The alarm went off at 4:30 a.m., piercing the darkness of my room like a needle.
I reached out, fumbling until I found my phone, and shut off the irritating sound. For a moment, I just lay there, staring at the invisible ceiling, my body screaming to go back to sleep.
One week.
Seven days since my life had been turned upside down. Seven days since Peter Hale had left me bleeding in the forest. Seven days since I found out I wasn't human.
And now, waking up at 4:30 in the morning to train with an uncle I barely knew was my new normal.
I dragged myself out of bed, every muscle protesting. I walked to the bathroom mirror, turned on the light, and blinked against the brightness.
The person staring back looked… different. Not drastically, not in ways other people would notice. But I could see it.
The dark circles under my eyes from sleepless nights. The way my jaw seemed a little more defined, my shoulders a bit broader. Subtle changes, but there.
And the bandages. Much smaller now, only covering the areas where the deepest wounds were still healing. In a few days, I wouldn't need them anymore.
Lupaztlán regeneration. Efficient, but not instant.
I put on training clothes—sweatpants, a T-shirt, sneakers—and went downstairs quietly. The house was dark and silent. My parents were still sleeping. Like normal people.
I slipped out the back door, the cold morning air hitting me like a slap. October in Beacon Hills meant freezing mornings and low fog hanging between the trees.
Marcus was already waiting at the edge of the forest, a dark silhouette against the pre-dawn gray. He didn't look tired. He didn't look cold.
"Late," he said as I approached.
I glanced at my phone. 4:52 a.m.
"By two minutes!"
"Two minutes can mean the difference between living and dying." He turned toward the forest. "Let's go."
I resisted the urge to grumble and followed him between the trees.
THURSDAY – Day 1
The morning training was brutal.
Marcus made me repeat the same exercise over and over—feeling the transformation coming, holding it, forcing it back.
"Breathe," he instructed for the tenth time. "Feel the change coming. The heat, the pressure. But HOLD IT. Don't let it out."
I closed my eyes, hands trembling with effort. I could feel it—that pulsing presence beneath my skin, wanting to emerge. The wolf. The berserker. Fused. Hungry.
I pushed it back.
But it was like trying to hold water in my hands. It slipped through my fingers.
Claws emerged from my fingertips, short but unmistakable.
"Again," Marcus said flatly.
I retracted the claws. Breathe. Try again.
And again.
And again.
When Marcus finally called a stop, I was drenched in sweat despite the cold, muscles shaking with exhaustion.
"You're improving," he said, tossing me a bottle of water.
"Doesn't feel like it," I muttered, drinking half of it in one go.
"Trust me. Last Tuesday you couldn't hold it for five seconds. Today it was twenty." He checked his watch. "Go. School."
School was a blur of exhaustion.
Stiles found me in the hallway before first period, looking at me with exaggerated concern.
"Dude, you look like crap."
"Thanks," I said dryly, opening my locker.
"Seriously. Did you sleep?"
"Bad night."
"You've had a LOT of bad nights lately." He leaned against the locker next to mine. "Everything okay at home?"
The concern in his voice was genuine. For all his nervous energy and manic behavior, Stiles really cared about people.
"Everything's fine," I lied. "Just… adjusting. New city, new school, you know."
"If you ever need to talk about anything—"
"Thanks, Stiles. Really." I forced a smile. "But I'm good."
He didn't look fully convinced, but the bell rang, saving me from further interrogation.
That afternoon was training with my parents.
Unlike Marcus's physical focus, they taught me history. Context. What it meant to be Lupaztlán.
We sat in the living room, ancient books spread across the coffee table. Some were hundreds of years old, pages yellowed and fragile, text written in languages I barely recognized.
"Our people weren't just warriors," my mother explained, tracing a symbol on one of the pages. "We were guardians. Protectors of sacred places, keepers of balance."
"Until the druids decided we were too dangerous," my father added bitterly. "That the combination of wolf and berserker was an abomination."
