't you understand yet?" Peter asked. "I'm not the bad guy here."

Octavia gaped at him in exasperation. "You kill people and inflicted lifelong trauma on a bunch of high school kids."

"You turn into a giant monster with red eyes and fangs, and you're not the bad guy here?" Stiles added.

Peter studied the pair for a moment before zeroing in on Stiles. "I like you, Stiles." He said, bemused. "Since you've helped me, I'm going to give you something in return. Do you want the bite?"

Octavia's lips parted to protest as Stiles stood beside her, momentarily frozen in shock. "What?"

"Do you want the bite?" Peter repeated. "If it doesn't kill you- and it could- you'll become like us."

"Like you?"

"Yes, a werewolf," Peter said impatiently. "Would you like me to draw you a picture?"

Stiles stood silently, weighing his options, considering how his life could be if he accepted the life-changing bite.

Peter took another step closer, and Stiles's arm tightened slightly around Octavia's waist. "That first night in the woods, I took Scott because I needed a new pack. It could've easily been you. You'd be every bit as powerful as him. No more standing by his side, watching him become stronger and quicker, more popular, watching him get the girl... You'd be equals. Maybe more."

Peter grabbed the arm that wasn't wrapped around Octavia, and it took everything in her not to snap at him. Peter brought the arm close to his face. "Yes or no?"

Stiles's eyes fluttered between his arm and Peter, silently weighing his options. Peter bared his fangs, inching towards Stiles's wrists. Stiles pulled away before Peter's teeth could make contact. Peter slowly turned to Stiles. "I don't wanna be like you."

"Do you know what I heard just then?" Peter's eyes narrowed slightly. "Your heart beating slightly faster over the words 'I don't want.' You may believe that you're telling me the truth, but you are lying to yourself. Goodbye, children."

Octavia burst through the hospital's waiting room doors, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting a sterile, almost too-bright glow over the polished floors and scuffed chairs. The acrid antiseptic scent burned her nose, but she barely registered it. Her heartbeat pounded against her ribs, matching the erratic rhythm of her thoughts.

Behind her, Stiles was barely keeping up—until his momentum was abruptly cut short.

"You know what?" Sheriff Stilinski's voice was a sharp crack in the tension-thick air. He grabbed his son's shoulder, halting him before he could take another step. "It's good that we're in a hospital because I'm gonna kill you."

"I'm—I'm sorry, okay?" Stiles stammered, still panting. "I lost the keys to my Jeep. I had to run all the way here." He jabbed his thumb behind him as if the explanation would lessen the anger simmering in his father's glare.

"Stiles, I don't care!" Noah's voice was frayed at the edges, exhaustion mixing with frustration. His jaw was set, but there was something else behind his eyes—something tight like he was holding onto his anger as a lifeline because the alternative was letting in fear.

Stiles gulped, his father's ire barely registering as his gaze flicked past him toward Octavia. She had drifted toward the window outside Lydia's ICU room, her fingertips hovering just above the glass. Her reflection stared back at her, pale and drawn, but she barely noticed. All she could see was Lydia—motionless, fragile, her vibrant red hair stark against the too-white pillow. Beside her, Mrs. Martin sat in the chair at her bedside, stroking her daughter's hair with a kind of practiced motion as if she could will her back to consciousness.

"Is she gonna be okay?" Stiles' voice cracked slightly as he spoke, and when Octavia turned, she saw how the weight of the night was pressing down on him. He looked drained, his face slick with sweat, his fingers twitching slightly as if his body hadn't caught up to the fact that he'd stopped running.

Noah sighed, rubbing a tired hand over his face before looking back at Lydia. "They don't know," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "Partially because they don't know what happened. She lost a lot of blood, but there's... something else going on with her."

A slow, creeping chill crawled up Octavia's spine. "What do you mean?" Stiles asked, voice strained.

"The doctors say it's like she's having an allergic reaction. Her body keeps going into shock."

