Chapter Text
Scott was just getting ready for bed: brushing his teeth, changing into pajamas, running through the usual routine. Nothing seemed unusual—yet the air carried an unsettling whisper of unease. Just another night in Beacon Hills, where the shadows always felt a touch too deep.
When he came back to his room, he nearly jumped out of his skin.
Right outside his bedroom window—hanging upside down like it was the most natural thing in the world—was his best friend, Stiles Stilinski.
“What the hell are you doing?!” Scott hissed, pressing a hand over his chest.
A grin spread across Stiles’ face. “Okay, don’t freak out, but I overheard my dad talking about a dead body they found in the preserve.” His eyes glinted with a mix of excitement and defiance. “It’s not every day something this big happens around here. We’ve got to check it out.”
Scott blinked. “…What?”
“They only found half,” Stiles added, like it was the punchline to some joke.
Scott stared. “Half. As in… half?”
“Exactly!” Stiles dropped down from the ledge with way too much energy for midnight. “Come on, grab your jacket. We’re going.”
As they walked through the woods, Scott’s heart pounded in his chest. Each step echoed the question he couldn’t shake: why did he let Stiles talk him into this? His breath came in shallow, cautious gasps, the cool night air tightening his lungs. The shadows between the trees seemed to move in sync with his fear, every rustle heightening the foreboding darkness pressing in around them.
Branches snapped ahead. Suddenly, figures emerged on the trail, moving toward them.
“Oh, shit,” Stiles muttered. “Go. Go, go, go. Hide.”
A flashlight swung in their direction.
“Hey, Dad,” Stiles said, raising his arms, his own light tilting downward—an unintended act of defiance.
“Son, what are you doing?” Sheriff Stilinski asked with a tired sigh, disappointment mixed with exasperation. “Where’s Scott?”
“Scott? What do you mean?”
“I know he’s out here with you, Stiles.”
“Nope. Scott’s not here.”
While Stiles distracted his dad, Scott slipped away into the trees.
He hurried along the path until his foot caught on something. His inhaler tumbled from his pocket. Cursing under his breath, Scott knelt down, searching the ground—knowing his mom would kill him if he lost it.
Then he stumbled upon something on the ground. Then he realized what he’d found—the missing half of the body.
It was a young woman with brown hair.
It looked like she had been ripped in two.
The body was a gruesome sight, to say the least.
Horrified, he ran away, tripping over his feet as he went.
That’s when he heard the growl.
The hairs on the back of his neck rose. Slowly, he turned.
Two massive, glowing red eyes stared back at him.
The faint scent of damp earth and leaves clung to the air. A sudden chill crept along his spine as the underbrush fell silent, the forest holding its breath. That stillness—the red eyes, the icy dread—would haunt Scott long after the moment slipped back into darkness.
The eyes didn’t move. They just stared.
Scott froze; his breath caught in his throat. He felt small, fragile, like prey under a predator’s gaze.
Then, without warning, the creature lunged.
A blur of movement slammed through the brush, the sound of snapping branches and tearing earth swallowing Scott’s panicked gasp. He scrambled backward, his palms digging into wet soil, heart hammering in his chest.
A massive shape loomed above him, fur bristling, claws glinting faintly in the moonlight. The growl rolled out of its chest like thunder.
Scott bolted.
Branches whipped across his face as he ran blindly through the preserve, lungs burning, legs aching. His mind screamed one word over and over: run, run, run.
Something slammed into him from behind, knocking him flat. Pain tore through his side as sharp claws raked across his skin. Scott’s scream echoed through the night, swallowed by the endless forest.
He clawed at the dirt, desperate to get away, but the creature’s weight pinned him. Then—suddenly—it was gone.
The pressure lifted. The growl faded. Only the sound of his ragged breathing and the pounding of his heart remained.
Scott staggered to his feet, clutching his side. His fingers came away sticky with blood.
Distantly, he heard voices—flashlights cutting through the trees, the Sheriff’s familiar call echoing in the dark. Scott stumbled away before they could see him, forcing his shaking legs to carry him toward the edge of the preserve.
He didn’t know what he’d just seen. He didn’t know what had attacked him.
The next morning, Scott woke in his own bed—pain stabbing his side, sheets sticking to dried blood.
He didn’t remember getting home.
He didn’t remember anything…
Except the eyes.