Stiles POV

The last time I checked, motels were supposed to be creepy in a mildly unsettling way—not in a definitely haunted, might-die-here kind of way.

But this place? This place was bad news.

It smelled weird, for one—like mold, old wood, and something sickly sweet that I really didn't want to think too hard about. The lighting was dim, flickering in that classic horror-movie way. And the vending machine in the lobby? Completely destroyed, thanks to one emotionally unstable teenage werewolf.

Yeah. Something was seriously wrong.

I glanced at Allison and Lydia, both of whom looked just as uneasy as I felt. Lydia was clinging to her arms, like she was trying to physically ward off whatever bad vibes were radiating from this hellhole, and Allison was scanning the area like she expected something to jump out at us any second.

"The last time I saw Scott act like that," Allison said, voice low and wary, "was during the full moon."

"Yeah, I know..." I replied, shaking my head. "He was definitely a little off with me, too."

That was an understatement. Scott had been acting way off since we got here—distant, weirdly quiet, almost like he was... I don't know, losing control? But not in the usual angry, wolfy way. It was something different. Something darker.

I sighed and shoved my hands into my pockets. "But actually, it was Boyd who was really off—I watched him put his fist through the vending machine." I gestured to the shattered glass and the now totally looted machine behind us.

Lydia's eyes widened. "See? It is the motel!" She was already halfway to panic mode. "Either we need to get out of here right now, or someone needs to learn how to do an exorcism ASAP, before the werewolves go crazy and kill us."

Okay. That escalated quickly.

"Okay, just hold on, all right?" I said, trying to keep some semblance of control here. "What if it's not just the motel?"

Lydia narrowed her eyes at me. "Excuse me?"

I turned to Allison, my brain kicking into high gear. "The number in the office went up by three, right?"

"You mean, like three sacrifices?" Allison asked, voice tense.

"What if this time, it's three werewolves?" I continued, piecing it together in real time.

Allison's face paled. "Scott, Isaac, and Boyd..."

"Maybe we were meant to come here."

"Exactly!" Lydia all but shrieked. "So, can we get the hell out of here now? Please?"

I ignored her and leaned down, scanning through the old newspaper articles that had been left in our room—because, you know, totally normal motel things. My eyes caught on one.

"Wait, hang on. Let me see this..." I muttered, pulling the paper closer. The headline jumped out at me. 'Twenty-eight-year-old man hangs himself at the infamous Glen Capri.'

Lydia leaned over my shoulder. "Oh, no... Look at these two. They both mention room two-seventeen." She reached for another article, her fingers shaking slightly. "These are probably all the suicides that happened in this room."

Allison looked around sharply. "So, if every room has a Bible..."

"There could be articles in all the rooms," Lydia finished, her voice quieter now.

I exhaled, running a hand through my hair. "That's a beautiful thing. Most places leave a mint under the pillow—this one leaves a record of all the horrible deaths that occurred."

Lydia stood up abruptly. "What if the room next door has the one about the couple?" She turned, heading for the adjoining door—only to find it locked. Her hand rattled the knob once, then twice. She let go like it had burned her.

"No," she whispered. "That was not locked before."

Allison took a step back, eyes darting to the hallway. "Forget it. We need to get Scott, Isaac, and Boyd out of here."

But before we could move, the sound hit us.

A low, mechanical whirrrrrr.

It sent ice straight down my spine.

Lydia turned toward us, her face drained of color. "I'm not the only one who heard that, am I?"

Allison's breathing had gone shallow. "It sounds like someone turned the handsaw on."

My stomach flipped. "Handsaw???"

And then, chaos.

•-----------------•

"Hey, no! Ethan, don't!" I yelled as we bolted toward the noise.

A sharp, pained scream tore through the air—Ethan's.

We skidded into the room just in time to see Ethan stumble back from the workbench, his chest rising and falling erratically. His eyes were wild, unfocused. The handsaw was still buzzing on the table, but he wasn't touching it anymore.

He was staring at his own hand. His shaking, bloodied hand.