"And they hunted us," I finished.
"Yes." My mother closed the book gently. "But we survived. Hidden, fragmented, but alive. And as long as one Lupaztlán breathes, the lineage continues."
I looked at the books, the symbols, my parents. Trying to process the weight of it all.
This wasn't just about me. It was about centuries of history, generations of survival, an entire species teetering on the edge of extinction.
No pressure.
FRIDAY – Day 2
Morning training showed small progress.
I managed to hold the transformation for thirty seconds before failing. Not much, but better.
Marcus allowed himself a nod of approval.
"Better. But not good enough."
"You're impossible to please, you know that?"
"Good. Means you'll keep trying."
P.E. that day was… revealing.
I was still excused from intense activities, so I sat on the bleachers while the class did strength exercises.
Scott was among them.
And something was definitely different.
Coach Finstock had everyone grab weights—basic bench press, nothing too heavy. Scott picked up a bar that should've been within his normal capacity.
Then he lifted it like it weighed nothing.
"McCall!" Finstock shouted, surprised. "When the hell did you get that strong?"
Scott froze, the bar still suspended. He looked at it, then at his own hands, total confusion on his face.
"I… don't know?"
"Don't give me 'I don't know'! You just lifted eighty kilos like it was a pillow!"
Scott quickly set the bar down, embarrassment flushing his cheeks. Other students were staring, murmuring.
I watched it all, thoughtful.
He still doesn't realize what he is. Not completely. He just thinks he's… changing. Getting stronger.
But the full moon is coming. And then he'll find out the hard way.
Part of me wanted to warn him. Pull him aside, explain everything.
But how? "Hey Scott, we don't really know each other, but you were bitten by a werewolf and you're going to transform during the full moon"?
Yeah. That would go great.
SATURDAY and SUNDAY
No school meant longer training.
Mornings with Marcus, pushing my physical limits. Runs through the forest, sparring (where he knocked me down repeatedly), transformation drills under pressure.
Afternoons with my parents, learning social camouflage techniques.
"If anyone suspects," my father instructed, "you deny it. Always. Calmly, rationally, without hesitation."
"And if they don't believe me?"
"You make them believe you. Confidence is everything. If you act like it's absurd, they'll think it's absurd."
We practiced scenarios. Someone seeing my eyes glow. Someone noticing abnormal strength. Someone asking about wounds that healed too fast.
For each one, a story. An excuse. A convincing lie.
It was exhausting in a different way than physical training. But just as necessary.
By the end of the weekend, I hit a milestone: controlled partial transformation—just claws—for a full two minutes.
Marcus almost smiled.
"Progress."
MONDAY – Day 5
The morning started well. Productive training, no incidents at school during the first classes.
Then came the break between second and third period.
I was at my locker, grabbing my history book, when I heard a commotion in the hallway.
Jackson Whittemore—because of course it was—had shoved a smaller kid against the lockers. The kid bounced back, stumbled, and bumped into me.
"Sorry!" he said quickly, scared.
"No problem," I started to say.
Then Jackson laughed. That arrogant, cruel laugh that made it clear he thought this was funny.
And anger burned through me.
Instant. Visceral. Way out of proportion to what was happening.
I turned, my gaze locking onto Jackson.
And I felt my eyes change.
The familiar heat. The glow.
Jackson stopped laughing, meeting my stare. For a second, something crossed his face—confusion? Fear?
"What's your problem, new guy?" he asked, but his voice lacked confidence.
I blinked. Fast. Deliberate.
My eyes returned to normal.
"Nothing," I said tensely. "Just thought it was funny how you compensate, you know?"
Confusion replaced whatever fear there'd been. "Compensate for what?"
"You know." I shrugged, closing my locker. "Insecurity."
I left him there, mouth open, before he could respond.
My heart was pounding. I went straight to the nearest bathroom, locked myself in a stall, and breathed.
Control. CONTROL.
Hands shaking, I leaned against the cold wall.
