The first lesson of the day was chemistry, taught by the ever-stern Adrian Harris. Scott shifted restlessly in his chair, an uneasy tension radiating from him. He leaned over to his friend beside him, whispering, "Maybe it was my blood on the door?"

Stiles dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. "Could be animal blood. Like maybe you caught a rabbit or something?"

"And did what?" Scott replied incredulously.

"I don't know. Ate it," Stiles suggested, his shrug infuriatingly casual.

"Raw?" Scott was disgusted. He preferred his meat well-cooked, thank you very much.

"Yeah, you stopped to bake it in a little werewolf oven," Stiles chuckled irritably. "How should I know? You're the one who can't remember anything."

"Mr. Stilinski!" Mr. Harris's voice cut through their conversation like a knife. "If that's your idea of a hushed whisper, you might want to pull the earphones out once in a while. I think you and Mr. McCall would benefit from a little distance. Yes?"

"No..." Stiles objected quietly.

The teacher ignored him and pointed for them to sit on opposite sides of the room. "Let me know if the separation anxiety gets to be too much," he concluded sarcastically. A few students snickered.

Scott ended up next to Harley, a black-haired, dark-skinned girl who threw him a sympathetic glance before turning her attention back to the teacher. From behind, he felt Jackson's gaze drilling into him. Scott stiffened, feeling the weight of the stare.

"Hey look! They found something!" Harley exclaimed, breaking the monotony as she darted to the window overlooking the school bus car park. The class quickly followed, crowding the window sills. Mr. Harris, seeing he had lost control, joined them.

"They found a body," Harley announced, almost proud of her discovery.

"That's not a rabbit..." Scott whispered, horror creeping into his voice.

Outside, nurses wheeled a stretcher to the ambulance. But before they could load the body, it sat up abruptly and howled incoherently. The students recoiled, terror gripping them.

"Well, this is good. He's not dead," Stiles tried to comfort Scott. "A dead guy can't do that..."

"Stiles... I did that..." Scott's voice was filled with dread, a lump of anxiety growing in his chest, making it hard to breathe.

Somehow, the boys made it to lunch, still haunted by the morning's events. They settled at their usual table, trays in hand.

"Dreams aren't memories," Stiles insisted.

"Then it wasn't a dream. Something happened last night. And I can't remember what," Scott said, his remorse palpable. They argued in hushed voices.

"How are you so sure Derek has all the answers?" Stiles asked, still skeptical of the grim werewolf.

"Because on the full moon he wasn't changed," Scott whispered. "He was in total control. And I'm running around in the night attacking some totally innocent guy."

"You don't know that."

"I don't not know it. I can't go out with Allison. I have to cancel," Scott said, his distress evident.

"No, you don't. You can't cancel your entire life. We'll figure this out," Stiles reassured him. "And if not, we'll go to Mrs. Benoit. Maybe she'll know something."

Just then, a smiling girl with reddish-blonde hair arrived at their table. Lydia's outfit, as usual, was a statement of the latest fashion, her makeup and hairstyle impeccable.

"She'll know about what?" she asked, resting her arms on the table.

"Uh... about homework," Scott stammered, surprised by Lydia's attention.

"Why is she sitting with us?" Stiles whispered to Scott, leaning over so Lydia wouldn't hear.

More of Lydia's usual crowd, including Allison, joined their table. Allison took a seat next to Scott, while Jackson approached, telling Brian to make way.

"How come you never ask Danny to get up?" Brian asked, disbelief and mild indignation in his voice.

"Because I don't stare at his girlfriend's coin slot," Danny Mahealani, a handsome boy with clear Hawaiian roots, replied smoothly. "So, they're saying it's an animal attack. Probably a cougar."

"I heard mountain lion," Jackson corrected.

"A cougar is a mountain lion," Lydia said automatically, then added in a higher, innocent voice, "Isn't it?"

"Who cares?" Jackson snapped. "The guy's probably some homeless tweaker who's gonna die, anyway."

"Actually, I just found out who he is," Stiles interjected, drawing attention to his phone and displaying a news clip. "Check this out."

"The sheriff confirmed that the victim, Garrison Meyers, survived the attack. He was taken to the hospital in critical condition."

"I know that guy," Scott said, overwhelmed. "He used to drive the bus back when I lived with my dad."

Lydia, visibly bored, demanded, "Can we talk about something slightly more fun, please? Like where we're going tomorrow night?" She directed the question to Allison and Scott.

Allison, caught off guard, stammered, "Uh... What were we going to do?"

"We hadn't decided," Scott replied.

"Well, I'm not sitting at home watching lacrosse videos again. If the four of us are hanging out, let's pick something fun."

"Hanging out? The four of us?" Scott was puzzled. He glanced at Allison, who was drinking water, equally surprised.

"When the hell were you going to tell me about this?" Jackson asked angrily.

"You want to hang out? The four of us? You and me? And them?" Scott repeated, disbelievingly.

"Sure," Allison squeaked, then added more confidently, "Sounds fun."

"You know what else sounds fun?" Jackson interjected aggressively, brandishing a fork. "Stabbing myself in the face with this fork."

Lydia laughed, cradling Jackson's hand. "Oh, come on, Jackson. How about bowling? You love to bowl."

"Yeah, but with actual competition," Jackson crowed.

"How do you know we're not competition?" Allison challenged. "You can bowl, right?" she asked Scott, grinning.

"Sort of..."

"Sort of? Or yes?" Jackson inquired.

