The living room was tense with heavy silence.
Marcus was leaning against the fireplace, arms crossed, expression grim. My parents were sitting on the couch, my mother with her hands clasped in her lap so tightly her knuckles were white. I was in the armchair, still sore from the morning training, trying to process what Marcus had just told us about Peter Hale.
"He's in a coma," my mother said for the third time, as if repeating it might change reality. "Burned, broken. The doctors said he would probably never wake up."
"Doctors don't know about werewolf regeneration," Marcus replied. "Especially Alpha regeneration. Peter is healing. Slowly, but he is. And when he wakes up…" He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
"We need to do something," my mother said, her voice hardening. "He attacked our son. He almost killed him."
"And what do you suggest?" Marcus asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
My father stood up and walked to the window overlooking the darkened backyard.
"We go to the hospital," he said calmly. "We leave a warning. We let Peter Hale know he's not alone in this town. That there are consequences for attacking our family."
Marcus pushed himself off the fireplace, frowning.
"That could draw attention. Expose you. If someone sees—"
"No one will see," my mother interrupted, standing as well. There was something in her posture now—no longer the gentle teacher who made pancakes, but something older, more dangerous. "We're going with or without you, Marcus."
Marcus looked between my parents, then sighed heavily.
"Three Alpha-level Lupaztlán breaking into a hospital in the middle of the night. What could possibly go wrong?" There was resignation in his voice. "Fine. But we do it my way. Quiet, fast, no traces that can lead back to you."
"I'm coming too—" I started.
"No." My father turned from the window, voice firm. "You need to rest. And go to school tomorrow. Act normal."
"But—"
"Daniel." My mother came over, placing her hands on my shoulders. "We'll handle this. You focus on healing, on learning control. Okay?"
I wanted to argue. I wanted to say it was my fight too, that Peter had attacked me. But the look in her eyes left no room for discussion.
"Okay," I muttered reluctantly.
Marcus checked his watch.
"Two in the morning is best. Minimal staff, less movement." He looked at me. "Go sleep, nephew. Tomorrow we train early again. You'll need to be rested."
I couldn't sleep.
Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, I heard my parents and Marcus getting ready downstairs. Silent footsteps, low murmurs of planning. Then the soft sound of the back door opening and closing.
Silence.
I went to the window, pulling the curtain aside slightly. Three shadowy figures disappeared into the tree line, moving faster than humans should be able to. In seconds, they were completely gone.
I went back to bed, my mind racing.
Peter Hale was in a coma at Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital. In canon, he would eventually wake up, already an Alpha, already insane with rage and pain. But now there was a new variable—a threat he wasn't expecting.
Three Lupaztlán leaving a warning.
How would that change things? Would Peter back off? Or double down, seeing them as a greater threat?
I had no answers. Only more uncertainty.
Eventually, exhaustion beat anxiety, and I fell asleep.
I woke up to my alarm at 4:30 a.m., feeling like I had barely slept—which was basically true.
I went downstairs to find my parents in the kitchen, drinking coffee. They looked tired but satisfied.
"How did it go?" I asked immediately.
"No problems," my father said. "We went in, left our message, and left. No one saw us."
"What kind of message?"
My mother exchanged a look with my father.
"One he'll understand," she said simply. "The Lupaztlán symbol carved into the wall. A medallion. And a clear note: the attacks stop. Now."
"And if he doesn't stop?"
"Then we deal with it when it happens," my father said. "But Peter Hale may be crazy, but he's not stupid. He knows what Lupaztlán can do. Three of us together…" He shook his head. "Even an Alpha would think twice."
Marcus arrived minutes later, looking not at all tired despite the sleepless night.
"Ready to train?" he asked, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl.
My entire body ached just thinking about more exercise, but I nodded.
"Ready."
The morning training was brutal. Marcus made me practice partial transformations repeatedly—claws, then eyes, then armor in specific areas. Each attempt was an effort of will, my body wanting to either fully transform or not transform at all.
But little by little, I started to get the hang of it. Not perfect—far from it. But better.
