Chapter 12: The Full Moon - Part 1
The Hale house basement smells like rust and old blood.
Scott is already chained when I arrive—wrists and ankles secured to a reinforced pillar in the center of the room. The chains are thick. Industrial. The kind used to anchor boats.
He looks terrified.
"You don't have to do this," he says.
I sit down ten feet away, back against the wall. "Yeah, I do."
"Adam—"
"We've been over this. You need someone here. And I'm the only one who can sense when you're about to break free."
"What if I hurt you?"
"Then I heal."
"That's not—"
"Scott." I meet his eyes. "I'm not leaving. So stop arguing."
He slumps against the pillar, defeated.
Stiles' voice crackles through the earpiece Derek gave me. "Cameras are live. I can see both of you. And I have to say, this is deeply unsettling."
"Noted," I say.
"Also, I've got Derek on the other channel. He's patrolling the perimeter. If the Alpha shows up, he'll—" Stiles pauses. "—do something violent and werewolf-y, I assume."
"Probably."
Scott's breathing is getting faster. Shallower. His eyes keep flashing between brown and gold.
"It's starting," I say.
"Time?" Stiles asks.
I glance at my watch. "Eight PM. Moon's rising."
"Okay. Okay. I'm monitoring vitals through the cameras. Heart rate is spiking. Body temp is—" He swears. "—one hundred and four degrees. That's not normal."
"Nothing about tonight is normal."
Scott's head snaps up. His eyes are full gold now. Pupils dilated. Teeth elongating into fangs.
"Scott, look at me."
He does. Barely. The wolf is rising fast.
"You're safe. I'm here. Allison is thinking about you. Your mom is at home waiting for you. You're not alone."
His breathing slows. Just slightly.
Then the transformation accelerates.
Bones crack. Vertebrae realign with sickening pops. His face distorts—jaw elongating, brow thickening. Fur ripples across his skin.
He screams.
It's not human. Not animal. Something in between. Raw agony wrapped in primal rage.
My Haki is overwhelmed. The emotional feedback is a tidal wave—pain, fear, hunger, rage. All of it bleeding into me, making my head throb.
Blood drips from my nose. I wipe it away and keep talking.
"You're okay. You're safe. I'm here."
Scott—no, the wolf—thrashes against the chains. They hold. Barely.
Stiles' voice is panicked. "Adam, his heart rate is through the roof. If this keeps up—"
"He'll be fine."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
I extend my Haki deeper, pushing past the pain. Underneath the wolf's rage, there's still a flicker of Scott. Buried. Terrified. But there.
"Scott," I say quietly. "I know you're in there. And I know you're scared. But you're stronger than this. The wolf doesn't control you. You control it."
The thrashing slows. Just for a second.
Then it resumes with renewed fury.
9 PM. One hour in, and Scott is testing the restraints.
My Haki gives me two seconds of warning before he lunges. The chains snap taut, metal groaning under the strain.
"Stiles, he's testing the restraints!"
"I see it! Chains are holding—structural integrity at seventy-three percent."
"That's not comforting!"
"I'm a realist, Adam!"
The wolf snarls, pulling against the chains. One of them is fraying. The metal threading is splitting, strand by strand.
We need a backup plan.
I focus. Try to project calm through my Haki. It's not something I've trained—not something I even knew I could do. But desperation breeds innovation.
I imagine the feeling of safety. Of being home. Of Coach making terrible pancakes and Rebecca reading medical journals at the kitchen table.
I push it outward.
The wolf pauses. Head tilting. Confused.
"Whatever you're doing," Derek's voice crackles through the earpiece, "keep doing it. His aggression is dropping."
"I don't know what I'm doing."
"Then figure it out. Fast."
I focus harder. The calm feeling intensifies, spreading through the basement like a fog. My Haki is burning—overextending in ways I didn't think possible. But it's working.
Scott's growling softens. His body relaxes. Just slightly.
It's working.
Then the Alpha howls.
The sound is deep. Primal. It rattles the walls of the basement and makes my bones vibrate.
Scott's response is immediate.
He throws his head back and howls—answering the call. The chains snap under renewed force. One breaks completely.
His left arm is free.
"ADAM, GET OUT!" Stiles screams through the earpiece.