Octavia's head snapped up at that, her stomach twisting violently. Her breath hitched, eyes locking with Stiles in silent understanding. This wasn't an allergic reaction.

Stiles inhaled sharply, his fingers curling into fists at his sides as he processed his father's words. "Did you see anything?" Noah pressed, his expression unreadable. "Do you have any idea who or what attacked her?"

Stiles hesitated for a fraction of a second, but Octavia caught it. He wanted to tell the truth. She could see how his mouth opened slightly, and his shoulders tensed like he braced himself for impact.

But then he exhaled slowly. "No," he said, his voice thin, almost hollow. "No, I have no idea."

Noah turned his attention to Octavia, his gaze expectant. She swallowed, her throat dry as she shook her head. "No," she murmured.

His brows furrowed slightly before shifting to a new target. "What about Scott?"

The air in the waiting room shifted—tightened. Stiles stiffened, and Octavia could see the barely perceptible twitch in his fingers, the way his shoulders rose ever so slightly.

"What do you mean?" Stiles asked, his voice too controlled. "What about him?"

"Did he see anything?"

Stiles blinked. "What do you—"

"Is he not here?" Octavia interrupted, looking between them.

Sheriff Stilinski's frown deepened. "What are you talking about? I've been calling him on his cell phone. I've gotten no response."

Silence swallowed the space between them. Stiles and Octavia turned toward Jackson, who stood stiffly by the door. His jaw set in a way that usually meant he had something to say but didn't want to admit it. He gave a slight shrug.

Octavia's stomach churned, her teeth sinking into her cheek as her vision blurred with unspent tears.

"Yeah..." Stiles muttered, barely above a whisper. "You're not gonna get one."

And just like that, the weight in Octavia's chest grew heavier.

Octavia sat stiffly in the waiting room of Beacon Hills Memorial, her fingers anxiously tapping against her thigh in a frantic rhythm she barely registered. The hospital was too loud, yet eerily quiet at the same time—the hum of machines, the distant beeping of monitors, the muffled voices of doctors discussing conditions she didn't understand. It all blurred together, pressing against her skull like a slow-building headache. She felt off. The way her skin prickled and her heart was hammering even though nothing immediate was happening.

Not yet, anyway.

The moment Stiles came barrelling into the waiting room, eyes wide and pulse racing, Octavia didn't even get the chance to ask before he grabbed her by the wrist and practically yanked her out of her chair.

"Hey—what the hell?" she protested, stumbling to keep up as Jackson, for some reason, followed after them.

"Where are you going?" Jackson called as they rushed through the corridor.

"To find Scott," Stiles answered, voice tight, distracted.

"You don't have a car," Jackson pointed out.

Stiles whirled on him, exasperation painted across his sweat-slicked face. "I am aware of that, thank you."

Jackson sighed as if dealing with the two of them was his burden. "Here, I'll drive. Come on—" He reached out, placing a hand on Stiles' shoulder.

Stiles stopped so abruptly that Octavia nearly stumbled into him. In an instant, his expression hardened, his usual nervous energy eclipsed by something raw and unfiltered. He shrugged off Jackson's touch like it burned.

"Look," Stiles snapped, voice tight. "Just because you suddenly feel guilty doesn't make it okay. Half of this is still your fault."

Jackson didn't react—didn't even flinch. Instead, he simply shrugged. "Look, I have a car. You don't."

Octavia huffed, arms crossed. "He's got a point..." The words left her mouth like physical betrayal.

Jackson flashed her a look of triumph like he'd won some kind of war. "See? Even Octavia thinks I'm right."

Octavia rolled her eyes, muttering, "I didn't say all that."

"Do you want my help or not?"

Stiles hesitated, his eyes flickering toward Octavia. There was an unspoken understanding between them—one of those silent conversations without words. She gave him a look that said, Be smart about this, Stiles.

