Chapter 3: The Night Approaches
Ten days in, and I'm falling apart.
The nosebleeds come without warning now. One happened during English while Mrs. Kaplin droned about The Great Gatsby. Another at lunch. A third in the shower this morning, bad enough that Coach banged on the door asking if I'd "cracked my skull open on the tile."
I told him I was fine.
He didn't believe me.
The cafeteria is loud enough to make my skull vibrate. Conversations overlap into white noise, punctuated by shrieks of laughter and the clatter of trays. My Haki picks up everything—boredom, hunger, teenage angst radiating from every direction. I've learned to filter it somewhat, turning the roar into background static, but it still leaves me with a dull throb behind my eyes.
I'm eating alone at a corner table when Stiles Stilinski drops into the seat across from me.
"You look like death," he says by way of greeting.
I glance up from my sandwich. "Thanks."
"No, seriously. You've got this whole 'I haven't slept in a week' vibe going on. It's either insomnia, or you're secretly training for underground fight club."
"First rule of fight club—"
"Don't make me regret sitting here."
I almost smile. Almost. Instead, I take another bite and wait for him to get to the point. Stiles doesn't do anything without a reason.
He leans back, studying me with the kind of intensity that makes my Haki flare. Curiosity mixed with suspicion. He's trying to figure me out, and I can't decide if that's dangerous or inevitable.
"So," he says. "What's your deal?"
"My deal?"
"Yeah. You transferred here, what, three months ago? You're Coach's stepson, you run decent drills, but you're also eating lunch alone and looking like you're one bad day away from a nervous breakdown. That's a deal."
"Maybe I just like being alone."
"Nobody likes being alone. They tolerate it because the alternative is worse." He gestures at the cafeteria. "But here's the thing—you're not avoiding people because you hate them. You're avoiding them because you're exhausted. And that's weird."
My jaw tightens. He's too perceptive. I knew that from the show, but experiencing it firsthand is different. Stiles doesn't just observe—he dissects. And right now, I'm on the table.
"Maybe I'm just boring," I say.
"Nah. Boring people don't look like they're carrying the weight of the world. They look bored." He tilts his head. "You look like you're trying not to collapse."
Before I can respond, Scott drops into the seat next to Stiles, tray in hand. He glances between us, confused.
"Uh. Did I interrupt something?"
"Nope," Stiles says cheerfully. "Just interrogating our newest pack member."
"We're not a pack."
"We're a proto-pack. There's a difference."
Scott looks at me. "Is he bothering you?"
"Little bit."
"Good," Stiles says. "I live to bother."
Scott shakes his head and starts eating. My Haki picks up his emotional signature—calmer than Stiles', but with an undercurrent of loneliness. He's glad to have someone sitting with him. Glad Stiles dragged him over.
The three of us eat in relative silence. It's strange. Comfortable, almost. Like this was always supposed to happen.
First meal as a proto-pack.
The thought surfaces, and I shove it down. I'm not supposed to get attached. These people are characters in a story I half-remember, and getting close to them means watching them suffer. Watching them die.
But Stiles keeps talking, and Scott keeps smiling, and my Haki keeps picking up the edges of their bond—fierce and unshakable, even now.
And I stay.
Rebecca comes home smelling like antiseptic and exhaustion.
I'm in the kitchen, working through my third sandwich of the evening. My caloric needs have spiked—another side effect of the constant aura leakage. I'm eating twice what I used to, and Coach has noticed. He bought an extra jar of peanut butter yesterday without comment.
Rebecca drops her bag on the counter and pours herself a glass of wine. "Long shift?"
"Always." She leans against the counter, watching me. "How was school?"
"Fine."
She raises an eyebrow. "You say that a lot."
"Because it's true."
"Adam."
I sigh. "What do you want me to say?"
"The truth would be nice."
"I'm adjusting. School's school. Coach is Coach. Everything's fine."
She doesn't look convinced, but she lets it drop. Instead, she sips her wine and says, "I met someone at the hospital today. Melissa McCall. Her son goes to your school—Scott?"
I freeze mid-bite.
"Yeah. I know him."
"She's lovely. We got to talking during our break—bonding over ER horror stories." Rebecca smiles faintly. "And teenage sons who worry us."
"I don't—"
"She mentioned Scott's been struggling. Asthma, mostly. But also... isolation. He doesn't have many friends." She looks at me. "You could reach out. Be kind."
I stare at my sandwich. "We're lab partners. And he sits with me at lunch sometimes."
"Good." She sets her glass down. "I'm glad you're making friends. You've been so closed off since the move."
Since the move. Since Adam's father died. Since I woke up in a body that isn't mine.
I don't correct her. What would I even say?
Rebecca leans over and kisses the top of my head. "Get some sleep tonight. You look exhausted."
"Everyone keeps saying that."
"Because it's true."
She heads upstairs, leaving me alone in the kitchen. I finish the sandwich, my mind elsewhere.
