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Okay, maybe ice skating at the beginning of March—when the air still bit like it had something to prove and the only extra layer she'd worn was the slightly oversized sweatshirt she'd "borrowed" from Stiles—wasn't her brightest idea. Octavia McCall admitted that she sat propped up in bed, clutching a half-empty mug of cold tea with trembling hands. She swallowed a spoonful of cherry-flavored cold medicine and made a face like she'd just licked the inside of a battery.

The sweatshirt was now hanging off her shoulder, rumpled and warm from feverish skin. It still smelled like the Jeep—eucalyptus mints and too much drugstore cologne—which somehow made her feel worse.

She'd woken up Saturday morning groggy and sore, blaming it on the aftermath of skating until midnight and falling twice in front of Stiles, once into him. Her excuse had unraveled by evening when her throat felt like it had been sandpapered raw, and her sinuses declared war. By Sunday afternoon, she was a mess—congested, achy, mildly feverish, and bitterly regretting every time she'd taken breathing through both nostrils for granted.

Melissa and Scott were working—because they were—when her bedroom window creaked open without warning. A second later, something—or rather someone—landed with a graceless thud on her hardwood floor.

"If you're here to kill me," Octavia rasped without even opening her eyes, "it's too late. My immune system's already got dibs."

There was a pause, followed by a familiar voice. "Okay, first of all, not here to kill you."

She cracked one eye open.

"Not this time, anyway," Stiles added, brushing dust off his jeans with mock elegance.

She groaned and buried her face deeper into her pillow. "God, even your voice hurts."

"Wow. Hurtful," he said, wandering further into the room like he hadn't just broken and entered. "Also—slightly dramatic. You just have a cold, not the bubonic plague."

"Same difference."

"I promise you, it is not."

She finally rolled onto her back with the reluctant grace of the undead. Her hair was a chaotic mess atop her head, a few strands stuck to her cheek with static, and her nose had turned a tragic shade of pink. She blinked at him through glassy, half-lidded eyes.

"Why are you here?" she croaked, words thick with congestion.

Stiles didn't answer right away. Instead, he crossed the room in two strides and perched on the edge of her bed, reaching out to touch her forehead with the back of his hand. His brows furrowed, warm brown eyes scanning her face like he could will the fever away.

"Have you eaten?" he asked softly, pulling his hand back.

She shook her head, slow and miserable. "It hurts to swallow."

He gave her the faintest smile, one of those quiet, crooked ones he didn't let anyone see. "Are you hungry?"

"I don't know," she whispered.

"How about some soup?"

She blinked at him again like it was the most baffling thing anyone had ever offered her. "Why are you so nice?"

"That's the Dextromethorphan talking," he replied, but his voice was gentler than the joke deserved.

Octavia squinted at him. "You... brought soup?"

"I brought good soup," he said matter-of-factly. "From that place by the library, you pretend you don't like, but I've seen you dip grilled cheese into their tomato bisque like it's a religious experience."

She didn't respond—just blinked at him, too tired to argue. He unscrewed the thermos lid and poured some into a mug he must have also brought, the scent of warm broth curling through the air.

Stiles set it carefully on her nightstand, then sat on the floor beside her bed like he'd done it a thousand times before.

And maybe he had.

But Octavia didn't think about that, how often he'd shown up without asking, or how instinctively he knew what she needed without her saying a word.

She just sipped her soup and let the silence settle, missing the way Stiles watched her—quiet, careful, and hopelessly in love.

Octavia balanced the mug between both hands, the blanket still tucked under her chin, and slouched deeper into her pillows.

"You look like a Victorian orphan," Stiles commented, stretching out his legs in front of him as he sat cross-legged on the floor. He didn't look up from the open bag beside him—where she now noticed he'd also brought tissues, cough drops, a fresh bottle of NyQuil, and, for some reason, a tiny stuffed dinosaur she vaguely remembered winning at the county fair two summers ago.

Octavia raised a brow at the triceratops. "Really?"

"He's a healing talisman," Stiles said solemnly. "Name's Bartholomew. He's very wise."

She snorted—then winced, immediately regretting it as the movement triggered a sharp pain in her throat. "Ugh. Don't make me laugh."

"No promises." He handed her the tissues, then leaned his head back against her nightstand. "I mean, I risked life and limb sneaking in through your window."

"You could've used the front door."

"Where's the fun in that?" He gave her a faux-scandalized look. "Front door? Hard pass."

Octavia hummed, eyes half-lidded again. The heat from the soup, the hum of her space heater, the presence of Stiles sitting quietly beside her—all turning her body to syrup. She blinked slowly.

"You know," she murmured, voice sleep-heavy, "you didn't have to come."

"I know."

"You always come."

"I know," he said again, quieter.

There was a pause, a shift in the air like something was supposed to follow but didn't.

Octavia exhaled, the mug now resting gently on her blanket-covered stomach. Her eyes fluttered closed. "You're warm for someone who doesn't like people touching him."

"I'm not touching you."

"You're emotionally touching me," she mumbled.

Stiles laughed under his breath, low and breathy. "Okay, that one's definitely the cold meds talking."