With a grumble, he exhaled sharply. "All right. Did you bring the Porsche?"

Jackson frowned, digging into the pocket of his suit. "Yeah."

"Good." Stiles swiftly snatched the keys from Jackson's hand, turning on his heel before Jackson could react. "I'll drive." Octavia bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at the stunned expression on Jackson's face.

Her amusement died instantly.

A cold prickle crawled up her spine.

She turned her head, and there they were—Chris Argent and two other hunters, their movements casual but deliberate as they stepped into their path. The way they stood, the controlled ease in their postures, told her everything she needed to know. They weren't here for small talk.

"Kids," Argent greeted smoothly, a friendly enough smile resting on his lips. "I was wondering if you could tell me where Scott McCall is."

Octavia inhaled carefully, her mind racing. Her pulse quickened—not out of fear, but because something in the air had shifted, something only she could feel. It was like a static charge, a pressure pushing in at the edges of her consciousness. The kind of pressure that made her head spin when something unnatural was near.

She ignored it, focusing instead on keeping her expression neutral.

"Scott McCall?" she repeated innocently, tilting her head. "Why, I haven't heard that name in years. Stiles?"

"Umm," Stiles hesitated, his voice high-pitched with forced nonchalance. "I haven't seen him since the dance. Jackson, you?"

They both turned expectantly toward Jackson.

Ever the weak link, Jackson gawked at Argent like a deer in headlights. His mouth opened, then closed. Then, it opened again. "Uh, I—"

"Oh, for the love of God," Stiles muttered.

It happened fast.

Before any of them could react, strong hands seized them, shoving them into an empty hospital room. The boys hit the gurney in the center of the room with a grunt while Octavia was thrown forward, her back colliding with Stiles just as he turned to regain his footing. His arms instinctively caught her, steadying her before she could hit the floor.

Her heart was racing.

Not just from the sudden movement.

But from the fact that she could feel the hunters in the hallway, their presence pressing in on her, thick and suffocating. The edges of her vision blurred for a second, her body reacting to something unseen—something primal. She squeezed her eyes against the sensation, forcing herself to push past it.

"Let's try this again," Argent said smoothly, locking the top latch on the door. He turned, his expression friendly, making Octavia's stomach twist. "Where's Scott McCall?"

The grip on Octavia's arm was bruising, the hunter's fingers like a steel vice locking her in place. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she struggled, jerking against the hold, but the man barely flinched. Across from her, Jackson was similarly restrained, his jaw clenched, but his usual cocky defiance was absent.

And then there was Stiles.

Argent had him pinned against the cold hospital wall, his grip twisting the fabric of his dress shirt, pressing hard enough that Octavia knew it had to hurt. The second Stiles' back hit the wall with a dull thud, a grunt escaping his lips, Octavia reacted instinctively—surging forward without thinking.

Only to be yanked back.

Pain shot through her arm as the hunter holding her tightened his grasp, keeping her firmly in place.

"Let me ask you a question, Stiles," Argent said, his voice level too calm for the threat it carried. "Have you ever seen a rabid dog?"

"No," Stiles panted, his breaths coming quick and shallow. "But I could put it on my to-do list if you just let me go."

Octavia would have rolled her eyes if she wasn't currently watching her best friend get pinned against a wall.

Argent didn't react to the sarcasm, his grip unrelenting. "Well, I have. And the only thing I've ever been able to compare it to is seeing a friend turn on a full moon. Do you want to know what happened?"

"Not really," Stiles said, swallowing. "No offense to your storytelling skills."

Stiles barely caught Octavia muttering, "Oh my God."

Argent's eyes darkened his mouth a thin line. "He tried to kill me. And I was forced to put a bullet in his head." With his free hand, he jabbed his index finger against Stiles' forehead, mimicking the fatal shot. "The whole time he lay there, dying, he was still trying to claw his way toward me. Still trying to kill me. Like it was the most important thing, he could do with his last breath. Can you imagine that?"

