The morning air was thick with fog, the kind that clung to the skin and muffled sound. Scott McCall stumbled through the forest, his steps uneven and his breathing ragged. His hands and mouth were stained with blood—crimson smears that he couldn't scrub away, no matter how hard he tried. He didn't want to think about where it had come from or what he might have done.
A twig snapped behind him.
Scott froze, his heart thundering in his chest. The forest was silent save for the faint rustling of leaves in the mist. Slowly, he turned his head, scanning the area. That's when he saw it—a shadowy form crouched at the base of a nearby tree.
The fog made it hard to discern its features at first, but as the creature shifted, Scott's breath caught. It was the same beast that had bitten him two nights ago, the creature that had set his life on a terrifying new trajectory. Its red eyes gleamed like burning embers, locking onto him with predatory intent.
Scott bolted.
Adrenaline surged through his veins as he tore through the woods. He ran faster than he'd ever thought possible, his movements almost too quick for his mind to keep up with. Behind him, the creature gave chase, its snarls echoing through the trees. Scott glanced back, his blood running cold as he realized it was gaining on him.
The forest blurred around him as he pushed himself harder, leaping over fallen logs and ducking under low-hanging branches. Cresting a hill, he spotted a wooden fence ahead. Without hesitation, he vaulted over it.
The ground gave way beneath him, and suddenly he was plunging into cold water.
Scott surfaced with a gasp, the blood on his hands and face swirling away in the rippling pool. He blinked, disoriented, realizing he was in someone's backyard swimming pool.
"Good morning," Scott muttered, coughing up water as he climbed out.
Russell Mulcahy, the homeowner, stood nearby, a garden hose in one hand and a look of utter bewilderment on his face.
Scott gave him a sheepish smile before bolting, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind.
Later that day, the halls of Beacon Hills High School buzzed with activity. Scott stood at his locker, swapping out books for lacrosse gear when a familiar voice interrupted him.
"McCall!"
Scott turned to see Jackson Whittemore, his expression a mix of smugness and irritation. Both were wearing their lacrosse practice uniforms.
"What's up, Jackson?" Scott asked, trying to sound casual.
"What's up?" Jackson repeated with a sarcastic laugh. "I'll tell you what's up. Your sudden ability to actually play lacrosse. Don't think I haven't noticed."
Scott frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about your 'juice,'" Jackson said, leaning closer.
"My mom does all our grocery shopping," Scott said, confused.
Jackson rolled his eyes. "Steroids, McCall. I'm saying you're juicing."
Scott blinked, the accusation catching him off guard. "Wait, you think I'm—"
Jackson grabbed Scott by the collar and shoved him against the lockers. "Don't play dumb. Nobody goes from benchwarmer to MVP overnight. What are you on?"
Anger flared in Scott's chest. He felt a heat rising within him, a sudden heat rose from his core with something raw and primal gripping at his heart
Before he knew it, he grabbed Jackson by the arms and spun him around, slamming him against the lockers with enough force to rattle them. Jackson's eyes widened in shock as Scott pinned him effortlessly.
"I don't know what's happening to me," Scott said through gritted teeth, his voice shaking. "But I think I'm losing my mind."
For a moment, neither moved. Scott released Jackson, his hands trembling as he stepped back. Jackson straightened his jersey, his expression a mix of fear and anger.
"This isn't over," Jackson muttered, storming away.
Out on the lacrosse field, Scott tried to push the confrontation out of his mind. He was halfway through practice when Stiles ran up to him, clutching a stack of papers.
"Scott! Scott!" Stiles called, practically bouncing on his toes.
"What is it, Stiles?" Scott asked, exasperated.
"I've been looking into the body they found in the woods," Stiles said, flipping through his notes. "And get this—there's forensic evidence that suggests a wolf was involved."
Scott barely registered his words. His focus was on the field, where Coach Finstock was barking orders.
"Stiles, I'll talk to you later, okay?" Scott said, brushing him off.
"But—"
"Later!"
Stiles sighed, retreating to the bench as Scott joined the others. Allison Argent stood nearby, waving at him. Scott waved back, his heart skipping a beat at the sight of her smile.
"Alright, listen up!" Coach Finstock yelled. "This practice is gonna determine who makes first line. So don't screw it up!"
The players took their positions, and the scrimmage began. Scott caught the ball but was immediately knocked down by Jackson.
"Nice try, McCall," Jackson sneered.
Scott got up, his anger simmering beneath the surface. He locked eyes with Jackson as the two prepared for a face-off.
The whistle blew, and Scott moved almost before the sound registered. He snatched the ball and tore down the field, weaving past defenders with inhuman agility. When three players tried to block him, he launched himself into a forward flip, landing behind them and scoring a goal between the goalie's legs.
The field erupted into cheers.
"McCall! You're on first line!" Coach Finstock announced, clapping.
On the bench, Stiles watched with a mixture of awe and apprehension.
That night, Stiles sat in front of his computer, his room dark save for the glow of the screen. Pages of arcane knowledge scrolled by—images of people with wolf heads, references to wolfsbane, and warnings about bloodlust and the full moon.
The door creaked open, and Scott walked in.
"Stiles, what are you doing?"
Stiles spun around, his eyes wide. "Scott, you're not gonna believe this. I've figured it out."
"Figured what out?"
"You're a werewolf!" Stiles declared, holding up a book.
Scott stared at him, incredulous. "What? That's insane."
"No, it's not! Think about it—the bite, the super speed, the insane lacrosse skills. And here's the kicker: the full moon triggers bloodlust and violence. You have to cancel your date with Allison."
Scott's expression darkened. "I'm not canceling my date."
"Scott, you have to!" Stiles insisted, grabbing Scott's phone. "I'll do it for you."
Scott's anger flared. He lunged forward, grabbing Stiles and pinning him against the wall. His hand trembled as he drew back a fist, his nails lengthening into claws.
For a moment, he hovered on the edge of losing control. Then, with a growl, he spun away, slamming his fist into a nearby chair. The wood splintered under the force, leaving three deep claw marks.
Scott released Stiles, his breathing heavy. "I'm sorry," he muttered before storming out.
Stiles stared after him, then looked at the chair. The claw marks gleamed in the dim light.
"Shit.."