Scarlett POV 

The neon 'Welcome to Beacon Hills' sign glows faintly in the darkness as we pass it, casting a sickly green light through the windshield. My stomach twists—not with excitement, not even with dread. Just the dull weight of resignation. I don't remember this place. Not really. The memories of it are vague, blurred images from a time before life became hell.

I shift my gaze to the side window, watching the trees blur past in the dim light. Beacon Hills is small, too small. The kind of town where everybody knows everybody's business. The kind of place where you can't disappear.

Figures.

Beside me, my father grips the steering wheel with white-knuckled fingers, his jaw tight, his eyes locked on the road. His silence is suffocating. He doesn't like change. Doesn't like inconveniences. I suppose I count as both.

Finally, he exhales through his nose and speaks, his voice sharp as a blade.

"We're here."

He pulls the car into a narrow alleyway, stopping in front of an old brick building. The loft sits above what looks like an abandoned auto shop. The exterior is rundown, covered in patches of grime and faded paint. A broken streetlight flickers outside the entrance, making the shadows shift. The windows above are dark, lifeless.

It looks abandoned.

It looks perfect.

He turns off the car and looks at me, his expression unreadable. "Grab the shit from the trunk."

I don't answer. Just shove the door open and step out, inhaling the crisp night air. It's cold. Probably too cold for just my hoodie, but I don't care. Anything is better than the lingering stench of his cheap cologne and stale cigarettes in the car.

Inside, the apartment is worse than I expected. Bare walls. Dusty floors. A couch that looks like it should've been thrown out a decade ago. There's a small kitchen with outdated appliances, a single table with mismatched chairs, and a flickering overhead light that bathes the room in a weak yellow hue.

My father barely gives it a glance before walking toward the main bedroom. "Unpack everything," he orders over his shoulder. Then he slams the door shut.

I stand there for a moment, letting out a slow breath through my nose. Welcome home, Scarlett.

I shake it off and get to work. Clothes. Toiletries. The few belongings I actually give a damn about. I move carefully, conscious of the fresh bruises lining my ribs. If I push too hard, they'll scream in protest. Not that it matters. Pain is just another part of life.

I'm halfway through unpacking when the door to his room creaks open.

The smell of alcohol hits me first. Thick. Pungent. My entire body goes rigid.

How the hell did he already find alcohol? We've only been in town for a couple of hours.

He stumbles down the stairs, his eyes bloodshot, his mouth curled in something between a sneer and a grimace. "Useless," he mutters under his breath, shaking his head like I'm the biggest mistake of his life.

Something sharp twists in my chest, but I shove it down. I don't let the words touch me. Not anymore.

Instead, I smirk, tilting my head. "Already drunk? That's gotta be a new record."

His expression darkens. "Watch your mouth."

I don't. "Or what? You'll hit me? Go ahead." I lift my chin, daring him. "You're gonna do it anyway. Might as well get it over with."

His jaw twitches. That flicker of hesitation—like he's debating whether I'm worth the energy tonight. Then he decides.

The slap comes fast, knocking my head to the side, making my vision blur for a second. Then come the fists. The kicks. The screaming. I barely hear the words anymore. Disappointment. Useless. Waste of space.

Blah, blah, blah. The same as always.

I curl into myself, not making a sound. I never do.

Eventually, he wears himself out. His yells turn into slurred muttering, and then, like clockwork, he stumbles back toward the couch and collapses, dead to the world.

I exhale slowly, pressing a hand against my ribs, wincing. Nothing broken. Just bruises. The fresh ones joining the dozens already hidden beneath my sleeves.

I push myself off the floor, taking my time. My body protests every movement, but I ignore it. There's still unpacking to do. If I don't finish, he'll just make me regret it later.

By the time I'm done, the apartment actually looks semi-livable. Boxes emptied. Suitcases tucked away. I grab my bag from the counter and pull out a small tin. Inside, perfectly lined up, are my edibles.

I pop three into my mouth, swallowing them dry. I don't even like the taste, but they do the job. They keep the nightmares at bay. Keep my body from feeling like it's falling apart.

I need air.

I grab my pack of cigarettes and a lighter, pull my hoodie over my head, and leave the apartment without a second thought.

•-----------•

Beacon Hills is too quiet at night. No sirens, no shouting, no city noise to drown out the thoughts I don't want to think.

The gas station is nearly empty when I get there. The flickering sign hums, casting an ugly yellow glow over the pavement. I lean against the wall, pull out a cigarette, and light up.

The first drag burns, but it's familiar. Comforting.

I exhale slowly, watching the smoke curl in the cold air.

It's barely been a day, and I already want to leave.

The edibles started to kick in slowly, a warmth spreading through my limbs, dulling the sharp ache that had settled into my ribs and arms. The ever-present pain ebbed like the tide receding from the shore, leaving behind only a distant hum. My mind, usually a relentless storm of memories and self-loathing, finally began to quiet. The world felt slower, more distant, like I was floating just above reality. I took another slow drag of my cigarette, inhaling deeply before exhaling a thin stream of smoke into the cold night air. 

I kept my back to the wall, my hood pulled low, watching the night stretch out before me in silence. The edibles softened everything—muted the sharpness of my thoughts, made it easier to exist in my own skin for just a little while. I welcomed it. 

Then, the bell above the gas station door chimed. 

I barely turned my head, but my body tensed. Two guys stepped out, one of them laughing—an easy, carefree sound that sent a strange twinge through my chest. I hated that sound. It was the kind of laugh that belonged to people who still had hope, people who had never been where I'd been. 

