I woke up with a jolt, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The dream was already slipping away, running through my memory like sand through my fingers. Fragments lingered—crackling fire, voices chanting in a language I didn't recognize but that felt strangely right, and something about bones. Always bones.
And eyes. Dozens of glowing eyes in the darkness, watching, judging.
I ran a hand over my face, sweaty despite the cool morning air drifting in through the half-open window. It was Sunday. My last day of freedom before starting Beacon Hills High tomorrow.
The last day before everything began to fall apart.
I glanced at the digital clock on my nightstand: 8:47 AM. Downstairs, I heard the muffled murmur of voices—my parents were already awake. The smell of coffee and something frying wafted up the stairs, comforting and familiar.
Normal.
Except nothing about this situation was normal.
I got out of bed, pulling on a clean T-shirt over the sweatpants I'd slept in. I needed to act normal. I couldn't let my parents notice that I was suspicious of them, that I had started questioning everything about our move here.
That I knew Beacon Hills wasn't an ordinary town.
I went downstairs slowly, each step creaking softly beneath my weight. The voices in the kitchen grew clearer, but they stopped abruptly when I reached the hallway.
When I stepped into the kitchen, my mother was by the stove, flipping pancakes with mechanical movements. My father sat at the table with his phone to his ear, but when he saw me, he said quickly, "I have to go. I'll talk to you Monday." Then he hung up.
"Good morning, sweetheart!" My mother smiled, but there was something tired in her expression. Dark circles under her eyes suggested a restless night. "Did you sleep well?"
"More or less," I answered honestly, grabbing a glass and filling it with orange juice. "I had some weird dreams."
There was the briefest pause. My mother hesitated for a fraction of a second before flipping the pancake again. My father looked at her, then at me.
"New school anxiety," he said in that tone adults use when they want to shut down a conversation. "Completely normal."
I sat at the table, picking up a pancake from the plate my mother set in front of me. "Who was on the phone?"
"Work," my father replied too quickly. "Nothing important."
I looked at him over my fork. "But it's Sunday. Since when do accounting firms call on Sundays?"
My mother turned from the stove, looking at my father with an expression I couldn't quite read. He opened his mouth, closed it, then smiled unconvincingly.
"Important client. You know how it is—rich people don't understand weekends." He took a sip of coffee. "But enough about work. Excited for tomorrow? First day of school?"
The subject change was so abrupt it would've been funny if it weren't so obviously deliberate.
"Excited isn't exactly the word," I said, deciding to drop the phone topic—for now. "Nervous, maybe."
"You'll do great," my mother said, coming to sit with us, coffee mug in hand. "You've always made friends easily."
Had I? I barely remembered what I'd been like in my previous life. The memories of that world were coming back, but they were more about knowledge—facts, events, people I'd seen on a screen. Not about who I was.
"We're going out for a few hours," my father announced suddenly. "We need to do some shopping, take care of a few things around town. You'll be okay on your own?"
"Of course." I was sixteen, not six. But the way they exchanged looks made me think "shopping" wasn't exactly what they were going to do.
I finished breakfast in silence while my parents talked about mundane things—which grocery store had the best prices, whether they should buy office supplies now or wait. Perfectly normal conversation between perfectly normal people.
But I couldn't stop noticing the small details that would've slipped past me before. The way my mother gripped her coffee mug too tightly, her knuckles turning white. The way my father checked his phone every few minutes, like he was waiting for an important message.
The way they both avoided my gaze for too long.
Forty minutes later, I heard the car pull out of the garage. I went to the living room window and watched my father's pickup disappear down the street.
Alone.
I stood there for a moment, listening to the quiet house. The clock on the wall ticked steadily. Outside, a bird sang.
And then I made a decision.
If my parents were hiding something from me, it was time to find out what.
I started in the living room—carefully, without making a mess. I opened drawers, checked behind books on the shelves, looked under the couch. Nothing but the usual items of a normal family.
The kitchen revealed even less. A pantry full of food, a normal fridge, drawers with ordinary utensils.
I went upstairs to their bedroom. It felt like a bigger invasion of privacy, and I hesitated at the door for a full minute before going in. But the need to know outweighed the guilt.
The room was tidy, almost austere. The bed made with military precision, clothes organized in the closet by color and type. I checked drawers—clothes, normal documents, nothing suspicious.
I was about to give up when something caught my eye: a hatch in the ceiling of the upstairs hallway.
The attic.