But she didn't answer.

Her breathing had evened out, her lashes still, her fingers lax around the mug. Stiles stood carefully, easing the soup from her hands and setting it back on the nightstand. He tucked the blanket around her shoulder—because she'd half-kicked it off—and then sat back on the floor, leaning his head against the edge of her bed.

For a while, he just sat there. Watched her sleep. Let himself exist in the quiet, in the safety of being the one she trusted enough to let see her like this.

Eventually, the sound of the front door opening echoed down the hall.

Melissa McCall's footsteps were light but purposeful, making nurses natural-born ninjas in their homes. She paused in the doorway of Octavia's room, raising an eyebrow at the scene: her sick daughter out cold in bed, Stiles Stilinski camped out on the floor with a blanket over his legs, a soup thermos on the nightstand, and a stuffed dinosaur perched loyally on the pillow beside her.

"I'm not bothering her," he whispered, surrendering his hands. "She was already asleep. I'm just—sitting."

Melissa took it all in. The worry in his eyes. He looked at Octavia like she was the entire constellation system wrapped in a blanket. She didn't say anything momentarily—just nodded once, lips twitching upward.

"I'll be downstairs," she said, voice low but amused. "Try not to bother her too much."

"No promises," Stiles whispered back.

And then it was quiet again.

The soft rattle of Octavia's breathing, the hum of the heater, and the steady, quiet presence of the boy who never let her fall—even when she didn't realize she was slipping.

It seemed like Octavia had missed a lot for one day off school.

Scott's vaguely worded text messages had only hinted at the chaos—a less-than-pleasant conversation with Erica in the hallway, Boyd somehow becoming the next unfortunate teenager on Derek Hale's supernatural recruitment list, Stiles getting knocked out (by his own car starter, apparently), and Scott squaring off with two betas and Derek like it was just another Monday.

She'd undoubtedly picked a hell of a day to get sick.

Even with the worst of her fever gone, her body still ached with the phantom weight of it, her throat raw, her voice a smoky rasp that made her sound cooler than she felt. She spent most of Monday in bed, surrounded by tissues, half-drunk mugs of tea, and the comforting laugh track of Friends reruns.

Still, something about not being in the thick of it with Scott and Stiles made her feel... displaced. Like the world had kept spinning without her. She hated that feeling.

Her room was quiet and dim, with the soft gray light of late afternoon filtering through the curtains. She'd just finished re-watching the one where Joey gets a turkey stuck on his head when the air in the room shifted—soft, like a pressure drop before a storm.

Then came the knock.

Three gentle raps, and then the door creaked open before she could answer.

"Mars?" she asked, her voice more breath than sound.

The May sibling stepped inside, arms full. A vaguely green and glowing mason jar was tucked into the crook of his elbow, and in his other hand was a bundle of herbs tied with a silk ribbon—lavender, rosemary, maybe something more arcane she couldn't name.

"You're not dead," he said, closing the door with his foot.

"Barely." She coughed once, then blinked up at him. "Is that... tea or a potion?"

He smirked, dropping onto the edge of her bed like he belonged there. "Bit of both."

She eyed the jar. "Please tell me it doesn't taste like feet."

"I can't guarantee it," he replied, but his tone was gentle and familiar. He handed it over. The glass was warm in her hands, pulsing faintly—not hot but alive in a way that made her stomach flip.

Octavia sniffed it. "Smells like... eucalyptus and regret."

Mars huffed a laugh. "It'll help. Just sip it."

She took a tentative sip. It was earthy and sharp but not entirely unpleasant. Her sinuses tingled, then cleared slightly, and a strange warmth unfurled in her chest like a pocket of the sun beneath her ribs.

"Okay. That's... weirdly good." Her voice was more unmistakable already.

"I know." He started arranging the herbs on her nightstand, placing a few beneath her pillow without asking. "My mom taught me a long time ago. She said it always helped calm her fevers."

Octavia studied him. "You could've just texted me 'feel better' like a normal person."

"You're not a normal person," Mars said simply. "And neither am I."

There was no teasing in his voice, no smugness. Just a quiet truth.

She sank further into her blankets, letting the potion work through her system. "Is this your thing, then? Healing?"

Mars nodded, still focused on his careful work. "Apparently. Everyone gets something different. Clementine's always been good at seeing people—what they're hiding and don't say aloud. Fox... well. Fox is Fox."

"And you?"

"I make people feel better." He shrugged. "Physically. Sometimes emotionally. Usually by accident."

"Thanks," she said softly. "For doing it on purpose this time."

Mars met her eyes, and something was unspoken between them for a moment—not romantic or exceptionally sentimental, just shared understanding. They both knew what it meant to hold weight in their hands and chose not to let it show.

He stood up with a stretch. "Get some sleep. That stuff should knock out the rest of the fever. If not, I'll try the spicier version."

"Does it smell like battery acid and abandonment?"

"Exactly." He smirked, heading toward the door. "Night, McCall."

"Night, May."

As the door clicked shut behind him, Octavia closed her eyes, the glow of the potion still warming her chest. For the first time in two days, her body didn't ache as much, her throat hurt less, and her thoughts didn't feel so heavy.