"What the hell just happened?!" I demanded.

Ethan turned toward me, his expression unreadable. "I don't know how I got there. Or what I was doing." His voice was rough, panicked.

I threw my hands up. "Okay, you could be a little more helpful, you know? We did just save your life!"

Ethan looked away, jaw tight. "And you probably shouldn't have."

Okay, cool, ominous and unhelpful.

Lydia grabbed my arm, her fingers cold against my skin. "What now?"

I didn't waste a second. "Allison, you go find Scott," I said quickly, the urgency in my voice matching the pounding in my chest. "We'll grab Isaac and Boyd. The best thing we can do right now is get them out of here."

Allison nodded without hesitation, already turning to move, her footsteps quick and purposeful. But Lydia didn't follow. She lingered, her eyes studying me with a strange, almost piercing intensity. I could feel her gaze, like she was trying to read me.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" I asked, trying to sound nonchalant, but there was a tightness in my chest that betrayed my words.

Lydia raised an eyebrow, her voice soft but probing. "What's going on, Stiles?"

I opened my mouth, but the words caught in my throat. "Oh, no, I w—"

"Stiles..." Lydia's tone dropped, smooth but unmistakably stern. She wasn't letting me off the hook.

I sighed, rubbing my face in exasperation. My mind raced as I tried to figure out how to say it without sounding like I was spiraling. "Alright, Lydia. I didn't want to say anything, but... this? Everything we're dealing with right now? It feels too familiar. Too much like something we've been through before."

Her frown deepened. "What do you mean? When?"

I hesitated, my gaze flicking to the ground for a moment as the memory hit me, sharp and unwelcome. I swallowed hard, trying to push past the discomfort. "Your birthday party. The night you poisoned everyone with wolfsbane."

Lydia's face went blank, her expression unreadable. "Excuse me?"

Crap. I could already feel the weight of my mistake settling in. This was definitely not the reaction I had been hoping for.

"Lydia, I'm sorry, okay?" I rushed to fix it. "Look, I didn't mean that you're trying to kill people, okay? I just... I just meant that, maybe... maybe you're somehow involved in getting people to kill themselves, you know?"

Her mouth fell open.

"...Which, now that I say that out loud, it just sounds really terrible, so I'm just gonna stop talking..."

"Stiles." Lydia's voice was sharp now. "Do you hear that?"

I blinked. "What? Lydia, what do you hear?"

"A baby crying..." Her eyes darted around. "I hear... I hear water running."

Lydia gasped. "She's drowning the baby! Someone's drowning!"

My stomach dropped.

We bolted toward the sound, throwing the door open—Boyd was in the bathtub, not moving.

I lunged forward. "He blocked it! He blocked the drain with something—I can't get to it!"

"What do we do?" Lydia's voice was rising in panic.

"Help me—!" I tugged at him, but he wasn't coming up.

"How long can a werewolf stay underwater?" she asked.

I grit my teeth. "You think I know that?!"

A sharp zap of pain shot up my arm when I touched the metal railing.

Wait.

The heater.

Heat. Fire. That's what had snapped Ethan out of it.

"It's heat!" I shouted. "Heat does it! We need something—we need fire!"

"He's underwater," Lydia reminded me.

I shot her a look. "Yeah, I'm aware of that."

Her eyes widened. "Wait—the bus! Emergency road flares! They can burn underwater!"

I stared at her. "Are you serious?"

"Yes! Go!"

I ran.

I had no idea how long Isaac had been under, but I knew it was too long. If I didn't get back in time—

I shoved through the bus doors, ripped open the emergency kit, grabbed a flare, and bolted back inside.

"I got 'em!" I gasped. "What do I do?"

Lydia snatched the flare. "The cap—it's like a match! Strike it!"

I fumbled with it, my hands shaking. "C'mon, c'mon—"

The flare ignited.

I turned and shoved it into the water.

Boyd's body jerked. His eyes shot open, and he inhaled sharply.

And suddenly, he was back.

•-----------------•

I can't find Scott anywhere.