"Good," Marcus said when he finally called a stop. "You're progressing. Faster than I expected, honestly."
"Doesn't feel fast," I muttered, wiping sweat from my forehead.
"Trust me, it is." He tossed me a water bottle. "Most Lupaztlán take weeks to achieve controlled partial transformation. You're doing it in days. The traumatic awakening… paradoxically may have given you an advantage. Your body already knows how to transform under pressure."
"Great. Almost dying had a silver lining."
Marcus smiled dryly.
"Every cloud. Go clean up. School's waiting."
Wednesday at Beacon Hills High started better than Tuesday.
My bandages were less bulky now—the wounds were healing impressively fast. They still hurt, especially if I moved wrong, but it was manageable pain.
Stiles found me in the hallway before first period.
"Hey, man!" He waved energetically. "You better today?"
"A bit," I answered honestly. "Still hurts, but better than before."
"Good! Because we've got plans for you." He grinned. "Lacrosse. Practice is Thursday. You HAVE to show up."
Lacrosse. Of course. The sport where Scott would discover his new werewolf powers, where everything would start to unravel.
"I've never played lacrosse," I said hesitantly.
"Even better! No bad habits. Plus, Scott and I are on the team. Well, Scott is. I warm the bench spectacularly." He laughed. "But it's fun. And we need more players."
Refusing would look strange. Suspicious, even.
"Okay," I agreed. "I'll try."
"Excellent!" Stiles slapped my shoulder—the uninjured one, thankfully. "Oh, and—"
The bell rang, cutting him off.
"Later! See you at lunch!" He ran down the hallway.
History class was when the first incident happened.
I was sitting in my usual spot in the back, half-listening to Mr. Harris droning on about the Revolutionary War. Scott and Stiles were on the other side of the room, three rows ahead.
Then I heard Stiles whisper—so quietly that no normal human should have been able to hear it across the noisy classroom.
"…and you're absolutely sure it was a wolf?"
My body went rigid. That shouldn't have been possible. They were too far away, and Harris was talking pretty loudly.
But I heard Scott respond, just as softly: "I KNOW what I saw, Stiles. It had red eyes. And when it bit me—"
Heightened hearing. Shit. Another power manifesting without control.
I tried to focus on the teacher, to block out their voices, but it was like trying not to hear a fire alarm. Every word came through crystal clear.
"Mr. Moreno?"
I startled, realizing Harris was staring at me.
"Yes, sir?"
"Are you paying attention? Or is the Revolutionary War too boring for you?"
Laughter rippled through the room. My face heated.
"Sorry, sir. Just… a headache."
Harris frowned but waved it off.
"Go to the nurse if you need to. Otherwise, pay attention."
"Yes, sir."
I forced myself to focus solely on Harris for the rest of the class, blocking out every other conversation. It was exhausting, like holding a door shut against a strong wind.
When the bell finally rang, I almost collapsed in relief.
Break brought more complications.
I was at my locker, switching books, when Stiles showed up again.
"Hey! Random question—do you play any sports? Like, have you played before?"
"I used to play soccer," I answered, closing the locker. "Why?"
"Perfect! So you've got coordination. Lacrosse is like soccer but with sticks and more violence." He grinned. "Practice Thursday at four. Don't forget!"
"I won't."
Scott showed up, backpack slung over one shoulder. Up close, I could see the tension in his face, the way his eyes kept scanning the hallway like he was expecting danger.
Transformation starting. His instincts sharpening.
"Hey," he said, studying me. "You're Daniel, right? New?"
As if we hadn't had lunch together yesterday. But maybe he was too distracted by his own changes to remember clearly.
"Yeah. Nice to meet you."
"Stiles inviting you to lacrosse?" Scott asked.
"Yeah. I'll try to show up."
"Cool." Scott smiled, but something was… off. He kept subtly sniffing, like he was trying to identify a scent he couldn't place.
Shit. Could he smell me? My mother's medicines, the poultices—probably stood out like a beacon to developing werewolf senses.
"Do you use some kind of… lotion?" Scott asked suddenly. "Or medicine? Just, like, curious."