And though she'd missed the chaos, it was nice—just for a moment—to feel cared for in the quiet.

That night, the potion worked its literal magic.

Octavia drifted off to sleep mid-episode of Friends, her laptop still glowing faintly beside her, the muffled sound of the audience laugh track trailing into static. Her fever had mostly broken, and the ache in her limbs dulled to hum, but as the blankets tangled around her legs and her head fell to the side, something shifted.

It started with silence.

Not comforting silence—but the kind that hums, that buzzes at the edges like something is watching, waiting. The kind that doesn't feel empty but expectant.

She stood barefoot in the middle of the school hallway, only... it wasn't the real one. It was almost the school. The lockers were taller. The paint was older, peeling in places that never peeled. And the lights overhead flickered, one by one, like slow, deliberate blinks.

Her sweatshirt hung loose around her shoulders, and her breath clouded before her face though no wind stirred. The temperature kept dropping unnaturally and sharply.

A low scraping sound echoed behind her—metal against the tile.

She turned.

Nothing.

"Hello?" Her voice was weak in the silence like the air swallowed sound before it could fully form.

Then she felt it.

A presence.

Wrong. Crawling. Feral.

She started to back away, barefoot on the cold tile, eyes flicking to the classroom doors—locked. Every one of them. No exit.

That's when she saw it.

Something hunched and twitched at the far end of the hallway. The lights above it flickered violently, strobing in a rhythmic pulse. Its body was misshapen and elongated. Claws scraped the floor as it dragged itself forward—not limping, not struggling.

Choosing.

It moved in a crouch, impossibly fast—then stopped.

Her feet wouldn't move. Not forward. Not back.

Her body refused her commands.

It stepped into the light.

A creature. Reptilian and humanoid, twisted and contorted as if evolution had turned on itself halfway through. Its skin glistened like ink. Its golden, slitted eyes fixed on her—no malice, no anger.

Recognition.

And suddenly, it lunged.

She tried to scream, to run, anything—but her body collapsed like her bones had turned to water. Her legs gave out. She hit the floor hard, the impact jarring but numbed.

Her fingers twitched.

Her mouth opened, but no sound came.

She couldn't move. At all.

Paralyzed.

The creature crouched beside her now, head tilting almost curiously like it was trying to figure out what she was. A thin line of saliva dripped from its jaw to the floor beside her cheek. Its claws traced the floor inches from her hand.

And then—

A voice. Familiar but distorted. Echoing like it was underwater.

"She sees too much."

The creature's face twitched. Not at her—but with her. Like something inside, it knew her.

She tried to blink and do something—but her limbs were still useless. All she could do was watch as the creature leaned closer, impossibly slow.

"She'll know you soon enough."

Its breath was hot against her skin.

And then—

She woke up.

Gasping.

Her room was dark again and quiet except for the low hum of the fan and Melissa's distant murmur on the phone downstairs. Her body was drenched in sweat, and her fingers were trembling.

She could move.

But it took a full minute before she could make herself sit up.

Outside her window, the wind shifted, brushing tree branches against the glass like claws.

Octavia didn't sleep the rest of the night.

Octavia descended the stairs, sunlight filtering through the high windows to cast warm, fragmented patterns across the bustling hallway. She felt strangely light today; whatever mysterious concoction Mars had brewed for her had banished her lingering cold ruthlessly. Despite the unsettling dreams, she'd awoken refreshed, feeling more herself than she had in weeks.

She was halfway down the staircase, eyes scanning idly for Lydia or Allison, when a familiar voice drifted upward, breaking through her musings. Octavia paused, curiosity piqued.

"I'm so sorry about the other day," Stiles said earnestly, voice low and intense. "I'm trying. We'll get through this. Uh, I know, because I love you. I love you more than—"

"What the hell are you two doing?" Octavia interrupted, her voice echoing clearly down the stairwell. Amusement danced in her eyes as she saw Scott's face settle into a lovestruck smile.

Stiles jerked upright, emitting an awkward sound somewhere between relief and frustration. His cheeks flushed slightly, and he shot Octavia a thankful glance masked by feigned annoyance. "Oh, my God, I can't. You and Allison just have to find a better way to communicate."

"Ohhh," Octavia drew out, realization dawning on her face as she descended the last few steps. She settled onto the step above the boys, resting her elbows on her knees and watching the interplay with a raised eyebrow.

"Come on," Scott pleaded, leaning forward earnestly. "You're the only one we can trust."

"Thanks for that," she replied dryly, a sarcastic smirk on her lips. Internally, she was grateful they weren't using her as their personal go-between this time.

"Is she coming to the game tonight?" Scott pressed anxiously.

"Yes, okay? Message complete," Stiles replied sharply, irritation evident as he glanced nervously around the crowded hallway. He leaned closer, voice dropping conspiratorially, "All right, now, tell us about your boss."

Octavia's brows knitted in confusion, a shadow crossing her eyes. "What about Deaton?"

"You were asleep by the time I got home last night," Scott whispered, glancing around furtively before continuing. "He thinks that Allison's family keeps some kind of, uh, records of all the things they've hunted, like a book..."

