January 11th 2011 - Tuesday

This morning, when Scott opened his eyes, he was astonished to find himself not in the familiar confines of his bed but sprawled on the forest floor, covered in a blanket of fallen leaves. Panic surged through him as he bolted upright, only to bash his head against something solid. Blinking through the pain, he realized a large rock loomed above him. A quick survey of his surroundings revealed he was clad only in the boxers he had worn to bed the previous evening.

His mind raced to make sense of the situation. Sleepwalking, he concluded. He must have wandered into the forest in his sleep. Clambering up the small escarpment he had been sheltering under, a dense fog that shrouded the trees in a ghostly veil greeted him. His pulse quickened as he took stock of his surroundings, trying to figure out how to get home. Suddenly, he froze, holding his breath as a strange rustling reached his ears.

Taking a few cautious steps back, he felt the edge of a precipice beneath his bare feet and stopped. His eyes darted towards a disturbance among the trees just meters away. Unease gnawed at him, and he ran. First at a steady pace, then faster and faster. Glancing sideways, he saw a shadow moving in tandem with him, matching his speed. The shadow's eyes, glowing blood-red, locked onto his.

Scott's heart pounded in his chest as the shadow flitted from one side to the other, effortlessly keeping pace. He pushed himself to run faster, an inhuman speed he didn't know he possessed, but the shadow remained a constant, terrifying presence. Just as he felt the shadow's breath on his neck, a fence appeared before him, seemingly out of nowhere. Acting on pure instinct, he leaped over it, landing in a crouch on the other side.

The moment he touched down, the oppressive presence vanished, leaving him alone in an overgrown, neglected garden behind a small house with a sloping roof. Movement on the porch caught his attention—a short, slim woman in a baggy tracksuit approached, her dark red hair styled in a picturesque, disheveled bun.

"Scott? What happened?" she asked, her voice filled with concern. "What were you doing in the woods at this hour? Are you all right?"

"Mrs. Benoit..." he stammered, recognizing the young teacher. He looked bewildered, clearly struggling to process what had happened. "I... I'm fine, I think... I... I seem to have been sleepwalking..."

Charlotte's worry deepened, but she quickly invited him into her kitchen and offered him hot tea to help him calm down. Rummaging through one of her half-unpacked moving boxes, she found an old t-shirt belonging to her ex and handed it to Scott so he could cover up. Her cats, sensing the unusual tension, kept their distance from the unexpected visitor.

Once Scott had finished his tea, Charlotte drove him home. Although she was eager to meet his mother, Scott convinced her to postpone the introduction. Understanding his discomfort, she nodded, told him to take care, and then headed to the nearest veterinary clinic to look for her dog, Isle.

Dr. Alan Deaton, the veterinarian, was a warm, sympathetic man with a familiar glint in his eyes. He explained Isle had indeed been brought to his clinic with a broken paw, which had been treated by his assistant—Scott McCall, the same teenager she had just driven home.

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January 14th 2011 - Friday - Full Moon

Stiles' fingers danced frenetically across the keyboard, his eyes glued to the monitor, which was beginning to pinch from staring too long. Article after article flashed by, each filled with words like "toadstool," "silver bullets," "Lycaon," and "Aconite," accompanied by illustrations of ferocious, man-wolf beasts. As he delved deeper into the abyss of the internet, he occasionally reached for books—some new and paperbound, others old and leatherbound, practically disintegrating.

If he had bothered to glance out the window, he would have noticed the sun sinking behind the horizon, giving way to the rising full moon. But his attention was elsewhere. The printer on his desk whirred to life, spitting out page after page. The last one depicted an engraving of a man with a crossbow standing over a half-transformed werewolf. A look of sheer terror etched itself onto Stiles' face, deepening when a knock echoed through the room. He nearly toppled off his chair but steadied himself before opening the door.

"Get in," he said urgently, recognizing Scott standing there. "You have to see this. I've been reading—websites, books, all this information..." Words tumbled out of him like a machine gun.

"How much Adderall have you had?" Scott asked, stepping inside.

"A lot. Doesn't matter. Just listen."

"Is this about the body?" Scott laughed, his black hair falling into his eyes. "Did they find who did it?"

"No, they're still questioning people. Even Derek Hale..."

"The guy from the woods?"

"Yeah, but that's not it," Stiles waved his arms, trying to capture Scott's attention. "Remember the joke the other day? Not a joke anymore." His voice dropped, his face suddenly serious. "The wolf. The bite in the woods." He paused, watching for Scott's reaction, but only saw confusion. "I started reading... Do you even know why wolves howl?" Bursting with energy, he got up and paced around the room.

"Should I?"

"It's a signal. When a wolf is alone, it howls to signal its location to the rest of the pack. So if you heard it howling, that means there are others. Maybe a whole pack of them," he said, clutching the rustling pages in his clammy hands.

"A pack of wolves," Scott replied, incredulous.

"No. Werewolves." The two boys locked eyes.

"You're seriously wasting my time with this?" Scott stood, frustration etched on his face. "You know, I'm picking Allison up in an hour."

"I saw you on the field, Scott," Stiles grabbed his friend's arm, stopping him. "What you did wasn't just amazing. It was impossible."

"So I made a good shot," Scott shrugged.

"No, you made an incredible shot. The way you moved... the speed, your reflexes," Stiles snatched Scott's bag, scattering printed pages around them. "People can't suddenly do that."
"I can't think about this now," Scott lost his patience. "We'll talk tomorrow, okay?"

"Tomorrow?! Don't you get it? The full moon is tonight!" Stiles' voice was filled with horror.
"What are you trying to do? I just made first line on the team. I have a date with a girl I can't believe wants to go out with me. Everything in my life is finally perfect. Why are you trying to ruin it?"

"I'm trying to help," Stiles insisted, pulling out a note from the stack of papers on his desk. "With the full moon, it's going to be too hard to resist, and there's no going back. You're cursed, Scott. And it's not just the moon that causes you to change; it's also when your bloodlust will be at its peak."

"Bloodlust?"

"Your urge to kill..."

"I'm already starting to have an urge to kill," Scott's voice dropped dangerously, eyes cold as he glared at Stiles.

"You need to hear this," Stiles grabbed a book, flipping to a specific paragraph. "The change can be triggered by anger or anything that raises your pulse," he quoted, then met Scott's eyes. "And I've never seen anyone raise your pulse like Allison does. You have to call her and cancel the date," he said, reaching for Scott's phone in his backpack.

"What are you doing?" Scott's voice was dangerously low.

"Just finding her number..." Stiles didn't lift his gaze from the phone.

"Give it to me!" Scott shouted, grabbing Stiles by the shirt and pinning him against the wall.

Stiles' eyes widened in fear as Scott's dark brown eyes flashed iridescent gold. Scott's voice turned into a growl, and he prepared to strike, but at the last moment, he stopped, breathing heavily. He let go and punched an office chair, sending it flying across the room. Shaking all over like a damp dog, he looked at Stiles with regret.

"I didn't mean to do that," he said, confused and apologetic. "I'm sorry. Really, I didn't mean it. I have to go. I have to get ready for the party. I'm sorry."

Left alone, Stiles slowly got up, adjusting his clothes and putting the chair back. He froze, running his hand over the backrest. Three parallel claw marks, cutting through the upholstery and the sponge underneath, confirmed his worst fears. The evidence was undeniable. Scott was becoming something far more dangerous than they had ever imagined.