Allison's voice is urgent, her breathing shallow, like she's been running through the motel trying to find him. My heart is already racing, but now it drops into my stomach like a lead weight.

"It's happening to him too, isn't it?" I say, but I already know the answer.

Lydia nods, her expression grim. "It has to be."

She's right. It makes sense. Isaac almost drowned himself, Ethan nearly ripped himself apart, and Scott—Scott is just as affected as they were. If not more.

"Didn't you say there were more flares on the bus?" Lydia asks, looking at me like she already knows what I have to do.

I nod, swallowing hard. "Yeah, I'll get another."

I don't waste any time. I take off running, feet pounding against the pavement, lungs burning as I sprint toward the bus. The cold night air doesn't help; it feels sharp in my chest, cutting deep, but I push forward. I don't let myself think about what could be happening with Scott right now.

My best friend. My brother.

The one person in my life I cannot afford to lose.

I reach the bus in record time, my hands shaking as I rip open the emergency kit. The second road flare is exactly where I remember it being, nestled among other supplies like it's just another piece of equipment. But this? This is a lifeline.

I don't waste time. I grab it and run.

•-------------------•

By the time I catch up with Allison and Lydia, I hear her calling out to Scott. Her voice is soft, almost pleading. It sends a fresh wave of anxiety through me.

"Scott?"

I round the corner just in time to see him standing there, his shoulders slumped, head low. He's holding a flare in his hand, the light flickering, casting an eerie glow over his face. And his eyes—God, his eyes—are empty. Hollow.

"There's no hope," he says.

My stomach lurches.

"What do you mean, Scott? There's always hope," Allison urges, stepping closer.

Scott doesn't even look at her.

"Not for me," he says. "Not for Derek..."

Allison's face twists in pain. "Derek wasn't your fault. You know Derek wasn't your fault."

Scott doesn't react. He just stands there, staring at the burning flare in his hand like he's already made up his mind.

"Every time I try to fight back," he says, voice breaking, "it just gets worse. People keep getting hurt. People keep getting killed."

I take a step forward. "Scott, listen to me, okay? This isn't you. This is someone inside your head, telling you to do this. Okay? Now—"

Scott cuts me off. "What if it isn't?" He finally looks up at me, and the depth of pain in his eyes nearly takes me to my knees. "What if it is just me?"

I shake my head. "No—"

"What if doing this is actually the best thing I could do for everyone else?" His voice is quiet, but the words hit like a gunshot. "It all started that night—the night I got bitten. You remember the way it was before that? You and me, we were... we were... we were nothing. We weren't popular. We weren't good at lacrosse. We weren't important. We were no one."

I don't realise I'm shaking my head until my neck aches from the movement.

"Scott..."

"Maybe I should just be no one again," he continues, lifting the flare higher, the fire glowing between us. "No one at all."

No.

Panic grips my chest, squeezing so tight it's hard to breathe.

"No, Scott. You don't get to do this," I say, my voice cracking. "You don't get to just leave like this, not now."

Scott blinks, his grip tightening around the flare.

"You just got her back," I whisper. "You just saw her again."

His brows furrow, confused.

"Scarlett."

I watch the way his body reacts to her name, the way his fingers twitch slightly like some part of him is trying to hold onto something real.

"You finally saw your sister after twelve years," I continue, my voice raw. "You really gonna leave her now? After everything?"

Scott's eyes dart around, his expression flickering with something—recognition, doubt.

"You don't even know what happened to her, Scott." I take another step closer. "You don't know where she's been. You don't know what he did to her."

Scott's breath hitches.

"And now you never will. Because you'll be gone, and she'll never get her brother back."

Silence.

Scott clenches his jaw. His shoulders are trembling, his whole body tensed like a coiled spring ready to snap. But I can see it—I can see the war in his eyes, the part of him that still wants to fight.

"You don't leave her," I say, voice barely above a whisper. "You don't leave me. We figure this out together, Scott. We find out what happened to her together. We fix this together."

His eyes flicker again, like some part of him is reaching for that truth.