Recognition flashed across Stiles' face, eyes lighting up as he clapped his hands together. "He probably means a bestiary."

"A what?" Scott blinked in confusion.

"A bestiary," Stiles repeated patiently.

A slow grin spread across Scott's face, his laugh bubbling up inappropriately. Octavia sighed, recognizing that gleam instantly. "I think you mean bestiality," Scott snorted.

"I promise you, he doesn't," Octavia said flatly, rolling her eyes.

"Nope, pretty sure I don't," Stiles emphasized quietly. "It's like an encyclopedia of mythical creatures."

Scott groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "How am I the only one who doesn't know anything about this stuff?"

"Probably because the last time I saw you willingly pick up a book, it was The Very Hungry Caterpillar," Octavia quipped, exchanging an amused glance with Stiles, who nodded vigorously in agreement.

"That," Stiles agreed. "Plus, you're my best friend; you're a creature of the night... It's kind of, like, a priority of mine."

Octavia tilted her head, eyes softening genuinely for a moment. "That's actually really sweet," she said warmly.

Scott interrupted hastily, "Okay, if we find this thing, and it can tell us what this creature is—"

"And who," Stiles added pointedly.

Octavia straightened, tension pulling at her shoulders. "Wait—what thing?" she questioned sharply, confusion evident. "What happened after you woke up in that dumpster, exactly?"

Stiles let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair as he leaned forward dramatically. "Okay, so I go to Armor Tire, right? Tucker—gross guy, smells like motor oil and too much axe body spray—tells me the Jeep needs, like, fifteen hundred dollars' worth of repairs, and I'm like, 'Are you trying to extort me?' So I storm out, right? Full tantrum. Classic me. And then—bam—slime. On the door. Weird, gross slime. I touch it, and suddenly, I can't move my hand. Like, just... flop. Noodle fingers."

"Long story short?" Octavia prompted.

"Oh. Uh—monster. Kills Tucker. Venom. Paralyzes me. Jeep crushes him. Lizard demon screams in my face. Disappears. Nightmares. Jeepless."

"Huh," Octavia murmured, voice faint, gaze distant as she absorbed his rapid-fire explanation.

"Huh?" Stiles repeated incredulously, leaning forward slightly, a note of disbelief coloring his tone. "I just told you something traumatizing, and all you say is 'huh'?"

"Did you say 'lizard demon'?" Octavia asked, her voice quiet but steady, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

"Yeah?" Stiles replied slowly.

"But it was also... human, right? Like it could be a shapeshifter?"

Scott's eyes widened, exchanging a startled look with Stiles. "Did you see it?"

Octavia hesitated, glancing away uneasily. "I think so."

"What do you mean 'you think so'?" Stiles pressed urgently, voice dropping to a whisper, anxiety flickering behind his amber eyes. "Like—you had a vision?"

"A dream," Octavia corrected softly. Her fingers fidgeted with her sleeve, eyes locked on some distant point over their heads. "It paralyzed me, just like you described. And it... looked at me. I couldn't move, and I felt like it knew me."

"Knew you how?" Scott asked nervously, his voice hushed.

She hesitated, searching for words. "I don't know. Just—familiar. Not the creature exactly, but underneath. Like there was something human beneath the monster."

"Cool. Cool, cool, cool," Stiles murmured quietly, his voice trailing off nervously as the three exchanged a shared, charged glance.

A moment passed, heavy and filled with unspoken questions, before they spoke in unison, resolve steeling their expressions:

"We need to find that book."

Octavia had spent the rest of the school day watching amusedly as Stiles ran ragged across the campus, ferrying clandestine messages between Scott and Allison. With Allison's mother monitoring her phone usage obsessively and her "charming" grandfather mysteriously appointed principal, Stiles' role as messenger pigeon was solidified.

She'd offered repeatedly to share some of the load. Still, Stiles stubbornly insisted he had everything under control—an insistence promptly undermined by a wheezing puff from Scott's long-forgotten inhaler.

By the time the sun sank below the bleachers, painting the sky in fading streaks of lavender and indigo, the chill had begun to seep through Octavia's thin sweater, goosebumps trailing her arms. She hugged herself, leaning closer to Clementine, who seemed unusually quiet.

"So," Clementine began, tugging gently at the sleeves of her oversized jacket, her voice careful and distant, "you and Stiles are just going to sneak into the principal's office for some supernatural codex while the game's in full swing?" Her tone was calm, but Octavia caught its sharp edge like a cold spoon pressed to the back of your neck. It wasn't judgment, exactly. But it wasn't not.

"Yep," Octavia answered brightly, rocking on her heels. "Perfect cover. Everyone's distracted."

Clementine's brow ticked. "Why doesn't Stiles just do it alone?"

Octavia blinked, then shrugged. "We're better as a team." She said it like it was obvious—like saying the sky was blue or that Jackson Whittemore was the absolute worst. No hesitation. No second thoughts.

Clementine didn't respond right away. She tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly, lips pressed together like chewing on a thought. Octavia didn't notice. She was too busy watching a cheerleader try—and fail—to stick a landing near the concession stand.

