Chapter 5: The Body in the Woods - Part 2
Scott is shaking so hard I can feel it through his jacket.
"We need to move. Now."
I haul him upright. He's dead weight, legs barely cooperating. Blood soaks through his shirt, warm and sticky against my hands. The wound is bad—four deep gashes across his ribs that should require an ambulance, not a panicked teenager dragging him through the woods.
But we don't have time for ambulances.
In the distance, dogs bark. Flashlights sweep through the trees. The Sheriff's search teams are converging, and if they find us here—blood-soaked and miles from any logical explanation—questions will follow. Questions I can't answer.
"Come on, Scott. Move."
He stumbles forward. Fifty yards later, recognition hits him.
"Greenburg?"
"Yeah."
"What—what are you—"
"Explanations later. Run now."
My Haki is still screaming. The Alpha's presence is gone, but the echo lingers like a ringing in my ears. Every step sends a spike of pain through my skull. Blood drips from my nose—slow but steady. I wipe it away with my sleeve and keep moving.
Scott's breathing is ragged. Not from exertion—from shock. His free hand clutches his side, fingers slick with blood. But underneath the panic, my Haki picks up something else. Confusion. Because the pain is fading.
Too fast.
I don't say it. Instead, I guide him through the trees, tracking the search teams' emotional signatures to avoid them. Left around the oak grove. Right past the creek bed. Straight toward the service road where my car is hidden.
"I don't—I can't—"
"You can. Keep moving."
We break through the tree line. My car sits exactly where I left it, tucked behind a cluster of pines. I fumble for my keys, unlock the doors, and shove Scott into the passenger seat.
He collapses against the leather, chest heaving. Blood streaks the upholstery. I'll worry about that later.
I slide into the driver's seat and start the engine. The headlights cut through the darkness as I pull onto the service road, gravel crunching under the tires.
Scott stares at me. "What were you doing here?"
The question hangs between us. I'd prepared an answer—rehearsed it during the drive over, knowing this moment would come. But now, with his blood on my hands and the Alpha's presence still burning in my memory, the lie feels hollow.
"Couldn't sleep," I say. "Went for a drive. Saw flashlights. Heard screaming."
"That's—"
"Convenient? Yeah. But it's the truth."
It's not. But it's close enough.
Scott doesn't push. He's too disoriented, too focused on the wound that's already healing. I catch him glancing down at his side, fingers probing the gashes. They're still bleeding, but slower now. The edges are knitting together, pink tissue forming where there should be raw flesh.
He doesn't say anything. Maybe he doesn't believe what he's seeing. Maybe he thinks it's shock.
I drive in silence, hands tight on the wheel. My Haki is recovering slowly, the feedback loop stabilizing into something manageable. But the migraine remains—dull and persistent, throbbing behind my eyes.
The streets are empty. Beacon Hills at 3 AM is a ghost town—streetlights casting long shadows, storefronts dark and lifeless. I take the long route to Scott's house, avoiding Main Street and the Sheriff's station.
When we pull up to the curb, his mom's car is gone. Night shift. Of course.
Scott unbuckles his seatbelt, moving slowly. The blood on his shirt has dried into stiff patches. The wound beneath—barely visible through the torn fabric—is almost closed. Four pink lines where there should be gaping claw marks.
He stares at it. Then at me.
"This isn't normal."
"No."
"What—what did that to me?"
I don't answer. Can't answer. Because the truth—you were bitten by a werewolf and your life just became a supernatural nightmare—sounds insane. Even if it's real.
"I don't know," I say instead.
He doesn't believe me. His Haki signature spikes—fear mixed with suspicion. But he's too exhausted to argue.
"Why did you help?" he asks.
The question is quiet. Genuine. Like he genuinely doesn't understand why someone would pull him out of the woods instead of leaving him to bleed out.
Because you would've done the same.
The answer surfaces automatically, and I realize it's true. Scott McCall—even now, even before the bite—is the kind of person who helps. Who sees someone in trouble and doesn't think twice.
"Because you would've done the same," I say.
He studies me for a long moment. Then nods.
"Thanks."
"Yeah."
He climbs out of the car, moving stiffly. I watch him stumble up the walkway, fumble with his keys, and disappear inside. The porch light clicks off.
I sit in the driver's seat, engine idling, hands shaking.
It's started.
The thought loops. Everything I vaguely remember from the show—the transformations, the hunters, the deaths—is in motion now. And I'm part of it. No longer an observer. No longer safe on the sidelines.
My stomach growls.
The hunger hits like a freight train. Sudden and vicious, gnawing at my insides. The adrenaline crash combined with Haki overload has left me ravenous. I need food. Now.
I drive to the only place open at this hour—a 24-hour diner on the edge of town. The neon sign flickers: MEL'S - OPEN ALL NIGHT. I park and stumble inside.
The waitress—middle-aged, tired—barely glances at me as I slide into a booth. "Coffee?"
"And everything on the breakfast menu."
She raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. Twenty minutes later, she returns with pancakes, eggs, bacon, hash browns, and toast. I eat like I haven't seen food in days. The caloric crash demands fuel, and my body doesn't care about subtlety.
By the time I finish, the migraine has faded to a dull throb. My hands have stopped shaking. The Haki is quiet—still active, but manageable.
I pay and leave.
Coach is in the kitchen when I get home.
It's 4 AM. He's sitting at the table in his bathrobe, mug of coffee in hand, staring at nothing. The overhead light is harsh, casting deep shadows under his eyes.
He doesn't look up when I walk in. Just slides a plate of leftovers across the table.
Cold meatloaf. Mashed potatoes. Green beans.
I sit. We eat in silence.
His Haki signature is a mess—worry, frustration, fear all tangled together. He wants to ask. Wants to demand answers. But he doesn't.
Because he's terrified of what I might say.
After a while, he speaks.
"You hurt?"
"No."
"Your friend?"
"He'll be fine."
Coach nods slowly. "Good."
Silence stretches. I finish the meatloaf. He drains his coffee.
"Your mother can never know," he says finally.
"I know."
"She's already worried. If she finds out you're sneaking into the woods at 3 AM—"
"She won't."
He looks at me. Really looks at me. And for the first time since I woke up in this body, I see something other than confusion or frustration in his eyes.
Fear.
"Whatever you're doing," he says quietly, "don't get yourself killed."
"I'm trying."
"Try harder."
He stands, rinses his mug in the sink, and leaves. His footsteps creak up the stairs, then silence.
I sit alone in the kitchen, staring at the empty plate. The Alpha's red eyes are burned into my memory. The way it looked at me—not with animal instinct, but with intelligence. Like it knew exactly what I was.
Void-touched.
Peter's voice echoes in my head, though I don't know why. The memory isn't mine. It's Adam's. Or maybe it's something deeper—knowledge that surfaced from the void, fragmented and incomplete.
I push away from the table and head upstairs.
My room is exactly as I left it. Bed unmade. Clothes on the floor. Calendar on the wall with the full moon circled and crossed out.
Three weeks.
Scott has three weeks to learn control before the moon drags the wolf out of him. Three weeks before everything spirals.
I collapse onto the bed without bothering to change. Blood stains my shirt—Scott's blood, dried and stiff. I should care. Should do something about it.
But I'm too tired.
The last thing I think before sleep drags me under is this:
Scott's life just ended and began. And I'm part of the story now.
There's no going back.
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