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.