"No!"
"He's going to kill you!"
"I'm not leaving!"
Derek's voice cuts through. "The Alpha is at the perimeter. I'm engaging. Hold him, Adam!"
I scramble to my feet. My Haki is screaming—the Alpha's presence is massive, overwhelming. And it's here.
Scott lunges. His free arm swings wide, claws extended.
I dodge—barely. The claws miss my face by inches.
The sedative. Where did Derek put the sedative?
I scan the basement. There—a syringe on the floor near the stairs. Pre-loaded with wolfsbane.
Scott lunges again. This time, I'm not fast enough.
The claws catch my shoulder. Three deep gashes, tearing through skin and muscle. Pain explodes—white-hot and blinding.
I stumble back, gasping. Blood pours down my arm, soaking my shirt.
But I don't stop.
I grab the syringe and turn. Scott is charging, chains dragging behind him.
I wait until he's two feet away. Then jab the needle into his thigh and push the plunger.
The wolf's eyes widen. He stumbles. Falls.
Unconscious.
I collapse against the wall, clutching my shoulder. The pain is unbearable. But underneath it—something else.
The wounds are closing.
I watch, dazed, as the gashes knit together. Flesh regenerating in real-time. Pink scar tissue forming where there should be exposed muscle.
Regeneration. Phase 2. Visible.
Outside, I hear snarling. Impacts. The Alpha and Derek fighting.
Then silence.
Derek stumbles into the basement, human form, covered in blood. His eyes land on me, then the wounds on my shoulder.
They're already scabbing over.
"What are you?" he asks quietly.
"Still figuring that out."
Dawn breaks. The basement is quiet.
Scott is human again, curled on the floor, chains still attached to one wrist. He blinks awake slowly, disoriented.
Then he sees the blood on my shirt.
"What—" His voice cracks. "Did I—"
"You're okay," I say. "We're both okay."
"But you're hurt—"
"I heal. Look."
I pull down my collar, showing him the shoulder. Three pink scars where there should be open wounds.
Scott stares. "How—"
"Long story. Not important right now."
Derek helps Scott out of the remaining chains. "The Alpha tested us. Tried to get Scott to break free and join him. When that didn't work, it attacked me directly."
"Did you see who it was?" I ask.
Derek's expression darkens. "No. But I'm close. I know I am."
We climb out of the basement into the morning light. Stiles is waiting in the Jeep, eyes red from staying awake all night.
"You're alive," he says.
"Yeah."
"Good. Because if you died, I'd have to explain to Coach why I let his stepson get eaten by a werewolf. And that conversation would be VERY uncomfortable."
Scott sits in the back, staring at his hands. "I don't remember anything."
"That's normal," Derek says. "First full moon is the hardest. It gets easier."
"Does it?"
Derek doesn't answer. Which is answer enough.
We drive home in silence. The sun is rising over Beacon Hills—golden light cutting through the fog.
We survived.
Barely.
But that counts for something.
hapter 13: Aftermath
The sun is barely up when I stumble through the front door.
My shirt is soaked with blood—dried now, stiff and brown. The shoulder is healed, but the fabric tells the story. Three long tears where claws ripped through.
I'm halfway up the stairs when Coach steps into the hallway.
Arms crossed. Expression unreadable.
"Where's the blood from?"
I freeze. "It's not mine."
"Adam Michael Greenburg."
Middle name. That's never good.
I sigh and turn around. Pull off my jacket. The torn shirt underneath reveals three pink scars on my shoulder—raised and fresh, but closed.
Coach stares. His Haki signature shifts from frustration to confusion to something that might be horror.
"That was last night?"
I nod.
Long silence. The grandfather clock in the living room ticks. Outside, a car drives past.
"Sit down," Coach says finally.
We go to the kitchen. He doesn't make food this time. Just sits across from me, hands folded on the table, waiting.
"Explain."
"I was helping a friend."
"Scott?"
I don't confirm. Don't deny.
"He has a medical condition. Dangerous. I was there in case something went wrong."
"And something went wrong."
"Yeah."
"He did that to you?" Coach gestures at my shoulder.
"It wasn't his fault. He wasn't in control."
Coach's jaw tightens. "What kind of medical condition involves clawing people?"
