The house was empty when I got home.
My parents were still at work. Marcus was probably doing his daily patrol, or whatever it was he did during the day.
I went upstairs to my room and collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
My hand was still tingling where the cut had been. It was completely gone now, without leaving a scar. As if it had never happened.
But it had happened.
And people had seen it.
Lydia had seen the blood. Stiles had seen the cut afterward. Both of them were probably wondering how something that looked serious had healed so fast.
How long until someone put the pieces together?
I was almost exposed.
Stiles saw it. Lydia saw it. Scott was in the room.
How long until someone starts asking questions I can't answer?
I covered my face with my hands, exhaustion washing over me in waves.
I can't do this. I can't live like this.
Pretending. Hiding. Every day getting harder.
I looked at my hands, turning them over, studying my palms.
They looked normal now. Completely human.
But I knew what they could do. I knew what was hidden beneath the surface.
Claws. Strength enough to shatter glass without trying. Bone armor waiting to emerge.
A monster wearing human skin.
I heard the front door open an hour later.
Voices—my parents. Footsteps climbing the stairs.
A soft knock on the door.
"Daniel?" My mother's voice. "Can I come in?"
"It's open."
She came in, my father right behind her. Both of them looked worried.
"The school called," my mother said, sitting on the edge of my bed. "They said you left early. That you fainted in chemistry class."
I didn't answer right away.
"What happened?" my father asked, leaning against the doorframe.
I told them. My voice low, tired. The test tube breaking. The cut. The fast healing. Almost being exposed.
"You covered it well," my mother said when I finished, her hand finding mine. "Fainting was a good cover."
"Barely," I said bitterly. "Stiles saw my hand afterward. He knows something doesn't add up."
"But he doesn't know what," my father said. "And suspicion isn't proof."
"Not yet."
Heavy silence filled the room.
The door opened again—Marcus, walking in without knocking as usual.
"I heard," he said bluntly, looking at me. "You made mistakes."
I sat up, defensive. "I KNOW!"
"But you recovered. That matters." He crossed his arms. "You learned something today: under pressure, you NEED to have a story ready. A plan."
"There shouldn't BE a next time!" I snapped, jumping off the bed.
Everyone stared at me.
"I didn't ask for this!" Frustration, fear, exhaustion—all of it spilling out at once. "I didn't ask to be attacked! I didn't ask to become this… this thing!"
"Daniel—" my mother started.
"No! You CHOSE this! You chose to come here! To Beacon Hills, of all damn places!"
"To protect you," my father said, his voice firm but not angry.
"PROTECT?!" I laughed humorlessly. "I was almost exposed today! In front of half a dozen people! How is that protection?"
Silence.
Marcus stepped forward, calm but firm.
"Daniel. Look at me."
Reluctantly, I met his eyes.
"Seven days," he said. "You've been training for SEVEN DAYS."
"So what—"
"I trained for YEARS. And I still lose control sometimes." He didn't blink. "This doesn't go away. It never does. You just learn to live with it."
The words hit like punches.
"Years," I repeated quietly.
"Years," Marcus confirmed. "And you're progressing faster than most. But yes, you'll make mistakes. You'll have close calls. That's part of learning."
My shoulders slumped, the anger draining away and leaving only exhaustion.
"I'm just… tired."
"I know." My mother stood and pulled me into a hug. "We know. And we're sorry. For all of this."
I let myself sink into the hug for a moment. Just a moment of being a kid again, of letting someone else carry the weight.
But only a moment.
Because in the end, this was my reality now. My burden to carry.
"Training tomorrow morning like always?" I asked, my voice muffled against her shoulder.
"Training tomorrow," Marcus confirmed. "But maybe we'll let you sleep until five. You need rest."
"So generous," I muttered.
He almost smiled. "Don't get used to it."
That night, lying in bed, I couldn't sleep despite the exhaustion.
My window was open, letting in the cold October breeze. The curtain swayed gently.
I looked at the moon through the window. Waxing. Growing fuller every night.
The first full moon was coming. Soon.
And Scott McCall, without knowing it, was running straight toward the most terrifying transformation of his life.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
I picked it up, blinking against the bright light.
A message from Stiles:
"Hey, still alive? Lacrosse practice Thursday. You in?"
I stared at the message for a long moment.
Lacrosse. Another chance to be close to Scott, to observe his transformation. Another chance to pretend to be normal while everything around me slowly fell apart.
I typed a reply:
"I'll try."
I set the phone back down and stared at the ceiling.
Marcus was right. Seven days were nothing. I was learning, improving.
But how long until I made a mistake I couldn't recover from? Until I couldn't hide it, couldn't explain it?
And Scott… he was going through the same thing. Changes he didn't understand, powers he couldn't control.
But he had Stiles. He had friends who cared, who would help him when they found out.
I only had secrets.
Movement outside caught my attention.
I sat up, focusing through the window.
A figure in the backyard. At the edge of the tree line.
Marcus.
Patrolling. Always patrolling.
I watched him for a moment—the way he moved, constantly alert, eyes sweeping the forest.
Why is he always out there?