Stiles kicked his ankle.
"Dude! You can't just sniff people! That's super weird!"
"It's not like that!" Scott protested, blushing. "It's just a strong smell. Like herbs, you know?"
"My mom's kind of a hippie," I improvised quickly. "Makes homemade remedies for injuries. Probably that."
Scott seemed to accept the explanation, relaxing slightly.
"Oh, cool. My mom works at the hospital—she's kind of into natural remedies too, sometimes."
The conversation drifted—Stiles complaining about a teacher, Scott mentioning an upcoming lacrosse game. Normal high school stuff.
But I could feel Scott still glancing at me occasionally, confusion evident. He knew something was different. He just didn't know what.
Lunch was when I met Allison Argent.
The cafeteria was crowded and noisy as always. I grabbed my tray—something claiming to be mac and cheese—and looked for an empty seat.
"Daniel! Here!" Stiles waved from a table near the windows.
I walked over and stopped.
Sitting next to Scott was a girl I hadn't seen yesterday. Dark brown hair, a friendly smile, kind eyes.
Allison Argent.
Daughter of hunters. Scott's future girlfriend. Someone who would eventually discover the supernatural world in the worst way possible.
And, more immediately relevant, a member of the family my parents and Marcus were worried about.
I took a deep breath and joined the table.
"Daniel, this is Allison," Stiles introduced. "She's new too. Allison, Daniel."
"Hi!" Allison smiled warmly. "When did you get here?"
"About three weeks ago," I replied casually.
"I got here last week." She laughed. "Still getting lost in the halls. My locker's on the third floor, but I keep going to the second by accident."
"Happens," I said, starting to eat.
The conversation flowed naturally—Stiles cracking jokes, Scott clearly interested in Allison (already starting), Allison being genuinely nice.
There was nothing about her that screamed "hunter." She seemed like just a normal girl, new in town, trying to make friends.
But I knew the truth. I knew her family had enough weapons to take down a small army. I knew her father, Chris, was probably monitoring supernatural activity in Beacon Hills right now.
The irony was almost funny. Here I was, a Lupaztlán, casually having lunch with an Argent.
"So where are you from?" Allison asked me.
"San Francisco," I replied. "My parents wanted somewhere quieter."
"Your parents are going to be disappointed," Stiles muttered. "Beacon Hills is anything but quiet lately."
"What do you mean?" Allison tilted her head, curious.
"Oh, you know, small-town drama," Stiles said quickly, but his eyes flicked briefly to Scott. "Nothing major."
They changed the subject quickly.
I was halfway through my mac and cheese when I heard a commotion near the food line.
A bully—Jackson Whittemore, I recognized—had shoved a smaller kid, sending his tray crashing to the floor. Food splattered everywhere, the kid looking humiliated and scared.
"Oops," Jackson said with exaggerated sarcasm. "Clumsy."
His friends laughed.
Anger burned in my chest. Instant, visceral, disproportionate to the situation.
And with the anger came heat.
My eyes—I could feel them changing. Burning. Glowing.
No, no, NO—
I lowered my head quickly, pretending to check my phone, blinking furiously. Breathe. Control. Calm down.
"You okay?" Stiles asked.
"Just… a headache," I muttered, keeping my eyes down until I was sure they were back to normal.
When I looked up, Stiles was watching me with that analytical expression he sometimes got—like he was trying to solve a puzzle.
"You get a lot of headaches," he commented.
"It's stress," I said. "New school, recovering from injuries. You know."
He nodded slowly, but didn't look fully convinced.
The rest of lunch passed without further incidents, but I stayed tense, hyper-aware of every emotion, every reaction.
One day. Not even one full day at school, and I'd nearly exposed myself twice.
Marcus was right. I needed control. Desperately.
Physical Education was the third—and nearly disastrous—time.
I had a medical excuse that exempted me from intense activity, but I still had to participate in stretching and light exercises. Coach Finstock didn't seem like the type to accept excuses easily, so I did the bare minimum.