Closer. I'd come so close to being exposed in a crowded hallway.
Because of what? Jackson being a jerk? Something that happened in every school, every day?
Marcus was right. I needed to control not just the transformation, but the triggers. The emotions behind it.
Lunch brought another challenge.
I decided to sit alone, needing space. I grabbed my tray and found an empty table near the windows.
Three tables over, Scott and Stiles sat together, heads bent in whispered conversation.
A conversation I shouldn't have been able to hear.
But I did.
Perfectly.
"…so you heard her from FAR away?" Stiles was saying. "How?"
"I don't know, man!" Scott sounded frustrated. "It was like… amplified. Like she was right next to me, but she was on the other side of the field."
"That's… weird."
"You think?" Heavy sarcasm. "Because I thought it was totally normal."
I tried to focus on my food. Ignore them. But it was impossible.
Heightened hearing didn't have an off switch.
"And the reflexes," Scott continued. "Yesterday at lacrosse practice, I caught a ball without looking. I didn't even know it was coming until it was in my hand."
"Maybe you're just having a good day?"
"Stiles." Scott's voice grew serious. "Something's happening to me. Since that night in the woods. Since the bite."
Silence.
Then Stiles, low: "You think it has something to do with… with what bit you?"
"I don't know. But I need to find out."
I clenched my fists under the table.
He has no idea what's happening to him. No idea what's coming.
The full moon. The first transformation. The Alpha returning.
Part of me wanted to go over there and tell them everything.
But I couldn't. Not without exposing myself. Not without revealing how I knew.
So I sat there, listening to Scott and Stiles try to understand something beyond their comprehension, and felt like the worst kind of coward.
WEDNESDAY – Day 7
Morning training was better. I managed partial armor—just on my right forearm—under conscious control.
Marcus looked visibly pleased.
"You're progressing faster than I expected."
"But it's still not enough."
"No," he agreed bluntly. "But it's better than before. Keep it up."
Between classes that morning, another incident happened.
I was walking down the hall when I passed two girls by the lockers. One was crying softly, the other trying to comfort her.
"…and he broke up with me by text," the crying girl sobbed. "After eight months. A freaking text."
I kept walking.
But I heard everything. Every word. Every sob. Every shaky breath.
And it wasn't just them. I could hear conversations everywhere. A couple arguing near the library. A teacher complaining about salary in the staff room. Someone planning to skip class in the parking lot.
Everything. All at once.
I covered my ears with my hands, but it didn't help. The sound wasn't coming from outside. It was coming from… inside. From my own senses working in overdrive.
Stop. STOP.
I sped up, practically running to my next class, trying to block it all out.
Literature was where I made a mistake.
Professor Green was discussing The Great Gatsby, asking about symbolism.
"Can anyone tell me what Dr. T.J. Eckleburg's eyes represent?"
My hand went up automatically.
"Mr. Moreno?"
"They represent the eyes of God watching the moral decay of society," I said. "Fitzgerald establishes this in Chapter Two when—"
I stopped abruptly.
Because I'd just quoted a conversation I'd overheard—on the OTHER FLOOR—between two AP Literature students discussing that exact topic before class.
Professor Green blinked. "…Correct. Although I don't recall us discussing that specifically yet."
"I… read ahead," I stammered.
"Hm." He didn't look fully convinced, but continued the lesson.
But Stiles, sitting two rows behind me, was staring. I could feel his eyes on me.
When the bell rang, I tried to leave quickly.
"Hey, Daniel!"
Damn it.
I turned. Stiles was walking toward me, that analytical look on his face.
"What's up?"
"Can I ask you something?"
Tension flooded my muscles instantly. "Sure."
"You… noticed anything strange lately?"
My heart skipped. "Strange how?"
"Like… abnormal stuff. Happening in town."
I chose my words carefully. "Like what?"
Stiles glanced around, making sure no one was listening too closely.
"Animal attacks. People going missing. That kind of thing."
"…Haven't really paid attention," I lied. "Why?"
