Chapter 2: The Countdown Begins
Chemistry class ends, and I'm still thinking about Scott and Stiles when the teacher announces lab partners.
"Greenburg and McCall. Bench three."
Scott looks back at me, offering a tentative smile. I grab my notebook and slide onto the stool across from him. Up close, he's younger than I expected—baby-faced, with eyes that haven't seen the weight of an Alpha's claws yet.
"Hey," he says. "Adam, right?"
"Yeah."
"Cool. I'm Scott."
I know. I want to say it, but I don't. Instead, I nod and pull the lab manual toward me. "You want to handle the measurements, or should I?"
"Uh—measurements, I guess?"
He's nervous. Not about the lab—about me. My Haki picks it up, a flicker of uncertainty. He doesn't know if I'm the kind of guy who'll mock him for fumbling the beaker or ignore him entirely.
I've seen this dynamic a hundred times in high school. The outsider trying to figure out where they stand.
"Sounds good," I say. "I'll take notes."
His shoulders relax. "Thanks."
We work in silence for a few minutes. Scott measures carefully, double-checking the graduated cylinder before pouring. He's meticulous in a way that surprises me—like he's used to people expecting him to fail.
"So," he says, not looking up. "You transferred here, right? A few months ago?"
"Yeah."
"How's it going? Beacon Hills is... kind of weird."
I almost laugh. Weird doesn't cover it. This town is a beacon for every supernatural disaster west of the Mississippi. But Scott doesn't know that yet. To him, it's just another small town with bad cell reception and too many missing person cases.
"It's fine," I say. "Quieter than where I'm from."
"Where's that?"
I hesitate. Adam's memories don't provide a clear answer—just vague impressions of somewhere bigger, louder. I settle on the first city that comes to mind.
"San Francisco."
"Oh, cool. Big change, then."
"Yeah."
Scott pours the solution into the beaker, watching it turn a murky green. "I'm trying out for first line this year. Lacrosse. Coach says I've got a shot if I work hard enough."
My Haki flares. He doesn't just want it—he needs it. Needs to prove he's more than the kid with asthma. Needs to show his mom that transferring schools, starting over, all of it was worth something.
"You'll make it," I say.
He looks up, surprised. "You think?"
"You're stubborn. That counts for something."
Scott grins, and for a second, I see the future version of him—the True Alpha, the leader who holds a pack together through sheer force of will. But right now, he's just a kid who wants to belong.
The door slams open. Stiles Stilinski explodes into the room like a human tornado, sliding into the seat next to Scott without asking.
"Dude, you will NOT believe what I just found in the library archives. There's this thing—1985, unsolved murder, body found in the preserve, and get this—"
"Stiles," Scott says. "We're in the middle of a lab."
"Yeah, but this is IMPORTANT. The body was partially eaten. Not by a normal animal. The coroner's report said the bite radius was—"
"Stiles."
Stiles finally looks at me. His eyes narrow, and I feel the shift in his Haki signature—curiosity spiking, mixed with suspicion.
"Who's this?"
"Adam Greenburg. Lab partner."
Stiles studies me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve. "You're the new kid. Coach's stepson, right?"
"Yeah."
"Huh." He leans back, still watching me. "You always this quiet, or is it a defense mechanism?"
I raise an eyebrow. "You always interrogate lab partners?"
"Only the suspicious ones."
"What's suspicious?"
"You tell me."
Scott groans. "Stiles, stop being weird."
"I'm not being weird. I'm being thorough. There's a difference." Stiles taps the desk. "So. Adam. What's your deal? You into lacrosse? Video games? Conspiracy theories about the Kennedy assassination?"
"Not really."
"Not really to which one?"
"All of them."
Stiles grins. "I like you. You're evasive. That's either really smart or really dumb, and I haven't decided which yet."
I don't respond. Instead, I finish the notes and slide them toward Scott. "We're done. You can write up the conclusion."
Scott blinks. "Already?"
"Yeah."
Stiles leans over, scanning the page. "Huh. Thorough. Color me impressed." He looks at me again. "You sure you're not into conspiracy theories? Because you've got the vibe."
"What vibe?"
"The 'I know something you don't' vibe."
My stomach twists. He's too perceptive for his own good. In the show, Stiles was the one who pieced together the supernatural world before anyone else. If I'm not careful, he'll figure out I'm hiding something long before I'm ready to explain.
"Maybe I just don't like small talk," I say.
Stiles snorts. "Fair." He stands, clapping Scott on the shoulder. "Come on, dude. Coach is gonna kill us if we're late to practice."
Scott gathers his stuff, glancing at me. "You coming?"
"Yeah. I'll be there."
They leave, and I sit alone at the bench, staring at the murky green solution. My Haki is still buzzing from the proximity to Stiles—his manic energy is exhausting, like standing too close to a live wire.