The moms are connecting. Melissa and Rebecca. In the show, that alliance became crucial—covering for the pack, providing medical support, keeping secrets. But right now, they're just two women bonding over coffee and concern for their sons.
Useful or dangerous?
I don't know yet.
At 2 AM, I'm in the garage.
Coach's car is parked outside, so I've claimed the space for training. The overhead light flickers as I stand in the center of the oil-stained concrete, hands outstretched.
The tingling starts immediately. Warmth spreads from my palms, crawling up my forearms. I focus, trying to push it outward. To shape it into something tangible.
For a few seconds, it works. The shimmer appears—faint, almost invisible, but there. A thin layer of energy coating my hands.
Then exhaustion hits.
My knees buckle. I catch myself on a workbench, gasping for air. The shimmer fades, and the tingling turns into a dull ache. My vision swims.
Ten seconds. That's it. Ten seconds before I collapse.
I grit my teeth and try again.
The door slams open.
"What are you DOING out here at 2 AM?"
I spin around. Coach stands in the doorway, arms crossed, wearing a bathrobe and the expression of a man who's reached the end of his patience.
"And don't say homework," he adds, "because I'm not STUPID."
I straighten, heart hammering. The shimmer is gone, but the tingling lingers. "I was—"
"Working out?" He glances around the garage. "Where's the equipment? Where's the weights? Where's ANYTHING that explains why you're standing in the middle of an empty garage at 2 AM?"
I don't have a good answer. My brain scrambles for something believable, but nothing comes.
Coach steps inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. He's not yelling. That's somehow worse.
"You've been sneaking out here for a week," he says quietly. "I hear you. Every night. And I've been giving you space because I figured you were dealing with... whatever teenagers deal with. Grief. Confusion. Teenage ANGST." He gestures at me. "But you look like hell, Adam. And your mother's worried. So I'm asking—what are you doing?"
"I can't explain it."
"Try."
"I can't."
His jaw tightens. "Is it drugs?"
"No."
"Are you in trouble?"
"No."
"Then WHAT?"
I stare at him. The fluorescent light hums overhead. My Haki picks up his emotions—fear underneath the frustration. Real, gut-deep fear. He's terrified I'm going to end up like Adam's biological father. Dead under mysterious circumstances.
"I'm trying to figure something out," I say finally.
"Figure what out?"
"Something I inherited. From my dad."
Coach goes still. "Your dad."
"Yeah."
"The one who died."
"Yeah."
He exhales slowly. "And this 'something' involves you standing in a garage at 2 AM, looking like you're about to pass out."
I nod.
Coach rubs his face. "You're grounded."
"From what?"
"I don't know yet, but you're GROUNDED." He points at the door. "Inside. Now. And if I catch you out here again, I'm telling your mother everything."
"Coach—"
"INSIDE."
I go.
As I reach the door, he calls after me. "Adam."
I turn.
He's still standing in the middle of the garage, arms crossed, but his expression has softened. Just slightly.
"Whatever this is," he says, "you don't have to do it alone."
I don't know what to say to that. So I just nod and head inside.
Three weeks until the full moon.
I mark it on my calendar in red ink, then immediately cross it out. Too obvious. If anyone sees it—Coach, Rebecca, even Stiles—they'll ask questions I can't answer.
I rewrite it in code: Big game.
Coach won't question that. Lacrosse is an acceptable obsession.
I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the calendar. Three weeks. Twenty-one days. And then Scott gets bitten, and everything I vaguely remember from the show becomes real.
My hand throbs. I glance down at the bandage wrapped around my palm. I cut it during training earlier—pressed too hard against a piece of scrap metal. Deep enough to need stitches.
Except by the time I got inside, it had already stopped bleeding. And this morning, when I unwrapped the bandage, the wound was closed. Not healed completely—still pink and tender—but closed.
Six hours. A cut that should've taken days healed in six hours.
Phase 1 regeneration. Subtle but undeniable.
I don't know if I should be relieved or terrified.
Outside my window, the preserve stretches into darkness. Trees swaying in the wind, shadows moving between the trunks. Somewhere out there, an Alpha is waiting.
And I'm not ready.
Not even close.
But I don't have a choice. Ready or not, the clock is ticking.
I close the calendar and turn off the light.
Tomorrow, I'll train again. Push my Haki a little further. Hold the Nen shimmer a little longer.
And maybe—maybe—I'll be strong enough when the time comes.
Note:
Please give good reviews and power stones itrings more people and more people means more chapters?
My Patreon is all about exploring 'What If' timelines, and you can get instant access to chapters far ahead of the public release.
Choose your journey:
Timeline Viewer ($6): Get 10 chapters of early access + 5 new chapters weekly.
Timeline Explorer ($9): Jump 15-20 chapters ahead of everyone.
Timeline Keeper ($15): Get Instant Access to chapters the moment I finish writing them. No more waiting.
Read the raw, unfiltered story as it unfolds. Your support makes this possible!
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/Whatif0