What does he think is going to happen?
Peter had woken up almost a week ago. He knew about the Lupaztlán. He had seen the warning.
But he hadn't done anything. No attacks, no retaliation.
Was he backing off? Or planning?
Marcus clearly thought the latter. Hence the constant vigilance.
I lay back down, staring at the ceiling again.
Thursday. Lacrosse. Another test to see if I can pretend to be normal.
But something tells me… pretending is getting harder and harder.
Eventually, exhaustion won over anxiety.
I slept, and dreamed of bones and moonlight and red eyes watching from the darkness.
[INTERLUDE – Other Perspectives]
School Hallway – After Classes
Scott found Stiles in the parking lot, both of them heading toward Stiles' car.
"Heard Daniel passed out in chemistry," Scott said, tossing his backpack into the back seat.
"Yeah." Stiles got into the driver's seat. "It was weird."
"Weird how?"
Stiles hesitated, hands on the steering wheel but not starting the car yet.
"The cut… it didn't look that bad afterward. Like, he was bleeding, Lydia screamed, then when I looked again it was just a line."
"Maybe you saw it wrong?"
"Maybe." But Stiles didn't sound convinced. "But… don't you think he's… different?"
Scott frowned. "Different how?"
"I don't know. Just… something doesn't add up." Stiles finally started the car. "He shows up three weeks ago, all bandaged, saying he fell off his bike. He's super tense all the time. And there are these weird moments where it feels like he knows more than he should."
"Stiles," Scott said carefully. "You're being paranoid."
"Maybe. But in case you haven't noticed, weird stuff is happening in Beacon Hills. And something about Daniel just… doesn't fit."
Scott didn't have an answer for that.
Cafeteria – Girls' Table
Lydia checked her phone while Allison sat across from her with her tray.
"So," Allison said. "I heard there was drama in chemistry today."
"Ugh, don't even get me started." Lydia rolled her eyes. "That new kid is weird."
"Daniel? He seems nice."
"He broke a test tube in his HAND. Glass cut him. There was blood. And then…" Lydia paused, frowning. "He acted like it was nothing. Like he didn't even go see the nurse."
"Maybe he's just tough?"
"No." Lydia shook her head. "That wasn't it. It was… different. Like he was hiding something."
"You think everyone is hiding something," Allison laughed.
"Because they usually are."
Someone called Lydia from another table, and she stood up, the subject dropped.
But Allison stayed thoughtful for a moment.
Daniel Moreno. New in town. Always a little on the outside, observing more than participating.
Hospital – Psychiatric Ward
Peter Hale sat on the edge of his hospital bed, staring at the wall.
At the symbol.
They had tried to clean it. The nurses, the janitors. But it was scratched deep into the plaster, and all they'd managed to do was dull it slightly.
But Peter could still see it.
Lupaztlán.
The symbol was unmistakable to those who knew. And Peter knew.
His mother, Talia, had taught him about the ancient families. The lineages that existed before the Hales, alongside them, sometimes against them.
Lupaztlán—Bone Wolves. Hybrids created through druidic magic, combining wolf and berserker. Powerful. Dangerous. And supposedly extinct.
But apparently not.
Three of them, judging by the faint scents still lingering in the room. Two adults, one older. All powerful. All in Alpha form.
They had entered while he was in a coma. Left the symbol. Left the medallion (which the nurses had confiscated, thinking it belonged to a forgotten visitor).
Left the message: The attacks stop. Now.
Peter laughed softly.
They thought they could threaten him. Three Lupaztlán entering his territory, leaving warnings while he was helpless.
Part of him was angry. Wanted to hunt them down, eliminate them for daring.
But another part—the part that had survived six years of agony in a coma, the part that had clawed its way back from the edge of madness—was more pragmatic.
Three Lupaztlán represented a real threat. Not something to underestimate.
And he had more important goals than territorial revenge.
Laura. Derek. Revenge against Kate Argent.
The Lupaztlán could wait.
For now.
He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
But eventually, he would have to deal with them.
Eventually, they would have to understand who truly ruled Beacon Hills.
And when the time came…
Well.
It would be interesting to see if the Lupaztlán were really as powerful as the legends claimed.
Forest – Midnight
Marcus stopped in the clearing they used for training, breathing in the night air.
Everything was quiet. Too quiet.
He didn't like it.
Peter Hale had woken up. Had seen the warning. And had done nothing.
No retaliation. No attack. No response.
Which meant he was either:
Backing off (unlikely)
Planning (far more likely)
Marcus hadn't survived five years alone by being careless.
He patrolled. Every night. Checking perimeters, looking for signs, keeping himself between his family and any threat.
Because he had failed once.
He had been meters away when Peter attacked Daniel. Should have gotten there faster, should have stopped it.
He wouldn't fail again.
A branch snapped somewhere to the left.
Marcus froze, senses sharpened.
But it was just a deer, nervous, grazing.
He relaxed slightly, but didn't lower his guard.
Soon, he thought. Peter will make a move soon. And when he does…
Well.
Marcus would be waiting.
[END OF CHAPTER 6]