I was stretching, reaching to touch my toes, when I moved wrong.
Sharp pain shot through my shoulder—the one where Peter had driven his claws deepest. The wound was healing well, but it wasn't one hundred percent yet.
I cursed under my breath, clutching my shoulder.
And I felt it.
Heat. Familiar and terrifying.
I looked down and my blood ran cold.
Under the bandage, beneath my gym shirt, I could see—translucent bone plates beginning to form. Not fully manifested, but definitely there, flickering in and out like a faulty hologram.
Absolute panic.
"I need the bathroom!" I practically shouted, bolting for the locker room.
"Moreno, you just—" Finstock started, but I was already gone.
I locked myself in a bathroom stall, hands shaking, breathing fast.
The bone plates were spreading—shoulder, upper chest, starting to go down my arm.
No. Not here. Not now.
I closed my eyes, remembering Marcus's training.
Breathe. Deeply. Feel the transformation, but tell it to stop.
Inside, feel it, control it.
You're in command. Not the wolf.
Slow, focused breathing. Reaching that pulsing presence beneath my skin and gently, firmly, telling it to retreat.
The plates hesitated. Then, agonizingly slowly, they began to dissolve back under my skin.
It took several minutes of intense concentration, but they finally vanished completely.
I opened my eyes, still trembling. Sweat poured down my face. My heart hammered.
But I was back to normal. Completely human.
I stepped out of the stall on weak legs.
Finstock was waiting in the locker room, arms crossed.
"You alright, Moreno?"
"Just… dizzy," I lied. "Still recovering. Can I sit out the rest of class?"
He studied me—saw the paleness of my face, the sweat, the shaking.
"Go to the nurse," he said, not unkindly. "And if you're still feeling off, maybe skip P.E. for a few more days."
"Thanks, sir."
I spent the rest of the period sitting in the nurse's office, pretending to have a migraine while internally having a controlled meltdown.
Three times.
Three damn times in one day I'd nearly exposed myself.
This wasn't sustainable.
When I got home that afternoon, emotionally and physically exhausted, Marcus was waiting.
"Your parents told me you had… difficulties today," he said without preamble.
I dropped my backpack on the kitchen floor.
"I almost transformed. Three times. Heightened hearing in first period. Eyes glowing at lunch. Bone armor started to emerge in P.E." I ran my hands through my hair. "I can't control it. All it takes is a little stress or anger and my body decides to do supernatural things."
"Normal," Marcus said calmly. "You awakened violently. Your body is still adjusting, learning when to transform and when not to."
"'Normal' doesn't help when I'm sitting next to an Argent at lunch!"
That made Marcus pause.
"You met Allison Argent?"
"She's at my school. Ate lunch at my table today." I collapsed into a chair. "It's like a living nightmare. Hunter family on one side, werewolves on the other, and me in the middle trying not to accidentally transform."
Marcus pulled out a chair and sat across from me.
"We train," he said. "Now. Basic control. And you keep training until you master it."
"And if I don't master it in time?"
"Then you learn to avoid triggers until you do." He stood up. "Come on. Backyard."
That afternoon's training was different from the morning's.
Instead of practicing transformation, Marcus made me work on not transforming.
"Close your eyes," he instructed. "Breathe. Feel the transformation—that pull, that heat. But don't let it come."
I closed my eyes, breathing. I could feel it—that pulsing presence, always there now, waiting.
"Now I'm going to provoke you," Marcus said. "I'm going to make you angry, stressed. Your job is not to transform. No matter what."
"What? How are you—"
He shoved my shoulder. Hard.
Pain flared through my injuries. Instant anger burned.
I felt my eyes changing—
"NO," Marcus ordered. "Breathe through it. Control."
I clenched my fists, breathing hard, forcing the transformation down.
He shoved me again. Then again.
"Your family is in danger," he said, voice harsh. "Peter Hale is coming for them. And you can't do anything because you can't control yourself."
The words were needles. Designed to hurt, to provoke.
Claws tried to emerge. Fangs wanted to lengthen.
I fought them, sweat pouring.