A sick chill slithered down Octavia's spine, her stomach twisting.

Her fingers clenched into fists as she pulled against the hunter's grip again, this time more forcefully. "He's sixteen," she snapped, glaring at Argent. "Scott isn't some rabid animal."

Argent ignored her, keeping his attention trained on Stiles.

"No," Stiles answered, his voice quieter now. "And honestly? It sounds like you guys need to be a little more select—"

The words barely left his mouth before Argent slammed his hands against the wall on either side of Stiles' head, effectively caging him in.

Octavia flinched, her body tensing.

Her heartbeat roared in her ears, an odd static humming beneath it, something pulling at her senses, something wrong—

"Did Scott try to kill you on the full moon?" Argent demanded, his voice sharp now, cutting through the air like a knife pressing against a throat. "Did you have to lock him up?"

"Yeah, I did," Stiles shot back, his voice cracking slightly but defiant. "I had to handcuff him to a radiator. Why? Would you prefer I locked him in the basement and burned the whole house down around him?"

Argent exhaled a short laugh—cold and detached as if Stiles' words didn't even register as an insult. He clasped a hand on his shoulder, fingers pressing down in what was almost mocking reassurance.

Octavia hated it.

She hated how Argent toyed with Stiles, how he made him feel small even though she knew that Stiles—even winded and terrified—was standing his ground the best he knew how.

She wanted to do something.

"I hate to dispel a popular rumor, Stiles, but we never did that."

Stiles scoffed, shaking his head slightly. "Oh, right. Derek said you guys had a Code. I guess no one ever breaks it."

"Never," Argent confirmed smoothly.

"What if someone does?" Stiles pressed, eyes narrowing.

Argent tilted his head slightly. "Someone like who?"

Stiles barely hesitated.

"Your sister."

The air in the room shifted.

Argent's easy demeanor faltered, his jaw tightening just enough for Octavia to notice.

The pressure around her chest grew tighter, and the sensation—whatever had been buzzing faintly at the edges of her mind—intensified.

She could feel it.

Not just the thick weight of tension in the room but something beneath it. Raw. Vibrant. Flickering at the edge of her senses.

Octavia wasn't just feeling her emotions for a brief, terrifying moment.

She was feeling his.

Argent's.

Smashing through the window of the Hale house, Scott tumbled backward across the cold, damp grass. He hit the ground hard, a groan escaping him as his lungs fought for air. The taste of blood lingered in his mouth. His muscles screamed as he tried to push himself up, but his limbs were sluggish, trembling under the weight of exhaustion and pain. His ears rang, but he could still hear the crunch of glass and the low, menacing growl from above through the haze.

Peter Hale emerged through the shattered window, his monstrous form a nightmare against the night sky. His glowing red eyes locked onto Scott like a predator sizing up wounded prey. In a blur, Peter closed the distance, his clawed hand gripping Scott's jacket and hauling him into the air as though he weighed nothing. Scott's hot, rancid breath hitched as Peter fanned his face.

Peter growled, voice guttural, primal. Scott barely had time to think before he forced his knee up, catching Peter in the chest with all his strength. The Alpha stumbled back just enough for Scott to slip from his grasp, collapsing onto his hands and knees in the dirt.

The distant rumble of an engine cut through the night, headlights illuminating the chaos like an omen. A blaring honk followed, breaking the eerie silence. Tires skidded, and then the Jeep screeched to a halt. The doors slammed open.

Stiles, Octavia, and Jackson spilled out, urgency crackling between them. Stiles darted forward, his grip tight around the Molotov cocktail he had prepared with shaking hands. Without hesitation, he hurled it with everything he had. The glass container spun in the air, its liquid sloshing violently before Peter snatched it mid-flight with reflexes too fast to track.

The Alpha frowned, glancing down at the bottle in his palm.