"Scott, you're not no one," I whisper, my throat tight, my heart hammering in my chest. "You're someone." I take another step forward, desperate to get through to him, desperate to break through whatever the hell is making him think like this.

"Scott, you're my best friend," I whisper, my voice trembling. "Okay? And I need you. Scott, you're my brother, all right?"

He still won't look at me.

"So..." I exhale sharply, my hands clenched at my sides. "So, if you're gonna do this, then..." I take one last step, standing directly in front of him now, the flare's heat licking at my skin.

"I think you're just gonna have to take me with you."

Silence.

His expression flickers, just slightly, his lips parting like he's trying to process what I just said.

"All right?" My voice is softer now, pleading, desperate. "Because I'm not letting you go, Scott."

Scott stumbles back, his breathing ragged, like he's suddenly woken up from a nightmare. His eyes dart between us, realization dawning over his features.

"Oh, God..." He gasps, like the weight of what he almost did just slammed into him all at once. "Oh, my God..."

I grab his shoulders, squeezing hard. "You're okay," I tell him, even though my voice is shaking. "You're okay, Scott. You're here. You're with us."

His breathing is uneven, but his eyes lock onto mine.

And I know—I know I got through to him.

I pull him into a hug, gripping the back of his head as he shakes against me.

"It's okay," I repeat, holding on for dear life. "I got you. I got you."

And I don't let go.

Scarlett POV

The joint burned between my fingers, the slow curl of smoke rising lazily in the dim light of Dereks loft. I exhaled, watching the tendrils disappear into the air as I sank deeper into the couch.

My head was still buzzing from the edibles I'd taken earlier, and the painkillers were starting to settle in, dulling the constant ache that had become as familiar to me as breathing.

The only thing keeping me from fully floating away was the presence of the man I'd dragged in here just an hour ago.

Derek then started to stir.

At first, it's just a twitch of his fingers, a hitch in his breath. Then a low groan, deep and rough, vibrating through his chest like he's fighting his way back to consciousness. His brows pull together, his body shifting against the mattress as he slowly comes to.

I don't move. I don't say anything.

I just watch.

His breathing evens out as he blinks himself awake, groggy and unfocused. A heavy sigh leaves his lips as he drags a hand over his face, fingers rubbing at his temples like he's trying to push away the pain. His other hand instinctively goes to his side, fingertips brushing over the fresh stitches I put there.

Then he sits up.

And suddenly, he's alert.

His body tenses, eyes flicking around the room like he's expecting an ambush. He rubs his hand down his face again before running it through his already messy hair, blinking rapidly like he's trying to shake off the lingering haze of unconsciousness.

That's when his gaze lands on me.

And he freezes.

I meet his stare, expression unreadable, the joint still lazily hanging between my fingers. The only sound in the loft is the soft crackle of the burning paper as I take another slow drag.

His whole body stiffens, shoulders squaring, muscles coiling like a spring ready to snap. His eyes narrow slightly, flicking between me, the joint, then down to his side. I can see the moment realization clicks—the confusion shifting into something harder.

"Who the hell are you?" His voice is rough, edged with suspicion.

I blow out the smoke, unfazed. "Scarlett."

His gaze sharpens. "How did you get in here?"

I shrug. "You left the door open."

His jaw clenches. His eyes flick to the slightly ajar loft door, then back to me, his expression darkening.

"You gonna explain why you're sitting in my loft, smoking, while I wake up from—" He winces slightly, pressing a hand to his side. "—this?"

I tilt my head. "Heard a crash. Came downstairs. Found you bleeding out outside your apartment." I gesture toward his wound with the joint. "Patched you up. You're welcome, by the way."

He stares at me, expression unreadable, but I can see the gears turning behind his eyes. His breathing is slow and measured, controlled in a way that tells me he's calculating something.

"You dragged me inside?"

"Yep."

"You stitched me up?"

I smirk. "You're welcome, by the way."

Derek exhales sharply through his nose, like he's already out of patience. "You shouldn't be here."