But underneath it, I felt something else. Loyalty. Fierce and unshakable. Stiles would burn the world down for Scott. And in a few months, he'll have to prove it.
I pack up and head to the field.
Lacrosse practice is a special kind of hell.
Coach runs drills like he's training Navy SEALs, not high school students. Sprints. Dodges. Wall ball until my arms feel like rubber. I'm decent—enough to stay on the team, not enough to stand out. Which is exactly how I want it.
But I can't help watching.
Jackson Whittemore dominates the field. Every pass is perfect. Every shot finds the net. He moves like lacrosse is the only thing he's ever been good at, and maybe it is. My Haki picks up his emotional signature—superiority laced with insecurity, like he's terrified of being anything less than the best.
On the sidelines, Lydia Martin watches him with the kind of detached interest that says she's already bored. She's beautiful in the way people expect—blonde, poised, untouchable. But my Haki reads deeper. There's intelligence there. Sharp and calculating. She's playing a role, and she's good at it.
Scott is struggling. His footwork is off, and his breathing is labored even with the inhaler. Coach yells at him to pick up the pace, and Scott tries, but his body won't cooperate.
Stiles watches from the bench, chewing his thumbnail. His anxiety spikes every time Scott stumbles.
I'm supposed to be running drills, but I'm too focused on them. On the way this moment feels suspended—before everything changes.
Then the headache hits.
It starts as a dull throb, then sharpens into something vicious. My Haki flares uncontrollably, picking up every emotional signature on the field at once. Jackson's arrogance. Scott's desperation. Stiles' anxiety. Lydia's boredom. It's too much. Too loud.
I taste copper.
I press a hand to my nose, and my fingers come away red.
"GREENBURG!"
Coach's voice cuts through the noise. I look up, and he's staring at me with an expression somewhere between concern and irritation.
"You alright?"
"Fine."
"That's BLOOD. That's not FINE."
"It's just a nosebleed."
He blows his whistle, calling a break. "Get to the locker room. Clean yourself up. And if you pass out, I'm calling your mom."
I don't argue. I head inside, grabbing paper towels from the dispenser and pressing them to my face. The bleeding slows, but the headache doesn't. My hands are shaking.
This is what Phase 1 looks like. No control. No off switch. Just constant feedback I didn't ask for.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Blood smeared under my nose. Eyes bloodshot. I look like hell.
Eight months.
The thought loops. Eight months until Scott gets bitten. Eight months until the Alpha starts killing. Eight months until everything I vaguely remember from the show becomes real.
And I don't know what I'm supposed to do about it.
That evening, I drive to the preserve.
I don't know why. Maybe it's instinct. Maybe it's the fragments of meta-knowledge whispering that this is where it starts—where Scott and Stiles go looking for a body, where the Alpha bites, where everything spirals.
Or maybe I just need to see it.
The preserve is quiet. Too quiet. My Haki picks up animal presences—deer, birds, something larger in the distance—but no people. I park near the trail head and step out into the damp night air.
The trees are dense, blocking out most of the moonlight. I walk until I find a clearing, then stop.
This is it. This is where it happens.
I close my eyes and focus. The tingling in my hands intensifies, spreading up my arms. I try to push it outward, like the void-knowledge tells me I should be able to.
For a second, it works. A faint shimmer ripples around my hands, almost invisible in the dark. My aura, leaking and unstable.
Then exhaustion slams into me.
My knees buckle. I catch myself on a tree trunk, gasping for air. The shimmer fades, and the tingling turns into a dull ache.
Not ready. Not even close.
I lean against the tree, breathing hard. Whatever these powers are, they're not something I can master in a few days. Or weeks. Or maybe ever.
The preserve is still quiet, but my Haki picks up something at the edge of my range. A presence. Large. Predatory.
I freeze.
It's distant—maybe a hundred yards—but it's there. Moving through the trees with deliberate, calculated steps.
Not an animal.
Something else.
I don't wait to find out what. I stumble back to my car, hands still shaking, and drive home.
Coach is asleep when I get back. I slip upstairs, lock my door, and collapse onto the bed.
My phone buzzes. The lunar calendar app I downloaded this morning glows on the screen. Eight months until the next full moon.
I stare at the date, trying to remember details. Who gets bitten first? How does the Alpha choose? What happens if I interfere?
The answers won't come. Just fragments. Flashes. A red-eyed werewolf. A burning house. Bodies in the woods.
People die. I know that much.
But who? When? Can I stop it?
I don't know.
I turn off the phone and close my eyes. Coach's snoring filters through the wall, a weirdly comforting reminder that some things are still normal.
But I'm not normal. Not anymore.
I'm something the void made. Something that doesn't belong.
And in eight months, I'm going to have to figure out what that means.
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