I pulled the cord, and a folding ladder dropped down with a metallic creak. Dusty, warm air drifted down as I climbed up, using my phone's flashlight to light the way.
The attic was exactly what I expected—stacked boxes, old furniture covered in sheets, the smell of mold and aged wood. Nothing extraordinary.
Until I opened the third box.
Books. Lots of books—but not the kind you'd find in a normal library. The titles were in languages I didn't recognize—some looked like Latin, others had characters that might have been Celtic or runic. One was entirely made up of symbols that reminded me of Aztec hieroglyphs I'd seen in history class.
I picked up one of the books carefully, flipping through the yellowed pages. Intricate drawings of creatures—some I recognized from my memories of Teen Wolf. Werewolves in various stages of transformation. Banshees. Kanimas.
And others I didn't recognize.
My hand trembled when I reached a particular page. The illustration showed a humanoid figure, but covered in what looked like… bone plates. Emerging from the shoulders, arms, torso. The eyes were drawn with a peculiar glow—not fully golden like a werewolf's, not red like an Alpha's.
Something in between.
Beneath the illustration was a single word in a language I shouldn't have known, yet somehow understood:
Lupaztlán.
Bone Wolf.
My heart raced. I snapped the book shut as if it might burn me and put it back in the box. But something fell out with a metallic clink.
A medallion.
It was circular, about the size of my palm, made of a dark metal that looked like silver but felt heavier. On the front, engraved in intricate detail, was a symbol—a stylized wolf entwined with what looked like bones, all encircled by runes I couldn't read.
The metal was cold to the touch, but as I held it, it began to warm. Not uncomfortably—just… aware. As if it knew I was holding it.
A sound from outside made me freeze.
A car.
My parents were back.
Quickly, I shoved the medallion into the pocket of my sweatpants, put the books back exactly as they were, and climbed down the attic ladder as quietly as possible. I closed the hatch and was halfway down the main stairs when I heard the front door open.
"…we can't keep delaying this," my mother was saying. "He needs to know before—"
She stopped abruptly when she saw me at the bottom of the stairs.
"Hey!" I forced a casual smile. "You're back early."
"The stores were emptier than we thought," my father said, carrying a few grocery bags. Nothing that looked urgent. Definitely nothing that justified interrupting a Sunday for "essential shopping."
"I'm going out for a bit," I announced. "Thought I'd explore the town more before school tomorrow. Maybe find the library."
"Good idea!" My mother looked far too relieved. "A library card will be useful. Want us to drive you?"
"No, I'll walk. I need to get to know the area."
"Take your phone," my father said, heading into the kitchen with the groceries. "And be back before dinner."
I went upstairs quickly to change and grab my backpack. The medallion was still in my sweatpants pocket. I transferred it to the pocket of my denim jacket, along with my phone and wallet.
The library was a twenty-minute walk from our neighborhood, in the relatively small downtown area of Beacon Hills. The building was red brick, old but well maintained, with large windows that let in plenty of sunlight.
Inside, it smelled like old books and coffee—apparently there was a café attached. A few people studied at scattered tables, mostly college students or high schoolers finishing last-minute homework.
"Can I help you?"
I turned to see a young woman behind the information desk. She looked to be in her mid-to-late twenties, brown hair pulled into a loose bun, thin-framed glasses, and a friendly smile.
"Uh, yeah. I'm new in town and wanted to get a library card. And maybe see if you have a local history section?"
"Of course!" She grabbed a form. "Name?"
"Daniel. Daniel Moreno."
She wrote it down as I gave her the necessary information—address, date of birth, phone number.
"Moreno…" she repeated thoughtfully. "You look familiar. Haven't we met before?"
"I don't think so. I just moved here a few weeks ago."
"Hm. Well, welcome to Beacon Hills." She handed me a temporary card. "Local history is in the reference section, back there. Let me show you."
I followed her through the stacks to a quieter part of the library. She gestured to several shelves.
"Here we have old newspaper archives, books on Beacon Hills history, records of old families. Looking for anything specific?"
"Just… general curiosity," I lied. "And maybe something about symbols. Aztec, specifically."
If she thought that was strange, she didn't show it. "Anthropology and ancient cultures are one section over. Good luck!"
She walked away, and I began searching.
The first hour was frustrating. I found plenty of books on Beacon Hills history—the town's founding in 1856, founding families, the growth of the lumber industry. Nothing supernatural. Nothing about werewolves.
Which made sense. That kind of thing wouldn't be in public records.