"Oh, damn," Stiles muttered, his confidence instantly crumbling. He took an instinctive step back, regret flashing across his face.

Scott's gaze darted wildly until he spotted the compound bow lying in the dead leaves. "Allison!" he shouted, his voice raw. Without thinking, he flung it toward her. She caught it with practiced ease, an arrow already nocked as she drew back the string.

The second Peter moved to throw the cocktail, she released. The arrow struck true, shattering the glass. Fire erupted, engulfing Peter's arm in an instant. A snarl of agony tore from his throat.

Octavia's pulse pounded against her skull as she turned sharply to Jackson, who stood frozen, his fingers clenching around the second Molotov. The flames danced wildly in Peter's furious gaze, but Jackson was locked in place, stunned.

"Throw it!" Octavia barked, her voice snapping like a whip.

Jackson startled and obeyed, launching the second cocktail toward Peter. The fire spread hungrily, consuming the Alpha. Scott forced himself upright, ignoring every protest from his body, and lunged forward. He delivered a final, crushing kick to Peter's chest, sending him sprawling as the flames licked hungrily at his body. The heat blurred the air, smoke twisting in the wind.

Octavia exhaled a shaky breath, leaning back against Jackson's Porsche. Her fingers pressed against her temple as the tension drained from her shoulders. She half-expected Jackson to grumble about smudging the paint, but for once, he stayed silent.

Stiles came to stand beside her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body cutting through the night chill. They both exhaled simultaneously, their sighs intertwining in the air.

She felt it then.

The sharp pull in her chest, like something shifting beneath her ribs, was like the universe had just shifted slightly off-center. She squeezed her eyes shut, inhaling deeply and pushing it down. It wasn't the first time she'd felt something strange before things went sideways, and it wouldn't be the last.

Across the clearing, Scott and Allison found each other in the chaos. The moment stretched between them, fragile yet unbreakable. Octavia watched as Allison reached for him, her fingers brushing his, grounding him in ways no one else could. The connection between them was tangible, something Octavia could almost feel buzzing at the edges of her perception.

The movement drew her attention.

Derek was approaching the smoldering remains of his uncle, his expression carved from stone. Peter lay gasping in the dirt, skin charred and peeling but still alive—barely.

Scott scrambled to his feet, urgency snapping through his exhausted body. "Wait!" he called out. "You said the cure comes from the one who bit you. Derek, if you do this, I'm dead. Her father, her family... What am I supposed to do?"

Derek didn't answer. His eyes flickered, hesitation creeping in.

Octavia's breath hitched. Her heart clenched, a heavy weight settling over her.

She knew.

A sick, twisting certainty coiled in her stomach before Peter even spoke.

"You've... already... decided..." Peter rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper. His head tilted toward Derek, a grotesque grin forming despite his ruined flesh. "I can smell it on you."

Derek closed his eyes for half a second. When he opened them, his decision was made.

His claws slashed downward, swift and final. Peter barely had time to choke out his last breath before his glowing red eyes dimmed, fading into a haunting blue. The silence that followed was deafening.

Then Derek straightened. His posture shifted, his presence thickening as power surged through him, replacing the void Peter left behind. He turned his gaze toward Scott, and his eyes burned crimson in the moon's glow.

"I'm the Alpha now."

Octavia's stomach churned. An icy shiver crept down her spine.

"Oh, God," she muttered, the words barely more than a breath.

Stiles shifted beside her, but for once, he didn't have a quip or a joke. He just stood there, his hand brushing against hers. Neither of them moved away.

┗━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━┛

END OF SEASON ONE LETS GOOOO!

Kate Argent hater until the day I die tbh

when i was writing this chapter i was also thinking about all of these things that will be/are canon in my mind but idk if they'll ever make it to this story/ where it would fall in with the major plotlines and that's devastating but i'm gonna try to find a way to squeeze certain things in bc they're too good (i'm biased)

𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚟𝚘𝚝𝚎