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Chapter 136: Quiet Shadows
Morning light unfurled across Beacon Hills in ribbons of gold, soft and deceptive in its beauty. It washed over rooftops still damp with dew, spilled through the skeletal branches of old oaks, and crept into every corner as if to reassure the town that everything was fine — that the past few weeks of chaos and blood had only been a fever dream. The illusion of calm was convincing enough that Lucas almost believed it. For the first time in what felt like weeks, he breathed without tasting tension or smoke in his lungs. The air didn't hum with danger. It didn't smell like fear or secrets. It was just air — clean, bright, ordinary.
He jogged through the quiet streets, shoes tapping a steady rhythm on the pavement, and felt that rare stillness settle inside his chest — the kind of silence that only follows catastrophe, fragile and fleeting. Malia was with Laura and Derek, trying to piece together their own version of peace. Isaac was probably still buried under blankets, enjoying a long-overdue morning without alarms or monsters. Deaton, as always, was lost in his work, dissecting mysteries in his clinic until they gave up their truths.
That left Lucas alone.
Running.
Existing.
Almost human.
He moved past the familiar landmarks of Beacon Hills — the town square, the rusted clock tower that hadn't chimed in years, the café with the chipped blue awning where locals swapped gossip over bitter coffee. A to-go cup warmed his hand, the steam curling into the cool morning air. His gaze was light for once, his senses half-closed, the world around him soft-edged and harmless. He'd earned a few hours of pretending the world wasn't always on the verge of burning.
But calm, in Beacon Hills, was always a prelude.
And somewhere within that same square — blending effortlessly into the tide of ordinary faces — Darren watched.
Tony's new vessel still felt foreign, like a suit that didn't quite fit. Human hearts were fragile things, always quivering, always betraying their panic with too-loud beats. This one thudded too quickly, the rhythm erratic whenever the parasite inside it remembered rage. Sweat gathered uninvited, nerves misfired, vision blurred when emotions surged too sharply. Human flesh — such a delicate, temperamental casing. But it worked. It hid him.
He'd cut the hair shorter, erased the unshaven scruff Darren used to favor, and traded worn clothes for ones that looked convincingly new. From a distance, he was indistinguishable from a dozen others passing through the square — a man with errands to run, maybe hungover, maybe late for work, staring into his phone like it held meaning. A perfect ghost wrapped in skin.
And beneath that mask, Tony watched.
His eyes tracked Lucas's every movement with surgical precision, like an artist studying the lines of a masterpiece he intended to steal. The posture — loose but centered. The way his gaze skimmed the crowd without ever settling, always aware, always assessing. Even from meters away, Tony could sense the faint shimmer of energy under Lucas's skin — power restrained, coiled, alive. That pulse called to him like a heartbeat under floorboards. He didn't just want that vessel; he needed it.
But the parasite had learned patience the hard way.
He remembered the fire — the night six years ago when everything went wrong. Talia's claws raking through his flesh. Gerard's blade sinking into the body he wore then, splitting bone and arrogance in equal measure.
The again with Lucas, he remembered dying, or something close enough to it, and the long, endless crawl back to existence. That memory had burned the lesson deep: no more recklessness. This time, he would move quietly. Carefully. Human.
Lucas sat on a bench near the edge of the square, stretching his arms as sunlight spilled over him like blessing. His head tilted back, eyes half-closed, letting the warmth touch his face. For a moment, the picture was almost convincing — a man at peace, unburdened, ordinary. He had no idea that fifty meters away, the shadow he thought he'd destroyed now wore another man's skin and smiled like he'd never left.
Tony sipped his coffee, the cheap bitterness grounding him in the moment. He smiled faintly — not at irony, but at symmetry.
Hunter and prey.
Werewolf and parasite.
Peace, and the quiet thing that grows beneath it.
Lucas believed he'd finally killed the shadow that haunted Beacon Hills. But the shadow had adapted. It had learned to breathe again. To walk unseen. To wait.
And when Lucas finally rose from the bench, tossing his empty cup into a bin and stretching lazily, Tony pocketed his phone and followed — just another man in a crowd that never looked twice. His steps matched the rhythm of the town's heartbeat, slow, deliberate, invisible.
The morning air was calm, bright, almost sacred.
That's what made it perfect.