I was about to give up when I found a newspaper article in a bound collection from 2005:
"TRAGEDY STRIKES HALE FAMILY — 9 DEAD IN FIRE"
I read the article with morbid focus. I recognized some names—Talia Hale, the matriarch. Her children, including Laura and Derek. The article mentioned that Derek and Laura had survived because they weren't home at the time of the fire.
But what caught my attention was a line at the end:
"The Hale family was one of Beacon Hills' oldest, with records dating back more than 150 years. Local sources described them as pillars of the community, deeply involved in forest conservation and environmental protection."
Forest conservation. Environmental protection.
Euphemisms, obviously.
I kept digging through old records, looking for more mentions of the Hales or other "old families." I found a few references—the Argents were mentioned too, though they'd only arrived in town in recent decades.
Then, in a 1998 high school yearbook, I found something interesting.
A graduation photo. A group of smiling students, arms around each other. In the corner of the photo, almost out of frame, was a decorative plaque on the wall behind them.
A symbol.
Subtle, not obvious. Just part of the décor. But I recognized the patterns—similar to those on the medallion in my pocket.
And one of the people in the photo…
My blood went cold.
It was my mother. Younger, with longer hair, but unmistakably her. And beside her stood a man I didn't recognize, his arm protectively around her shoulders.
I flipped the page to see the names listed beneath the photo:
"Senior Class 1998 — Isabella Mendoza, Marcus Mendoza, Sarah Chen, David Park…"
Mendoza. My mother's maiden name.
And Marcus Mendoza… a brother? A cousin?
Why had my mother never mentioned that she'd gone to school in Beacon Hills?
"Find anything interesting?"
I nearly jumped out of my seat. The librarian—whose name I still didn't know—stood beside me, carrying a stack of books to reshelve.
"Just… browsing," I said, closing the yearbook. "It's fascinating how much history this town has."
"Yes, Beacon Hills has many… secrets." The way she said secrets made me look at her more closely. There was something in her eyes—knowledge, maybe. Or was I just becoming paranoid?
"Thanks for your help," I said, standing up. "I think I got what I needed."
"Come back anytime. And Daniel?" She smiled. "Be careful in the woods at night. Especially now."
I froze. "What?"
"Coyotes," she said casually. "They've been more active lately. Lots of reports of howling at night. Best to stay home after dark."
Right. Coyotes.
"I'll keep that in mind."
I left the library with my head spinning. My mother had gone to school here. Beacon Hills wasn't a random place we'd moved to—it was a return. And she'd hidden that from me.
Why?
I was so lost in thought that I didn't see the person coming toward me until I collided with them head-on.
"Whoa!"
A stack of books hit the ground with a loud thud. I looked up, and my heart sank.
Stiles Stilinski was staring at me with his signature mix of surprise and irritation.
"Dude, you gotta watch where you're—" He paused, squinting. "Wait. You're that kid from The Beacon yesterday. The one who kept staring at me."
"I wasn't staring," I said automatically, crouching to help pick up the books. "Sorry about that."
"It's fine, it's fine." Stiles gathered the books quickly. I glanced at the titles as I helped—Unsolved Crimes of Beacon Hills, Patterns of Animal Attacks in California, Nocturnal Predator Behavior.
Of course. He was investigating the body they'd find tonight.
"You've got some… interesting interests," I commented before thinking.
Stiles raised an eyebrow. "Says the guy coming out of the local history section of a library on a Sunday. No judgment—I don't judge, you don't judge."
Fair point.
"I'm Stiles, by the way. Stiles Stilinski." He held out a hand, balancing the books with his other arm.
"Daniel. Daniel Moreno." I shook his hand. "New in town."
"Yeah! I saw you yesterday. You looked kind of… I don't know, freaked out? Like you'd seen a ghost or something."
If only he knew.
"Just nervous," I said—the same excuse as before. "I start at Beacon Hills High tomorrow."
"Seriously? What year?"
"Sophomore."
"Same! Well, me and my best friend Scott. You should sit with us at lunch tomorrow. The cafeteria food is a tragedy, but the company's good." He smiled, genuinely friendly, and I felt a twinge of guilt.
I knew so much about Stiles Stilinski. About his mother, his sheriff father, his unshakable loyalty to Scott and the pack they'd form. I knew he was Scott's anchor, the brains of the operation, the human who proved you didn't need claws to be a hero.
And here he was, offering friendship to a complete stranger, with no idea that stranger knew some of the worst moments of his life.