He studied me for a long moment.
"No reason. Just… curious."
"Right."
He nodded and walked away, but looked back once before turning the corner.
And I knew.
He's investigating something. And he's watching me.
FRIDAY – Last class of the day
Chemistry was the last class of the week. A full week of juggling training, school, lies, and unstable control.
I was exhausted. Mentally, emotionally, physically drained.
"Partner project," Professor Harris announced, making the class collectively groan. "You'll create a basic chemical volcano. Partners will be assigned."
Of course they would be.
"Moreno and Martin."
I looked at the girl sitting two desks ahead of me. Lydia Martin. Redhead, popular, unbelievably intelligent but hiding it behind a superficial façade.
She rolled her eyes, grabbed her materials, and came to my table.
"You measure," she ordered without preamble. "I mix."
"Good morning to you too."
"I don't have time for pleasantries. I have a date in an hour and I'd rather not smell like sulfur."
Fair enough.
We started working. Lydia was efficient and bossy, calling out exact quantities and timing everything with military precision.
And I was… distracted.
My mind wandered despite my efforts to focus.
Seven days. One week since Peter Hale almost killed me.
Since I found out I'm not human.
Since my life became this… constant lie.
Wake up at 4:30. Train. School. Pretend to be normal. Train. Sleep. Repeat.
And for what? I can barely control—
"Daniel! The test tube!"
Lydia's voice snapped me back.
I jolted.
The test tube was tipping, about to fall.
I grabbed it. Fast. Too fast.
And with too much force.
The glass shattered in my hand.
Fragments fell onto the table. Some cut into my palm.
"Oh my God!" Lydia jumped back. "Are you okay?"
Other students stared. Harris started walking toward us.
"Moreno! What happened?"
I looked at my hand.
Blood welled up from a cut in my palm. Small, but visible.
And then… it stopped.
The edges of the cut began to close.
No. Not here. Not now.
Pure panic surged through me.
I closed my fist quickly, hiding my palm.
"I… I'm fine. Just a scratch."
"Let me see," Harris said, reaching our table.
"No, really, I—"
And then the world started spinning.
It wasn't fake. Not exactly. Panic, fear, a full week of exhaustion—everything collided at once.
My vision blurred at the edges.
"Daniel?" Lydia's voice sounded distant. "You look pale…"
My knees buckled.
I grabbed the edge of the table, but it didn't help.
"I just… need…"
I didn't finish the sentence before collapsing.
I didn't completely lose consciousness.
I was aware of voices above me. Hands helping me sit up. Harris saying something about the nurse.
"I've got him!" Stiles's voice. Of course.
He helped me up, my arm over his shoulders, half carrying me out of the classroom.
"Dude," he said as we walked—or rather, as he dragged me—down the hallway. "You really need to start sleeping more."
"Yeah… sorry."
"And eating. Do you eat? Because it doesn't look like you eat."
"I eat."
"Uh-huh."
Halfway to the nurse's office, I stopped.
"Wait. I… I'm better."
Stiles looked at me skeptically. "You PASSED OUT."
"I didn't pass out. I just… got dizzy." I took a deep breath, straightening. "Seriously. I'm better now."
"Can I see the cut?"
Damn it.
I cautiously opened my hand.
The cut was almost invisible now. Just a thin pink line where blood had been.
"See?" I forced a smile. "Not that bad."
Stiles frowned, studying my palm.
"I swear there was more blood…"
"You were far away. Bad lighting."
He didn't look convinced. "Hm."
"Seriously, Stiles. Thanks for helping, but I'm fine." I picked up my backpack from the floor. "I just need to… go home. Rest."
He studied me a moment longer, then gave in.
"Fine. But if you pass out again, I'm dragging you to the nurse."
"Deal."
He headed back to class. I went straight to my locker, grabbed my things, and left.
I didn't go to the nurse. I didn't go to the office.
I just went home.
[TO BE CONTINUED – PART 2]