"Can I come?"

Both girls turned to find Mars bouncing in place behind them, practically vibrating with excitement or nerves—maybe both.

"Don't you have a game to play?" Clementine asked, not bothering to mask the unimpressed edge in her voice.

Mars shrugged, jerking his chin toward the field. "That's Eddie Abramovitz. Stiles says he's basically a fridge with legs. If he tackles me, I die. And honestly? I'm kinda attached to this whole living thing. Plus, it's not like I'm some star athlete. Coach can't even remember my name."

Octavia grinned. "Valid. And let's be real, Coach doesn't know anyone's name. He calls me 'Girl McCall' because 'Octavia' apparently has too many syllables."

"He thinks my name is 'Morris,'" Mars deadpanned. "So, if the options are death-by-lacrosse or supernatural hijinks with mild trespassing? I choose door number two."

Octavia turned to Clementine, her voice softer now. "What about you?"

Clementine opened her mouth, but another voice beat her to it.

"She can't."

All three turned as Fox May emerged from the shadow of the bleachers, hands in his coat pockets, expression unreadable under the brim of his hood. His tone was dry, almost bored—but a flicker of protectiveness was beneath it.

"If I have to suffer through this ridiculous show of testosterone," he added, nodding toward the field, "the least one of my siblings can do is fulfill their contractual sibling obligation and stay in range."

Clementine gave him a sharp look. It wasn't quite a glare, but there was definitely a shut-up layered in there. Fox's mouth twitched like he almost smirked—but he didn't.

Clementine rolled her eyes but stayed quiet. Her gaze flicked to Octavia again—lingering a moment too long on the way. Octavia's smile tugged crookedly when she talked about sneaking around with Stiles. Her jaw was tight, and she didn't speak aloud. Instead, she shoved her hands deeper into her coat pockets and said, "Whatever. Just... try not to get caught."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Octavia quipped.

"I meant Stiles," Clementine muttered; quiet enough, Octavia almost missed it.

Almost.

But she grinned again, clueless as ever, as Mars bounced in place like he'd just chugged three Red Bulls.

"So," he said, "what's the plan? Do we go Mission: Impossible style or full Ocean's Eleven?"

"Somehow," Fox said dryly, "I think you'll end up more Scooby-Doo."

The crowd roared as Beacon Hills scored again, the floodlights casting long, flickering shadows beneath the bleachers. Octavia crouched beside Mars, heart thudding in sync with the distant chant of the student section. The metallic tang of sweat and kettle corn lingered in the air, undercut by the faint hum of the marching band. The game was a perfect distraction—loud, chaotic, and predictable.

Allison sat on the bleachers a few rows above, her posture practiced and calm, the picture of perfect granddaughter devotion. Beside her, Gerard Argent kept his narrowed eyes on the field, unaware that his coat was no longer just keeping his bones warm. Octavia watched as Allison, smooth as ever, slid her hand into the pocket and palmed the keys. Her fingers closed around them like a magician completing a trick, and she held them out casually.

Stiles, walking past as if he wasn't very much the getaway driver in this heist, reached out and grabbed the keys mid-stride with the subtlety of a seasoned shoplifter. Octavia almost laughed. Almost.

Instead, she ducked lower, yanking Mars down beside her before they broke into a jog toward the parking lot, weaving between rows of empty cars and the hulking shadow of the visiting team's bus. Their breath clouded in the cool night air, and their sneakers scuffed against the gravel as they reached the faculty section.

They stopped beside a familiar car—a dark blue Prius—just as Lydia Martin's profile came into view behind the wheel. Her shoulders shook. Tears streaked the makeup that had once been painstakingly perfect. The sight of her sobbing alone in the car felt like an invasion of something sacred.

Octavia opened her mouth to go over the plan again, but Stiles's hand wrapped around her wrist before she could speak. A pulse of warmth shot up her arm before he gently tugged her back, nudging Mars forward in her place.

She blinked, caught off guard.

Then, slowly, a flicker of approval crossed her face. Not for the contact—because that didn't mean anything, obviously—but for how Stiles stepped up wordlessly. She met his gaze, gave him a subtle nod, and let Mars take point.

As they passed Lydia's window, they heard, "I think you look beautiful when you cry. Like... ethereal."

Octavia snorted softly and shot Stiles an openly supportive grin, making his stomach flip.

He rolled his eyes, too quickly. "Whatever," he muttered. "I think you look beautiful when you cry, too, for the record."

The words left him faster than his brain could filter them. A clumsy defense mechanism with too much honesty behind it.

Octavia didn't even flinch. "That's good to know," she said breezily, a teasing smile on her lips, eyes still forward. Another round of cheers erupted from the field behind them, muffled by distance. She glanced sideways at him, completely unaware of the chaos she left in her wake, and picked up the pace.

Stiles followed, swallowing whatever mess of feelings had just tried to crawl up his throat.

They reached the school undetected and slipped inside like shadows. The fluorescent hallway lights buzzed overhead, but the principal's office was a cavern of near-darkness. Only the glow of the parking lot lamps filtered through the blinds, casting bars of light across the floor like prison bars.