"That'd be nice," I managed.
"Awesome!" Stiles adjusted the books. "Oh, and be careful in the woods at night."
Again. "Why?"
"My dad—he's the sheriff—said something weird's been going on. Animal attacks, people reporting strange stuff. Nothing confirmed, but better safe than sorry, you know?" He shrugged. "Probably just coyotes, but still."
"Got it."
"Cool. Well, I gotta go. Scott's waiting for me. We've got some… plans tonight."
My stomach tightened. Plans. Going into the woods to look for half a body. Then Scott would be bitten, and everything would begin.
"Be careful," I said—and I meant it.
Stiles gave me a strange look. "…Okay. You too, man."
He walked away, and I stood there on the sidewalk, watching him go.
The decision I'd been avoiding could no longer be postponed.
I had to choose: let things play out the way they "were supposed to," or intervene.
The rest of the day passed in a blur.
I went home, avoided my parents as much as possible, pretended to study for tomorrow. But my mind was elsewhere.
The medallion in my jacket pocket felt heavier than it should have. I took it out several times throughout the afternoon, turning it over in my fingers, tracing the engraved symbols.
Lupaztlán.
What were my parents? What was I?
Dinner was tense. My mother made lasagna—my favorite—and tried to make cheerful conversation about school tomorrow. My father was quieter, checking his phone periodically.
"You seem distracted," my mother said. "Everything okay?"
"Just anxious," I lied. I was getting good at it.
"You'll be fine," she repeated, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. Her fingers were warm, and for a moment I saw something in her eyes—genuine concern, maternal love.
But also fear.
What was she afraid of?
At 9:00 PM, I fake-yawned and announced I was going to bed early. Needed to be well-rested for tomorrow. My parents looked relieved.
In my room, I waited. I changed into dark clothes—black jeans, black T-shirt, dark jacket. On impulse, I slipped the medallion around my neck, hiding it beneath my shirt. I grabbed my phone, making sure it was on silent.
At 10:30 PM, I heard the TV downstairs—my parents watching something. Normal voices, no tension.
I opened my bedroom window slowly, grateful it faced the backyard rather than the front of the house. The nearby tree was conveniently close. I'd climbed trees as a kid—this body still remembered.
I climbed down quietly, gripping branches, finding footholds. When I reached the ground, I paused, listening.
Nothing but the normal sounds of the night.
I started walking toward the woods.
Beacon Hills at night had a different quality. Streetlights cast weak yellow pools in the darkness. Lit windows showed families in their nightly routines—watching TV, cleaning up after dinner, living normal lives.
Unaware that tonight would change everything.
The woods began where the town ended. There was no clear boundary—just houses growing farther apart, lawns blending into brush, until suddenly you were among trees.
I used my phone's flashlight to light the path, keeping it pointed downward. I didn't want to be obvious.
According to my fragmented memories of the show, Scott and Stiles would come looking for half a body that had been found. Stiles had heard it on the police scanner. They'd search the woods, get caught by Stiles's dad, and Scott would run—and get bitten.
But where exactly?
The woods were huge.
I was starting to think I'd made a mistake when I heard voices.
"…I can't believe I talked you into this," said a voice I recognized as Stiles.
"You did not talk me into this, I came because I'm an idiot," another voice—Scott.
I stopped, turned off the flashlight. My eyes adjusted to the moonlit darkness. Through the trees, I saw two figures moving.
My heart was pounding so loudly I was sure they could hear it.
I stayed hidden behind a thick tree, watching Scott and Stiles search with their own flashlights. They were talking, nervously joking, completely unaware.
And then I heard something they didn't.
A sound in the brush. Movement.
Something big.
My body reacted before my mind could catch up. Every muscle tensed. The medallion beneath my shirt suddenly grew hot—not painfully, but impossibly noticeable.
And then, in the silence of the Beacon Hills woods, I heard the sound that would change everything:
The howl of an Alpha.
Deep, resonant, primal. It cut through the night like a blade, sending birds exploding from the trees in panic, small animals scrambling for cover.
Making my blood run cold.
Scott and Stiles heard it too. I saw their heads snap up, flashlights swinging wildly.
"WHAT WAS THAT?!" Stiles yelled.
"RUN!" Scott shouted back.
They took off, splitting up in the chaos.
And I stood there, frozen, as another presence made itself known in the woods.
Something was coming.
Something was coming for Scott.
Something was coming…
For me.