Chapter 1: Waking Up Wrong
The first thing I notice is the wrongness.
Not pain. Not confusion. Just wrong—like waking up in someone else's skin.
I blink at the ceiling. White popcorn texture. A water stain in the corner shaped like Texas. The fan overhead wobbles with each rotation, one blade slightly bent. None of this is mine. None of this should exist.
My ceiling had a crack. Not a stain.
The memories hit like shrapnel.
I died.
The thought arrives with absolute certainty, dragging a freight train of images behind it. A car. Headlights. The sickening crunch of metal. Then—nothing. No white light. No tunnel. Just void. Cold and vast and hungry, swallowing me whole until there was nothing left to swallow.
But I'm here. Breathing. Heart hammering against ribs that feel too solid, too real.
I sit up. My hands are shaking—teenager hands, lean and unfamiliar. The skin tone is wrong. The fingers are longer. Even the calluses are in different places. These aren't my hands.
Whose body is this?
The question twists my stomach. I stumble to the mirror above the dresser, nearly tripping over sneakers I don't remember owning. The face staring back is mine but not. Same general features, same dark eyes, but younger. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. The jawline is sharper. The scar I got falling off a bike at age ten—gone.
This is Adam Greenburg's face.
The knowledge surfaces from nowhere, like remembering a dream. His name. His room. His life. Except it's not a memory—it's information dumped directly into my skull. I know his stepfather is Coach Bobby Finstock, lacrosse coach at Beacon Hills High. I know his mother, Dr. Rebecca Greenburg, works the ER at Beacon Hills Memorial. I know he transferred here three months ago, keeps his head down, runs mediocre drills on the field.
I know these things the way I know the alphabet. Automatic. Unquestioned.
But I also know they're not mine.
I died. Somehow, somewhere in that void, my consciousness was torn apart and stitched back together. Shoved into this body. Into this life.
Into Teen Wolf.
The realization punches through my chest. I stagger back from the mirror, pulse spiking. Outside the window, a banner flaps in the morning breeze: BEACON HILLS CYCLONES - LACROSSE CHAMPIONS 2010. The school colors. The mascot. I've seen that banner a hundred times—on a screen, in a show I binged in college.
This isn't real. It can't be real.
But the window is cold under my palm. The carpet is rough against my bare feet. The distant shout of "GREENBURG! GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE!" echoes up the stairs, loud and unmistakable.
Coach Finstock. Bobby Finstock. A side character with maybe fifty lines total, now screaming at me like I'm late for practice.
My hands tingle.
It's subtle at first—a warmth spreading from my palms, crawling up my forearms. The sensation intensifies, prickling like static electricity. I watch, frozen, as a faint shimmer ripples across my skin. Colorless. Almost invisible. But there.
I shake my hands, trying to fling it off. The shimmer dissipates, and exhaustion slams into me like a truck. My knees buckle. I catch myself on the dresser, gasping.
What the hell was that?
The answer surfaces from the same place as Adam's memories—except this time, it feels earned. Like something I paid for in blood.
The void didn't just rewrite me. It changed me. Gave me abilities I have no name for, no instruction manual, no way to control. The tingling is one of them. Energy leaking from my body, uncontrolled and constant. It's why I feel like I haven't slept in days despite just waking up.
And it's not the only thing.
I close my eyes, focusing. The world doesn't disappear—it shifts. I feel the house around me, not through sound or sight, but through presence. Coach downstairs, radiating frustration and caffeine-fueled energy. Someone else—Mom, Rebecca—calmer, preparing breakfast with the mechanical efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times.
I can sense them. Their emotions bleed into me like secondhand smoke, faint but unmistakable.
It's invasive. Uncomfortable. And I can't turn it off.
"GREENBURG!"
I flinch. The sensing cuts out, and the tingling flares again. My vision swims. I grab the edge of the desk, forcing air into my lungs.
Get it together. You're not dead. You're here. Figure out what that means.
I dress on autopilot—jeans, t-shirt, hoodie—and head downstairs.
The kitchen smells like burnt coffee and pancakes.
Coach Finstock is standing by the stove, spatula in hand, glaring at the griddle like it personally insulted him. He's shorter than I expected, stocky and balding, with the permanent scowl of someone who's been yelling at teenagers for too long. He's also holding the spatula like a weapon.
"You look like hell," he says without looking at me.
"Good morning to you too."
He flips a pancake with more aggression than necessary. "You hit your head at practice yesterday? Because you're moving like you got tackled by the entire defensive line."
"I'm fine."
"That's not what I asked."
Rebecca glances up from her coffee. She's younger than I expected, maybe early forties, with dark hair pulled into a neat ponytail and the kind of calm competence that screams I've seen worse in the ER. Her eyes narrow as she studies me.
"Did you hit your head?" she asks.
"No."
"You sure? Because you're pale, and you look disoriented."
I force a shrug. "Just tired."
Coach snorts. "Teenagers. Always tired. Always DRAMATIC." He slaps a pancake onto a plate and shoves it at me. "Eat. You've got school in forty minutes, and if you're late, I'm making you run laps until you puke."
I sit. The pancake is slightly charred. I eat it anyway, if only to stop the questions.
Rebecca sips her coffee, still watching me. "How are you adjusting? I know the move was hard."
The move. Right. Adam transferred here three months ago after his biological father died. The details are fuzzy—car accident, maybe, or something worse. The memories don't clarify. All I know is that his death left a void, and Coach stepped in to fill it.
Except now I'm filling Adam's place. A ghost wearing his face.
"Fine," I say.
"That's the third time you've said 'fine' this morning."
"Because I'm fine."