Stiles went straight for the desk drawers, yanking each one open with increasing frustration. Octavia moved toward the bookshelf, fingers trailing over the spines of thick volumes that reeked of tobacco and old secrets. Her nose wrinkled.

"Nothing... here..." Stiles murmured, thumbing through a drawer lined with dusty files. He pulled out his phone, texting Allison with quick fingers, before shoving it back in his tracksuit pocket.

That was when the door creaked open behind them.

The air seemed to drop ten degrees.

Erica Reyes stood in the doorway, bathed in the harsh glow of the hallway.

Her smirk curled like smoke. "Hello, Stiles."

Her voice dripped with a sweetness Octavia instinctively didn't trust.

Erica's eyes flicked over to her, lingering. "Octavia."

The way she said her name made Octavia straighten slightly, the muscles in her shoulders tensing like a taut wire.

Octavia raised a brow. "Nice to see you, too," she said, voice cool and dry.

She didn't miss how Erica's gaze returned to Stiles—like he was something delicious and stupid.

She definitely didn't like that.

Erica's nails bit into their ears as she marched them through the dim corridor, her grip far from gentle. Stiles let out a string of half-suppressed "ow, ow, ow" s, and Octavia had to physically bite her tongue to avoid snapping at the blonde that they weren't exactly in a position to bolt.

The smell of chlorine hit them before they even reached the doors to the indoor pool—acrid and sharp, mixing unpleasantly with the metallic scent of blood still clinging to Derek somewhere nearby. The pool was mostly dark, the only real light bleeding in from the windows above, casting fractured reflections across the water.

Derek Hale stood at the far end, a basketball in one hand, his claws gleaming in the other. The orange rubber ball looked absurd in his grip—something meant for pick-up games and gym class, not intimidation. But somehow, in his hands, it worked.

"Stiles," he greeted dryly like it physically pained him to say the name.

His gaze slid to Octavia. "Octavia."

"Why am I always last?" she muttered under her breath, and Stiles exasperatedly offered, "Derek."

Derek ignored them. "What did you see at the mechanic's garage?"

Octavia crossed her arms. "I'm too pretty to ever step foot in a mechanic's garage," she declared, raising a fist. "Fight the patriarchy until I'm forced to do manual labor."

Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose as if it hurt him to hear her speak. "Please," his expression seemed to beg, "for once, don't antagonize the werewolf."

"Uh, several alarming EPA violations that I'm seriously considering reporting," Stiles answered instead, deadpan.

The corner of Erica's mouth twitched. Derek, however, wasn't in the mood. He turned and drove his claws into the basketball with a sharp hiss of air.

"Holy God!" Stiles yelped, stumbling back.

"Let's try that again," Derek said, letting the deflated ball drop to the ground.

Octavia raised her hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay. We get it. Talk, or it's our heads on the metaphorical platter."

"All right, the thing was pretty slick looking," Stiles said quickly. "Um, skin was dark, kind of patterned. Uh, I think I actually saw scales."

"You did," Octavia murmured, a flash of the dream from the night before hitting her like cold water. Her fingers twitched at her side.

Stiles glanced at her. Just for a second. Her hand—resting at her side—twitched, fingers curling in, then out again like she was grounding herself. He almost said something, nearly reached—

But she didn't notice him looking. She was already staring upward, eyes fixed and unblinking.

"Perfect," Stiles muttered. "Is that enough? Because we have something we really need to do."

Derek didn't respond. He just gave them a look—piercing, unreadable, but very much a no.

Stiles groaned. "All right, fine. Eyes... Eyes are, um, yellowish, and slitted. Um, has a lot of teeth... Oh, and it's got a tail, too!"

Derek and Erica weren't looking at him anymore.

Their eyes had shifted upward.

Stiles noticed. "What?" he snapped. "Wait, have you seen it? You have this look on your faces like you know exactly what I am talking about-"

The hiss cut through the air like a blade.

Octavia's breath caught in her throat as they turned. Crouched on the upper balcony, the creature glared down at them with slitted yellow eyes and teeth meant for ripping things apart, just like in her dream.

Before she could process it, Stiles shoved her behind him, instinctively putting himself between her and the threat as he stepped toward Derek.

It jumped.

The creature landed in front of Erica. A beat passed—and then it struck, throwing her against the far wall with bone-crunching force.

"Run!" Derek barked, pushing Stiles hard.

As his back turned, the Kanima's talons tore into the back of Derek's neck. He grunted in pain, legs faltering. Stiles caught him just before he collapsed, straining under the sudden weight.

"Derek, your neck!" Stiles panted.

"Help me!" Stiles called out.

Octavia darted to the other side without hesitation, ducking under Derek's arm. They half-dragged, half-carried him, feet splashing along the slick tile floor.

"Where is it?" Stiles asked, voice breathless.

"I don't see it!" Octavia snapped, trying to keep them moving.

"I can smell it. Hurry. Call Scott!" Derek barked.