"Yes. In fact..." Scott began.

Meanwhile, Stiles buried his head in his hands, foreseeing the disaster to come.

🌙

After a day filled with academic drudgery, Charlotte guided Isle to the vet for a much-needed check-up and bandage removal. The waiting room of the clinic, bathed in sterile light and the hum of quiet conversation, was not a place she expected to encounter the sheriff. But there he was, with a police dog in tow, echoing her own purpose.

Deaton, the clinic's sole veterinarian, had a habit of leaving the door ajar while working, and through this gap, Charlotte caught glimpses of him and his assistant bustling about. The sheriff's booming voice interrupted her thoughts as he addressed a boy Charlotte recognized as Scott.

"Staying out of trouble, Scott?" Sheriff Stilinski's voice cut through the air like a knife. Scott responded sheepishly as the police dog obediently sat on the examination table.

The sheriff handed a nondescript envelope to Dr. Deaton. "While I'm here, could you take a look at these pictures? Sacramento can't seem to identify the animal involved."

"I'm not exactly an expert on this," Deaton admitted, peering into the envelope with a clinical detachment that bordered on eerie. "Huh. Interesting. This guy was attacked in a bus?"

"We found wolf hairs on Laura Hale's body," the sheriff added, fishing for confirmation.

Scott, who had been a silent observer, broke his silence with a barely audible, "A wolf?" His voice carried a mix of disbelief and curiosity. "I mean... I think I read somewhere that there haven't been wolves in California for like sixty years," Scott added, more assertively this time.

Charlotte, unable to resist adding her two cents, strolled into the room, leaving Isle in the waiting room to avoid any tension with the police dog. "Wolves are migratory animals," she interjected smoothly. "They could have come from another state driven by hunger, instinct, or a strong enough memory."

Scott looked bewildered. "Wolves have memories?"

"Long-term memories, yes," Deaton affirmed, his gaze shifting from Scott to Charlotte. "If associated with a primal drive." He pointed to a photo in his hand. "These are claw marks. A wolf would have gone for the throat or spinal cord with its teeth."

Charlie feigned ignorance. "So, probably a mountain lion?"

Deaton's calm demeanor did little to comfort her; his too-calm acceptance of everything around him made her wary. "I don't know. A wolf could chase down its prey, hobbling it by tearing at the ankles before going for the throat."

The conversation dwindled as Deaton turned his attention back to the police dog. Charlotte, now restless, returned to the waiting room. When the sheriff came out, Scott realised Isle was the same dog he had helped a few weeks ago and the witch finally found out what had actually happened to her familiar. Allison Argent had tripped over the poor animal, but had caught Isle and bring her to the clinic, revealing a small yet telling connection between their lives.

🌙

After dropping Isle off at home, Charlotte drove to the reserve where Derek spent his days. He had insisted that everything important was concentrated there, assuring her they would find something. However, their investigation was constantly being interrupted.

First, a policeman showed up to check if anyone was loitering around. Charlotte felt a flicker of fear that they'd be discovered, but Derek managed to unsettle the police dog in the car, causing the officer to lose his nerve and leave without inspecting the crumbling building.

Then Scott appeared, adding to Charlotte's stress. She worried that if the boy discovered her acquaintance with the older werewolf, he would lose trust in her and become as hostile towards her as he was towards Derek. Strangely enough, Scott seemed too anxious to sense her presence. Derek went out to meet the boy, leaving Charlotte to sit quietly on the other side of the door, mentally repeating formulas to conceal her presence from the other werewolf's senses.

"I know I was part of you getting arrested and basically announced you being here to the hunters." Scott's voice was laden with remorse. "I also don't know what happened with your sister, but I think I did something last night." The older man's silence didn't help the boy articulate his thoughts, but he pressed on. "I had this dream about... someone. But someone else got hurt. And it turns out part of the dream might have actually happened."

"You think you attacked the Driver?" Derek wanted to ensure he understood the boy correctly.

"How do you know everything? Are you constantly keeping an eye on me? Did you see what I did last night?" Scott was terrified, seeking confirmation in Derek's question.

"No," the older werewolf replied, his tone and expression unchanged.

"Then can you at least tell me the truth? Am I going to hurt someone?"

"Yes."

"Could I kill someone?"

"Yes," Derek's answers were automatic, the certainty in his voice as heavy as an anvil.

"Am I going to kill someone?" Panic laced the teenager's voice.

"Probably."

Scott leaned heavily against a porch pillar, devoid of any residual hope. Derek approached him, hands deep in the pockets of his leather jacket.

"I can show you how to remember, how to control the shift, even on a full moon. But it's not going to come for free."

"What do you want?" the teenager asked, his voice a whisper of desolation.

"You will find out. But for now, I'll give you what you want. Go back to the bus. Go inside. See it, feel it. Let your senses—sight, smell, touch—let them remember for you."

"That's it? Just go back?" Scott was surprised the task seemed so simple.

"You want to remember what happened?"

"I just want to know if I hurt him."

"No," Derek denied. "You want to know if you'll hurt her."

Scott walked away, almost immediately contacting his friend.

Charlotte sat silently, her heart weighed down by the immense gravity of the situation. The air around her grew dense, almost suffocating, as if it mirrored the tension she had just witnessed. She could almost feel the weight of uncertainty hanging in the atmosphere. But amidst it all, they had managed to forge a plan, offering a glimmer of hope. And with that, a flicker of determination ignited within her.