"Well, I am," I say, exhaling another stream of smoke. "And technically, you should be thanking me, not growling at me."

Derek scoffs, shaking his head. "You don't even know who I am."

I raise a brow. "You don't know who I am, either."

I decide not to tell him that from the conversations I overheard the other day I'm pretty sure I can deduce a few facts about him including the fact that his name is most likely derek, he has a little sister, a potentially insane uncle and is clearly part of some fucked up gang.

That makes him pause. His eyes narrow slightly, like he's trying to read between the lines.

"I live upstairs," I offer after a beat. "Moved in recently."

His stare lingers, assessing, before he finally speaks.

"Derek."

I blink. "Huh?"

"My name," he says, watching me carefully. "Derek."

Derek. Alright, I am clearly an amazing detective.

I nod slowly, committing it to memory. "Nice to meet you, Derek. Try not to bleed out on your doorstep next time."

He exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. "You shouldn't have gotten involved."

I roll my eyes. "You're welcome."

Derek looks like he wants to argue, but then something shifts in his expression. His brows pull together slightly, his head tilting just a fraction as his nostrils flare.

And then—he sniffs the air.

I blink.

Did I just see that right?

The hell?

I squint, watching him closely, my head tilting. He does it again—barely noticeable, just the slightest shift, his eyes darting around like he's sensing something.

What the actual fuck?

"Are you—" I hesitate, narrowing my eyes. "—Are you smelling the air?"

Derek's gaze snaps to me, and he stiffens slightly, like he hadn't meant to make it obvious.

I stare. He glares.

"Are you injured?"

I snort, rolling my eyes as I take another slow, long drag of the joint, letting the smoke linger before exhaling.

"Why the fuck are you asking that?"

Derek shrugs, but his expression stays serious, his eyes locked onto me with that intense, assessing look. "I smell blood."

I pause mid-inhale, staring at him.

Then, I blink. Slowly.

"Okay," I say, voice dry. "First off—what the actual fuck do you mean you smell blood?"

Derek doesn't answer. Just keeps watching me with that same unreadable look, like he's waiting for me to catch up to something I definitely don't understand.

I gesture toward him vaguely. "And secondly — you were literally covered in blood before. Obviously, you're gonna smell blood. If that's even possible."

Derek's glare deepens. "It is."

I narrow my eyes. "Right. Because people can just smell blood like some kind of—" I stop myself, my brain catching up to the weirdness of the whole situation.

Something isn't adding up.

People don't just smell blood.

People don't just sniff the air like that.

And people — normal, regular people— don't heal at the rate I assumed this guy should be healing.

I stare at him for a long moment, processing, before I slowly lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees.

Derek watches me, wary.

I squint at him.

"... Are you a fucking vampire?"

Derek blinks. Once.

Then his expression goes completely, utterly deadpan. "...What?"

I raise my brows. "Because if you are, I just want you to know that's, like, the lamest monster you could be."

Derek exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm not a vampire."

"Right. That's exactly what a vampire would say."

Derek groans, dragging a hand down his face. "I'm not —" He cuts himself off, muttering something under his breath.

I smirk. "That's not a no."

Derek glares. "I swear to God—"

I grin, taking another drag. "Relax, Dracula. Your secret's safe with me."

He exhales, slow and measured, rubbing his temple like I'm giving him a migraine. "You should leave."

I stretch, exhaling a lazy stream of smoke. "Probably."

Neither of us moves.

Derek's glare doesn't waver, but I can see something else behind it now—frustration, sure, but also something more controlled. Calculated. Like he's trying to figure out exactly what I know.

I just smirk.

This is going to be fun.

•============•
A/n:

Sooo my bestie had been grounded so I kinda didn't wanna bother posting this cuz I don't think anyone else is reading this, so if you want me to keep updating my prewritten chapters pls vote and comment!

I love you all so so so much!!

This is also probs like my fav chapter so far idk I just love how Scarlett calls Derek Dracula 😂

Anywayyyyy

Byeeeee

WC: 3915