"Pathetic," Marcus continued mercilessly. "You call yourself Lupaztlán? You can barely stay human through a school class."
Rage. So much rage.
But I held it. Breathing, focusing, refusing to let the transformation win.
"Good," Marcus said, his tone softening slightly. "Now, transform."
"What—"
"Transform. Partially. Control where it goes."
The emotional whiplash was disorienting. But I tried.
I reached for the transformation—just claws. Only that.
They emerged. But with them came fangs. And the start of bone armor along my forearm.
"DAMN IT!" Frustration exploded. "I can't! It doesn't work!"
"It takes time," Marcus said calmly. "Months. Years for full mastery."
"I DON'T HAVE months!" I snapped. "I almost exposed myself today! What if tomorrow is worse? What if I lose control in front of everyone?"
The anger, frustration, fear—all together was too much.
The transformation EXPLODED.
Bone armor covered my torso chaotically, plates emerging wildly. Claws fully extended. Fangs lengthened. Eyes burning amber.
An involuntary snarl tore from my throat.
"DANIEL."
Marcus's voice cut through the red haze. Firm. Commanding.
"Look at me."
I turned my head, predatory instinct screaming. He was a threat. I needed to—
But then I saw.
Marcus had transformed too. Partially. Perfect control—only amber eyes, only enough armor to show he was Lupaztlán.
Amber eyes met amber eyes.
"You are in control," he said, calm but unshakable. "NOT the wolf. NOT the berserker. YOU. Daniel Moreno. My nephew. In command."
Something in those words—my nephew—broke through.
I breathed. Once. Twice.
The transformation hesitated.
Three times. Four.
Gradually, painfully, it retreated.
Armor dissolving. Claws retracting. Eyes returning to normal brown.
When it was over, I collapsed to the ground, completely exhausted.
Marcus shifted back too, sitting beside me.
"Better," he said. "You came back on your own this time."
"It felt like… it wasn't me," I admitted hoarsely. "Like something else was trying to take over."
"It's part of the lineage," Marcus explained. "The wolf, the berserker—they have their own instincts. But you're human too. And the human part leads. It has to."
We sat in silence for a moment.
"Will it get easier?" I asked finally.
"It will," Marcus promised. "With training, with time. Eventually, transforming and not transforming will be as natural as breathing. But it takes work."
"How long did it take you?"
"Six months for basic control. A year before I felt comfortable." He smiled slightly. "But I awakened normally, with family guiding me from the start. You're learning in fast-forward."
Great. No pressure.
"We train every day," Marcus said, standing and offering a hand. "Early morning and late afternoon. Until you master it. Deal?"
I took his hand, letting him pull me to my feet.
"Deal."
Dinner that night was a family affair.
My parents, Marcus, and I around the table, my mother serving enchiladas that smelled incredible. Light conversation—how the day went, what was happening in town, weekend plans.
Normal. I could almost pretend we were just a normal family.
Then the phone rang.
My father answered, expression casual. Then it changed.
"When?" Pause. "I understand. Thank you for letting me know."
He hung up slowly, looking at all of us.
"It was the hospital," he said. "They have a… situation."
"What kind of situation?" Marcus asked, already tense.
"Peter Hale woke up from the coma," my father continued. "This morning."
Absolute silence.
My mother set her fork down slowly.
"Did he see the message?"
"The nurses said he became… agitated when he woke up," my father said. "Asked about marks on the wall, a medallion. They thought it was post-coma confusion."
"But it wasn't," I said quietly.
"No." Marcus stood, starting to pace. "He saw it. He knows."
"And now?" I asked.
Marcus stopped, looking out the window at the darkened forest beyond.
"Now we wait to see if he understood the warning," he said grimly. "If he backs off."
My father joined him at the window, posture tense.
"Or if he decided it's worth challenging three Lupaztlán."
The weight of those words hung over the table.
Peter Hale was awake. He knew there were other supernatural creatures in town. Creatures who had entered his territory while he was helpless and left a threat.
How would he respond?
And more importantly—how long did we have before we found out?