Stiles fumbled for his phone, yanking it out—only to slip through his fingers and clatter to the ground. He knelt to grab it, and with Derek's weight shifting abruptly, Octavia lost her grip. She stumbled.

Derek fell.

Right into the pool—dragging Octavia with him.

She hit the water with a yelp and a splash, limbs flailing before she came up sputtering. "Stilinski, I swear to God—"

Stiles froze, eyes wide, phone in hand, guilt written all over his face. Then he jumped in after them.

He grabbed Derek under the arms and pulled him upright, the buoyancy of the water doing most of the heavy lifting. Octavia coughed beside them, water streaming from her hair and dripping down her face.

"Where'd it go?" Stiles panted. "Do you see it?"

"No," Derek rasped.

Octavia wiped water from her eyes and shook her head. Her heart was racing, not just from the cold or the near-death experience, but from something heavier—something coiled and anxious deep in her gut.

"Okay, maybe it took off?" Stiles offered, voice edging toward hopeful.

A low, guttural hiss echoed through the chamber again, reverberating against the tiled walls and the pool's rippling surface.

Octavia's breath hitched. So did Stiles'.

"Maybe not," they said together.

They did their best to keep Derek afloat.

It wasn't easy. Even with the water's buoyancy and the fact that there were two of them—Stiles to the left, Octavia to the right—Derek's dead weight dragged at their arms. Their legs kicked furiously beneath the surface, barely enough to keep the three of them from going under. Cold chlorinated water splashed into their mouths, searing their throats and eyes. Octavia coughed, blinking rapidly, already convinced her still-lingering cold was about to make a vicious comeback.

Their eyes scanned the darkened pool room, tension coiling tighter with each breath. The creature had retreated but felt like a temporary mercy at best.

"Will you get me out of here before I drown?" Derek growled, his voice rasping like someone who assumed this entire situation had been carefully orchestrated just to annoy him

"You're worried about drowning?" Stiles snapped, breathless and exasperated. "Did you notice the thing out there with multiple rows of razor-sharp teeth?"

"Did you notice I'm paralyzed from the neck down in eight feet of water?" Derek shot back.

"Oh, are you?" Octavia chimed in sweetly, sarcasm thick. "Gee, this whole time, I assumed you'd just gotten really into group hugs."

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut like he could physically will her to stop pushing buttons. "Okay!" he interjected before Derek bit someone, literally or otherwise. He glanced around the pool. "I don't see it."

He gave Octavia a quick nod—time to move.

They began kicking forward with synchronized effort, arms straining to drag Derek through the water.

"Wait, wait, wait! Stop! Stop!" Derek barked suddenly.

They froze, turning to see the slow, deliberate creature stalking along the pool's edge. It moved like it was measuring the water, claws clicking against the tile.

"What's it waiting for?" Stiles asked, voice dropping.

Octavia's eyes narrowed. The creature crept closer, one claw dipping into the pool with a hiss of steam as if the water had scalded it. "Wait, did you see that? I don't think it can swim."

She leaned in unconsciously, her breath catching. "It can't," she murmured. "It's afraid."

Stiles looked at her, catching the intensity in her eyes—the stillness in her body save for one twitch of her hand beneath the water. He saw it. Noticed it. Filed it away for later.

But she didn't notice him watching.

His arms ached. His grip slipped. "Okay, okay... I don't think I can do this much longer..." he muttered, teeth clenched against the burn in his shoulders.

They held on in silence until Stiles' gaze slid to his phone—still lying by the pool's edge, like salvation just out of reach.

Derek caught the look. "No, no, no. Don't even think about it."

"Would you just trust me this once?" Stiles practically pleaded.

"No!"

"I'm the one keeping you alive, okay?" Stiles asked in exasperation. "Have you noticed that?"

"Yeah." Derek rolled his eyes. "You and her. And I don't think little miss five-foot-seven over here will be much help keeping me up."

"I resent that," Octavia muttered, deadpan. Derek didn't care.

"When the paralysis wears off, who is gonna be able to fight that thing-you two or me?"

"Okay, so that's why we've been holding you up for the last two hours?" Stiles retorted.

"Yup. You don't trust me. I don't trust you. You need me to survive, which is why you are not letting me go."

For half a second, Stiles hesitated.

Then he let go.

"Stiles!" Octavia and Derek snapped together as she lurched under the sudden weight. Her arms strained, slipping beneath Derek's as she struggled to keep them both above water.

But Stiles was already swimming.

His strokes were fast, desperate, and loud. The creature stalked closer as if summoned by the splash. When Stiles reached the edge of the pool, he paused—met the creature's glowing eyes with something too brave to be smart—and lunged for the phone just as the creature did.

He snatched it up and kicked back into the water, barely avoiding the swipe of talons.

"Stiles!" Octavia shouted, partly from relief, partly from panic, as her grip gave out, and Derek sank like an anchor beside her.

She sucked in a breath before diving down.

Stiles saw her vanish beneath the surface, the panic spiking in his chest like a flare. He dived without hesitation.

Together, they grabbed Derek and pulled. The effort burned every muscle, but they surfaced with a choking gasp, Octavia coughing hard, Derek growling somewhere between pain and rage.