I don't answer. Can't answer. Because the truth—werewolf transformation—is worse than anything I could make up.
"It's genetic," I say finally. "From my dad's side. I heal faster than normal. That's why the wound is already closed."
It's a half-truth. The worst kind of lie—close enough to reality that it feels plausible.
Coach studies me. His Haki signature is chaos—trying to reconcile what he's seeing with what makes sense.
"Your biological father," he says slowly. "The one who died."
"Yeah."
"Did he heal like this?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
Another long silence.
"Your mother can't know about this," Coach says.
"I know."
"She's already worried. If she finds out you're getting hurt—"
"I'll be more careful."
"That's not good enough."
"It's the best I can do."
Coach stands, paces to the window. Stares out at the backyard. His hands are shaking.
"I don't understand what's happening," he says quietly. "But I know it's dangerous. And I know you're not telling me everything."
"Coach—"
"I'm not asking you to. But I need you to promise me something." He turns. "Don't die. Whatever this is, whatever you're doing—don't make me bury you."
My throat tightens. "I'll try."
"Try harder."
School on Monday feels surreal.
The halls are too bright. Too loud. After spending Saturday night in a basement with a transforming werewolf, fluorescent lights and locker small-talk feel like a different universe.
Jackson is waiting by my locker.
"Greenburg."
I glance at him. "Jackson."
"I saw you and McCall leaving the preserve Saturday night. Late. What were you doing?"
My Haki picks up his emotional signature—curiosity mixed with suspicion. He's been watching us. Trying to figure out what makes Scott special.
"Hiking."
"At midnight?"
"Insomnia."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
Jackson's eyes narrow. "You two are up to something. I don't know what, but I'm going to find out."
"Good luck with that."
He walks away. But the damage is done. By lunch, the rumor has spread—Adam and Scott are in a fight club. Or dealing drugs. Or involved in some other appropriately dramatic teenage scandal.
Lydia Martin overhears it in the hallway. "Scott? Fighting? Please."
But her eyes linger on me. Analytical. Calculating. Her Haki signature spikes—curiosity, intrigue.
She noticed something. I'm not sure what. But Lydia Martin doesn't miss details.
Dangerous.
Lunch period. Scott, Stiles, and I claim our usual table in the corner.
Scott hasn't looked at me all day. Guilt radiates from his Haki signature like heat.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly.
"For what?"
"For hurting you."
"You weren't you."
"That doesn't make it okay."
"Scott." I set down my sandwich. "You were chained in a basement, going through your first transformation. You weren't in control. And I'm fine."
"You had three claw marks across your shoulder."
"Which are already healed."
Stiles leans forward. "Define 'healed' because I reviewed the camera footage. You regenerated in real-time. That's not normal."
"I'm not normal. We've established this."
"Yeah, but—" Stiles gestures vaguely. "—what ARE you?"
"Honestly? No idea."
"That's not comforting."
"It's the truth."
Scott is still staring at his tray. "What if I'd killed you?"
"You didn't."
"But I could have."
"And Derek could've killed the Alpha. And the Alpha could've killed all of us. We survived, Scott. That's what matters."
He looks up. "How are you so calm about this?"
"I'm really not. I'm just good at pretending."
Stiles snorts. "That's the most honest thing you've said all week."
The tension breaks. Scott manages a weak smile.
But I know the questions aren't going away. Scott, Stiles, Derek—they all know I'm not human. Not fully. And eventually, they're going to demand real answers.
Answers I don't have.
That night, I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling.
My shoulder throbs. Not pain—just the phantom sensation of healing. The scars are barely visible now. Faded pink lines that will probably disappear completely in a few days.
Phase 2 regeneration. Visible. Undeniable.
Derek saw it. Scott saw it. Stiles saw it on camera.
The secret is fraying. And I don't know how much longer I can keep pretending.
My phone buzzes.
Scott: Thank you. For staying with me.
Anytime.
Scott: I mean it. You didn't have to do that.
Yes I did. You're my friend.
Long pause. Then:
Scott: I'm glad.
I set the phone down and close my eyes.
We survived the full moon. Barely.
But the Alpha is still out there. And Kate Argent just arrived in town.
The war is just beginning.
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