Chapter 9: The First Hunt
The sheriff's deputies are still stringing up crime scene tape when we arrive at school.
Three cruisers block the parking lot entrance, lights flashing red and blue against the morning fog. Students cluster in groups, whispering. My Haki picks up their emotions—morbid curiosity mixed with fear.
Something happened. Something bad.
Stiles appears at my locker, bouncing on his toes. "Dude. DUDE. You need to hear this."
Scott is right behind him, looking pale. "Stiles, maybe we shouldn't—"
"Another animal attack," Stiles says, ignoring him. "Video store clerk. Found in the preserve last night. My dad said the injuries were—" He lowers his voice. "—alpha-level aggression."
My stomach drops.
"Alpha-level?" I repeat.
"That's what the report said. Massive trauma. Claw marks. The guy's lucky to be alive." Stiles glances at Scott. "Sound familiar?"
Scott's hands are shaking. "We should go to class."
"Scott—"
"I said we should go to class."
He walks away. Stiles watches him go, frustrated.
"He's been like this all morning," Stiles mutters. "Jumpy. Paranoid. I think the whole werewolf thing is getting to him."
The Alpha is hunting.
The thought loops through my head. Another attack. Another message. The pattern is becoming clear—this isn't random violence. It's strategic. Calculated.
The Alpha is building something. And Scott is the centerpiece.
"We need to check it out," I say.
Stiles blinks. "The crime scene?"
"Yeah."
"That's illegal."
"You didn't seem to care when you dragged Scott into the woods looking for a body."
"That was different. That was—" He pauses. "Okay, fair point. But my dad will kill me if he catches us."
"Then we don't get caught."
The preserve feels different in daylight.
Less ominous. More mundane. But my Haki screams the moment we cross into the woods. The emotional residue is thick—layer upon layer of terror and pain soaked into the ground like blood.
Yellow tape marks the attack site. The deputies are gone, but the evidence remains—torn earth, broken branches, dark stains on the leaves.
Scott hangs back, arms crossed. His Haki signature is spiking—fear mixed with something darker. Hunger. The violence is calling to him, and he hates it.
I step closer to the center of the scene. Close my eyes. Extend my Haki as far as it'll go.
The emotional imprints hit like a freight train.
Terror. Raw and primal. The victim knew he was going to die.
Pain. Sharp and overwhelming. Claws tearing through flesh.
And underneath it all—cold, predatory intelligence.
The Alpha's presence lingers like a stain. Not rage this time. Not hunger. Just calculation. This was a performance. A message written in blood.
Nausea twists my stomach. I stagger back, pressing a hand to my mouth.
"You okay?" Stiles asks.
"Yeah. Fine."
"You don't look fine."
I wipe sweat from my forehead. Reading residual emotions is new—something my Haki started doing a few days ago. But it's exhausting. Like reliving someone else's nightmare.
Phase 2. Starting to emerge.
The knowledge surfaces, automatic and unwelcome. My powers are growing. Evolving. But every new ability comes with a cost.
"What did you sense?" Scott asks quietly.
"The victim was terrified. The Alpha—" I pause, choosing my words carefully. "—it wasn't frenzied. It was controlled. Like it wanted the attack to be found."
"A message," Stiles says.
"Yeah."
"To who?"
Before I can answer, Derek steps out from behind a tree.
We all jump. Stiles yelps. Scott's eyes flash gold for half a second before he gets control.
Derek looks at us like we're idiots. "You shouldn't be here."
"Neither should you," I say.
"I have a reason."
"So do we."
He crosses his arms. "This is an active crime scene. If the Sheriff catches you—"
"Then we'll leave before he does." I meet his eyes. "What did you find?"
Derek's jaw tightens. For a moment, I think he's going to tell us to get lost. Then he sighs.
"The Alpha is escalating. This is the third attack in two weeks. Each one more public than the last."
"Why?" Scott asks.
"Because he's sending a message. Join me or die." Derek looks at Scott. "You're the target. He wants you in his pack."
"What if I don't want to join?"
"Then he'll kill you. Or force you to watch him kill someone you care about."
Scott goes pale. "Allison."
"Or your mom. Or your best friend." Derek's expression doesn't soften. "The Alpha doesn't negotiate. He dominates."
Stiles is chewing his thumbnail again. "So what do we do?"
"We find him first."
"And then what? Ask him nicely to stop murdering people?"
Derek's eyes flash blue. "No. We kill him."
Silence. The weight of that statement settles over us like a shroud.
"You've done this before," I say.
It's not a question. Derek's Haki signature—grief and rage tangled so tightly I can't separate them—tells me everything I need to know.
"Yeah," Derek says quietly. "I have."
"Do you know who the Alpha is?"
His silence is answer enough.
"Derek—"
"No."
"You know. Or you suspect."
"It doesn't matter."
"It does if—"
"I said no."
His voice is sharp. Final. But my Haki reads the truth underneath. Grief. Betrayal. This isn't just about stopping the Alpha. It's personal.
Someone he knew. Someone he cared about.
The pieces are there, scattered in my meta-knowledge. But I can't assemble them. Not yet.
Derek turns to leave. "Stay away from the crime scenes. And keep Scott under control. The full moon is in ten days. If he shifts where people can see—"
"We know," I say.
He disappears into the trees.
Scott exhales shakily. "That was—"
"Intense?" Stiles finishes. "Yeah. Derek's whole vibe is 'intense brooding werewolf with a dark past.' It's very CW."
"This isn't a joke, Stiles."
"I know. I'm coping through humor. It's called a defense mechanism."
Scott looks at me. "Do you think Derek knows who the Alpha is?"
"Yeah."
"Then why won't he tell us?"
"Because it's someone he doesn't want to believe it is."
That night, I'm at my desk, laptop open, diving into Beacon Hills' dark history.
The Hale family fire. Six years ago. House burned down. Most of the family dead. Only two survivors—Derek and his uncle, Peter Hale.
Peter Hale.
The name makes my meta-knowledge spike. I know this name. Know it's important. But the details are fog.
I pull up news articles. Obituaries. Conspiracy forums where locals speculate about what really happened.
Arson suspected but never proven.
Kate Argent, visiting family at the time, gave a statement to police.
Peter Hale survived but remains comatose at Beacon Hills Memorial.
I stare at that last line.
Comatose.
But my Haki—when it touched the Alpha's presence—felt intelligence. Awareness. Not mindless animal rage, but calculated strategy.
Could someone in a coma orchestrate murders?
No. Unless they're not really in a coma.
The thought is absurd. But this is Beacon Hills. Absurd is the baseline.
I text Derek: We need to talk about your family.
The message sits unread. One minute. Five. Ten.
He's not going to respond.
I close the laptop and lie back on my bed, staring at the ceiling.
Ten days until the full moon. Ten days to figure out who the Alpha is, keep Scott from losing control, and avoid getting killed by whatever's hunting us.
Not enough time.
But it's all I've got.
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