Chapter 19: The Alpha's Move
The news breaks during dinner.
Rebecca has the TV on in the background—local news droning about city council meetings and fundraisers. Then the anchor's tone shifts.
"Breaking news out of Beacon Hills tonight. A local business owner was attacked and seriously injured—"
My fork clatters against my plate.
The screen shows the video store on Main Street. Police tape. Ambulances. Sheriff Stilinski giving a statement about "animal attacks" and "ongoing investigation."
My phone explodes with texts.
Stiles: Video store. Same place Jackson rents movies. This is a message.
Scott: Is Jackson okay?
Derek: Peter's escalating. We need to move. Now.
I push back from the table. "I have to go."
Rebecca frowns. "Adam—"
"Study emergency. Big test tomorrow."
"At 7 PM?"
"Group panic. It's a thing."
Coach's eyes narrow, but he doesn't stop me. Just gives me a look that says: Be careful. Come back alive.
I grab my keys and run.
The preserve is dark and cold.
My Haki is screaming before I even get out of the car. Someone is in danger. Right now. The dread is overwhelming—thick and suffocating, like trying to breathe underwater.
I extend my range as far as it'll go. Scan for familiar signatures.
There—Jackson. Panicked. Running.
And behind him—Peter. Predatory. Hunting.
Move. Now.
I crash through the underbrush, following the emotional trail. Branches scratch my face. Roots try to trip me. I don't slow down.
The chase leads me to a clearing. Jackson bursts through the tree line, stumbling, gasping for air. His shirt is torn. Blood streaks his arm.
Behind him, the Alpha emerges.
Peter in full wolf form is nightmare made flesh. Massive. Fur dark as shadow. Red eyes burning like coals. He moves with the confidence of something that's never been prey.
Jackson sees me. "Help! HELP ME!"
Peter's eyes shift to me. Recognition flashes.
I step between them.
My Nen flares instinctively—shimmer spreading from my hands up my arms. The aura crystallizes into something almost solid. A barrier. Crude. Unstable. But there.
Peter lunges.
He crashes into the barrier with the force of a freight train. The Nen cracks but holds. For two seconds. Three.
Then shatters.
The backlash staggers me. My vision swims. But the barrier bought Jackson time.
"RUN!" I scream.
Jackson doesn't need to be told twice. He bolts into the trees.
Peter shifts to human form mid-stride. Naked. Burned skin stretched tight over muscle. Smiling like this is all a game.
"You're the one Derek mentioned." His voice is smooth. Cultured. Wrong coming from that ruined face. "Not werewolf. Not human. What are you?"
My Nen shimmers around my hands again. Weaker this time. Exhaustion already creeping in.
"Your problem."
Peter laughs. "Brave. Stupid. But brave." He circles me, assessing. "You have power. Unusual power. I can smell it on you. The void touched you."
I freeze.
How does he know?
"Oh yes." Peter's smile widens. "I can smell the space between on your skin. You've been there. To the place where reality fractures. That's why you exist in a world that shouldn't have you."
My pulse hammers. He KNOWS. Not the specifics—he can't know about the transmigration—but he knows I'm wrong. Displaced. Other.
"What—"
"Later," Peter says. "Right now, I have a message for Scott McCall. Tell him: join me, or everyone he cares about dies. Starting with his mother."
My Haki spikes. He's serious.
Peter shifts back to Alpha form. Prepares to lunge.
Then Derek crashes into him from the side.
The two werewolves tear into each other—claws and teeth and savage violence. Derek is outmatched, but he's fighting with desperation.
"GO!" Derek screams at me. "GET OUT OF HERE!"
I run.
My legs are lead. My Nen is depleted. But I force myself to move. Find Jackson collapsed against a tree twenty yards away.
"Come on. Move."
He looks at me with empty eyes. Shock. Trauma. But he stands.
I half-drag him back to my car. Get him in the passenger seat. Drive toward the hospital with my hands shaking on the wheel.
Behind us, the sounds of the fight fade into silence.
The hospital parking lot is bright and sterile.
I pull up to the ER entrance. Jackson is catatonic—staring straight ahead, not responding to questions.
I can't take him inside. Can't explain what happened. So I text 911 anonymously: Injured teenager in ER parking lot. Red Porsche. Needs help.
Then I drive away.
My phone buzzes.
Derek: I'm alive. Peter escaped. Meet tomorrow.
Scott: Is Jackson okay?
He's at the hospital. In shock. But alive.
Stiles: What happened?
Peter knows what I am. He called me "void-touched." What does that mean?
No one responds.
I drive home. The adrenaline crash hits halfway there. I pull over, lean against the steering wheel, and just breathe.
Peter knows. He KNOWS I don't belong here.
The implications are terrifying. If Peter knows, who else can sense it? What else is out there that recognizes me as wrong?
Deal with it later. Get home. Survive tonight.
I drive the rest of the way on autopilot.
Coach is waiting in the kitchen. Takes one look at me—shirt torn, scratches on my arms from branches—and sighs.
"You're bleeding."
I glance down. "Not mine."
"Adam—"
"I'm fine, Coach. Really."
He doesn't believe me. But he also doesn't push. Just heats up leftovers and sets them in front of me.
We eat in silence.
And for once, it's enough.
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