"Tell me you got him," Derek croaked.

Stiles didn't answer. He didn't need to. Octavia could tell by the look in his eyes—grim, tired, and silent.

They floated there, the water rippling softly around them. Tension like a held breath.

"I can't stay up any longer," Stiles gasped finally. "I need something to hold onto..."

His eyes darted to the handles on the diving board. "There!"

They pushed toward it, Octavia half-dragging Derek again. Stiles reached out—but his hand slipped.

All three of them went under.

Something grabbed them.

A blur of movement, a fistful of the hoodie, and the sharp scrape of tile against the skin—

They were tossed onto the pool deck like drenched laundry.

Scott crouched low on the diving board above them, breathing heavily, his eyes glowing gold. His snarl tore through the humid air like thunder. Claws extended. Wolf and fury.

The creature shrieked in reply, launching from the shadows like a bullet.

Scott met it mid-air. The impact rattled the walls, the sound of bone and tile colliding loud enough to make Octavia flinch. The two figures crashed to the floor, limbs tangled and vicious.

Then the tail whipped around Scott's ankle and flung him across the room like a ragdoll. He smashed into the mirror with a sound that cracked down the center of her skull.

Glass rained down around him.

Scott reached out, grabbing a shard. The creature stalked closer.

Then—hesitation.

Its glowing eyes caught its own reflection in the jagged mirror. Just for a second, the rage faltered. A flicker of confusion. Of something human.

Octavia blinked, chest heaving, as the creature snarled—not at Scott, but at itself.

It shattered the glass with one final blow, spun toward the wall, and scaled it like a spider, vanishing through the high window into the night.

Silence crashed down like a wave.

Scott exhaled, shaking. The mirror shard clinked to the ground beside him.

And the four of them—drenched, tired, breathless—just stared at each other.

Nowhere near dry and utterly exhausted, Octavia rested her head against Stiles' shoulder as the three of them huddled in front of Scott's laptop, the soft blue glow of the screen their only light source. The laptop perched on the hood of Melissa McCall's car, casting faint reflections across the metal. The cool night air bit at their damp clothes, raising goosebumps on their skin, but none of them had the energy to care.

While she and Stiles had spent their evening narrowly avoiding being mauled or drowned, Scott had endured something arguably worse—dinner with the Argents. Somewhere between the mashed potatoes and Allison's death glares at her grandfather, they realized the bestiary wasn't a physical book at all—it was digital. Locked inside the USB drive, Gerard Argent wore a badge of honor on his keychain.

"Is that even a language?" Stiles asked, squinting at the incomprehensible scrawl on the screen, his voice thick with fatigue.

"It's Latin, stupid," Octavia murmured, barely lifting her head from his shoulder.

Stiles turned his head to shoot her a look. "Well, excuse me," he deadpanned. "Not everyone's idea of light reading is a centuries-old spell book bound in human skin or whatever."

Octavia opened her mouth—likely to inform him that human skin parchment was technically called anthropodermic bibliopegy—but Scott cut in.

"How are we supposed to figure out what this thing is?"

"It's called a Kanima," a voice cut through the quiet.

They all jolted upright. Derek stood behind them like a shadow given form, Erica just beside him, arms crossed, hip cocked, as if she'd been there the whole time.

Octavia blinked. She had genuinely forgotten Erica existed for a solid three hours.

"You knew the whole time," Stiles said flatly, eyes narrowing, suspicion curdling in his voice. His lips thinned into a straight line as he exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp.

"No," Derek answered. " Only when it was confused by its own reflection."

"It doesn't know what it is," Scott said quietly, his brows furrowed.

"Or who."

"What else do you know?" Stiles asked, one hand resting gently against Octavia's back. She didn't flinch or react—just leaned closer as if it had always been that way.

She didn't notice how his thumb brushed against the edge of her jacket. Or how his eyes lingered on her for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

"Just stories," Derek replied, voice even. "Rumors."

"But is Tav right?" Scott asked, glancing between them. "Is it like us?"

"A shapeshifter? Yes." Derek paused, his jaw tightening. "But it's- it's not right. It's like a..."

"An abomination," Stiles said quietly.

Derek met his eyes. There was something unspoken there—a flicker of mutual understanding neither of them wanted to admit—and he nodded.

He and Erica turned to leave, but Scott's voice rang out behind them. "Derek!"

Derek stopped, glancing over his shoulder.

"We need to work together on this. Maybe even tell the Argents."

Derek scoffed like the suggestion was poison. "You trust them?"

"Nobody trusts anyone!" Scott said too quickly. "That's the problem! While we're here, arguing about who's on what side, there's something scarier, stronger, and faster than any of us, and it's killing people, and we still don't even know anything about it!"

Octavia felt the heaviness in Scott's voice. The fear, the pressure, the frustration. It weighed on all of them.

Derek looked at him. Hard. Then said, simply, "I know one thing."

A beat passed as he turned.

"When I find it... I'm gonna kill it."

┗━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━┛

𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛!

i desperately wanna change the cover of this book but idk how, if anyone's good at graphics and willing to help, pls lmk!

currently in denial about bobby nash