Coach jabs the spatula at me. "You know what's NOT fine? Lying. You're lying. I can tell. You do this THING with your eyes where you look away, and it's OBVIOUS."
I meet his gaze. "I'm not lying."
We stare at each other. Coach's scowl deepens, but he doesn't push. Instead, he mutters something about "teenagers and their secrets" and goes back to murdering pancakes.
Rebecca leans forward. "If something's wrong—"
"I'm fine, Mom."
The word feels foreign. Wrong. But she softens, just slightly, and nods.
"Okay. But if you need to talk—"
"I know."
Silence settles over the table. I focus on eating, ignoring the way Coach keeps glancing at me like I'm a problem he hasn't figured out yet. The tingling in my hands returns, faint but persistent. I clench my fists under the table, willing it to stop.
Coach clears his throat. "You staying after practice today?"
"Why?"
"Because we've got a scrimmage this weekend, and you're not CUTTING IT as a midfielder. Your footwork is SLOPPY. Your passes are SLOW. And don't even get me STARTED on your defense."
"Thanks for the pep talk."
"I'm not here to PEP. I'm here to WIN." He leans against the counter, arms crossed. "You want to make first line? You work. You don't just SHOW UP and expect results because you're my stepson."
Rebecca shoots him a look. "Bobby—"
"What? I'm being HONEST." He turns back to me. "You've got potential, kid. But potential doesn't mean SQUAT if you don't use it."
I bite back a response. The truth is, I don't care about lacrosse. I care about surviving whatever's coming. But saying that out loud would only raise more questions.
"I'll stay," I say.
Coach nods. "Good. Now finish your breakfast and GET MOVING. The woods aren't going to patrol themselves."
I freeze mid-bite. "What?"
"The WOODS. You know, the giant death trap behind the school? The place where people go to DIE?" He waves the spatula like it's obvious. "I've got drills out there this afternoon, and I need to make sure no one WANDERS OFF and gets eaten by a bear. Or worse."
Or worse.
The words hang in the air. My Haki flares—just a blip, a flash of Coach's underlying anxiety. He's joking, but there's something under it. Fear. Real fear.
He knows. Maybe not what, but he knows Beacon Hills is wrong.
Rebecca stands, grabbing her keys. "I'm heading to the hospital. Adam, if you need anything—"
"I'll text."
She kisses the top of my head, and the gesture is so automatic, so normal, that it almost breaks me. Because it's not for me. It's for Adam. The boy I replaced.
She leaves. Coach finishes his coffee and claps me on the shoulder hard enough to bruise.
"Let's go, kid. You've got a long day ahead of you."
Beacon Hills High is exactly like I remember—and nothing like it at the same time.
The building is older than it looked on screen, the brick faded and cracked in places. Students mill around the front lawn, clustered in groups that feel both familiar and alien. I recognize faces—or think I do. A blonde girl laughing too loud. A guy in a letterman jacket shoving someone into a locker.
But it's the feeling that hits me hardest.
The moment I step onto campus, my Haki explodes.
It's not intentional. One second, I'm walking through the parking lot. The next, I'm drowning in a tidal wave of presence. Hundreds of emotional signatures slam into me at once—anxiety, boredom, excitement, anger, loneliness. They overlap and bleed together, a chaotic static that makes my head throb.
I stumble, catching myself on the hood of a car. A girl nearby gives me a weird look. I ignore her, pressing my palm to my temple.
Control it. Turn it off. Do something.
But I don't know how. The sensing doesn't have an off switch. It's just there, constant and invasive, picking apart everyone around me like I'm some kind of emotional X-ray.
The headache sharpens. I taste copper.
I duck into the nearest bathroom and lock myself in a stall. My nose is bleeding—not a lot, but enough. I grab toilet paper and press it to my face, breathing through my mouth.
This is Phase 1. Uncontrolled. Exhausting. The knowledge surfaces like muscle memory, and I hate how automatic it is. I didn't ask for this. I didn't want this.
But it's mine now.
I wait until the bleeding stops, then head to class.
Chemistry is second period. I slide into my seat near the back, keeping my head down. The Haki is still active, but I've learned to tune it out—sort of. Instead of a roar, it's a low hum. Background noise.
Until Scott McCall walks in.
He's shorter than I expected. Lean, with dark hair and an earnest face that screams I just want to fit in. He's carrying a battered backpack and an inhaler, and when he sits two rows ahead, I feel it.
Loneliness. Deep and aching, like a wound that never healed.
He wants to matter. To be seen. To be more than the asthmatic kid who can't make first line.
And in eight months, he will be.
The bite will change everything. Give him power. Purpose. A pack. But it will also drag him into a war he's not ready for.
Can I stop it?
The question lingers. I don't know if I should. Changing the timeline could make things worse. Or it could save lives.
I don't have answers. Just fragments of a show I barely remember and a body that doesn't feel like mine.
The door swings open, and Stiles Stilinski barrels in, talking before he even sits down.
"—no, I'm SERIOUS, Scott. If you adjust the flux capacitor angle by fifteen degrees, you could theoretically achieve temporal displacement without the 1.21 gigawatts. It's all about the MATH—"
Scott groans. "We're not building a time machine, Stiles."
"Why NOT?"
"Because we have a chemistry test tomorrow."
Stiles drops into the seat next to Scott, still talking. I watch them, and my Haki picks up the edges of their dynamic—Stiles' manic energy barely contained, Scott's quiet frustration, the bond between them that runs deeper than friendship.
This is them before. Before the bite. Before everything falls apart.
The teacher starts the lesson. I take notes, but my mind is elsewhere.
Eight months. That's how long I have.
And I have no idea if I'll survive them.
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