I looked away, focusing instead on the glowing tip of my cigarette, but my pulse quickened when I heard footsteps approaching. I didn't need to look up to know one of them was heading toward me. 

Stiles POV

I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel, my foot tapping impatiently as I drove through the darkened streets of Beacon Hills. Scott sat in the passenger seat, silent, staring out the window. It had been a quiet night so far, which in our world was a rare miracle. 

"You know," I said, breaking the silence, "if we don't run into some supernatural crisis tonight, I might actually believe we're turning a corner." 

Scott scoffed, still looking out the window. "You say that like we ever get normal nights." 

I huffed, reaching for my drink in the cupholder. "One can dream." I took a sip and glanced at the dashboard. The fuel gauge caught my attention, and my stomach sank. 

"Crap." 

Scott turned his head. "What?" 

"We're almost out of gas," I groaned, tilting my head back against the headrest. "Knew I should've stopped earlier." 

Scott rolled his eyes. "Then stop now." 

"Fine, but if we get mauled by some random creature at this gas station, I'm blaming you." 

Scott smirked. "Noted." 

I spotted a gas station up ahead and pulled in, parking next to one of the pumps. The gas station was mostly empty, just a single car parked near the store entrance and a guy inside behind the counter who looked half-asleep. Scott got out to stretch while I filled up the Jeep, the pump clicking softly as I leaned against the side, drumming my fingers against the metal. 

That's when I saw her. 

She was leaning against the side of the building, bathed in the flickering neon glow of the overhead sign, a cigarette balanced between her fingers. Her hood was up, but wisps of dark hair curled around her face, and something about the way she held herself—rigid, detached, like she wanted to disappear into the shadows—made my stomach twist. 

I didn't know why, but she looked... familiar. 

Scott was distracted, scrolling through his phone, so I decided to investigate. Because that's what I do—I investigate weird things. And right now? This girl, standing there alone at nearly midnight, looking like she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders? Definitely weird. 

I grabbed my drink from the Jeep, taking a sip as I strolled over, doing my best to look casual. 

"Hey," I said, stopping a few feet away. "You, uh... got a light?" 

She turned her head slightly, just enough for me to catch the sharp edge of her jaw, the shadow cast over her face. Her eyes flicked to mine, cold and unreadable, before she took a slow drag from her cigarette and exhaled a thin stream of smoke into the night air. 

"No," she said flatly. 

I blinked. "Right. Of course not. That would imply you're willing to talk to me." 

Nothing. Not even a twitch of amusement. 

Most people at least gave me an exasperated sigh. But her? She just stared, completely impassive, like she was waiting for me to leave. 

I frowned. "You new in town?" 

No response. 

I shifted on my feet, suddenly unsure why I even cared so much. Maybe it was the fact that something about her seemed... off. Or maybe it was the nagging sense that I'd seen her somewhere before. 

Before I could try again, the sound of footsteps made me glance over my shoulder. 

Scott was walking toward us, his head down as he scrolled through something on his phone. But the second he looked up, the second his eyes landed on her, he stopped dead in his tracks. 

His entire body went rigid. His breath hitched. His eyes went wide. 

I turned back to the girl, suddenly on high alert. 

Scott knew her. 

"Scarlett?" His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. 

I jerked my head toward him, my pulse spiking. "Wait. What?" 

Scarlett. 

As in— 

No. 

I snapped my head back to her, my mind racing. 

But she didn't move. Didn't react. Just stood there, staring at him, her face completely unreadable. 

Scott took a hesitant step forward. "Scarlett...?" 

For a moment, I thought she might say something. A flicker of something passed behind her eyes, but it was gone just as fast, smothered beneath layers of cold indifference. 

Then, without a word, she turned on her heel and walked away. 

Scott didn't move. 

Neither did I. 

We just watched as she disappeared into the night, leaving us standing there, completely stunned. 

Scott's hands curled into fists at his sides, his breathing uneven. 

"Scott," I said carefully, my own heart racing. "Was that—?" 

"My sister," he murmured. 

Holy. 

Shit.

•--------------•

The Jeep rattles as I steer down the dark, empty road, fingers drumming against the wheel. Scott sits in the passenger seat, staring out the window, barely blinking. He hasn't said a word since we left the gas station.

Since her.

Since Scarlett McCall.

She was right there. Right in front of us. And she just... walked away. No "hi," no "hey, it's been twelve freaking years," no nothing.

I keep replaying it in my head, over and over, trying to figure out if I missed something. The way she looked at us—cold, distant, like we were strangers. Like Scott wasn't her twin brother.

What the hell was that?

I glance at him. His jaw is tight, his leg still bouncing.

"You're thinking about her," I say, even though I don't need to.

Scott doesn't answer.

"Scott," I try again, voice softer. "Dude, I know you're freaking out right now, but—"

"I don't want to talk about it." His voice is tight, controlled.

I sigh, shaking my head. "Alright, man. Fine. Whatever." I push open the door and step out. "But we are talking about this later."

Scott doesn't respond.

Something doesn't make sense. Something isn't right.

Scarlett's back. Why? Why now? Why did she leave? Why hasn't she contacted Scott or Melissa in years? And why the hell did she act like she didn't even know us?

Scott's phone buzzes bringing me out of my thoughts.

He checks the screen and immediately tenses.

"What?" I ask.

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye.

A pause. Then his grip on the phone tightens.

"We're on our way," he says.

My stomach sinks.

"What?" I ask as soon as he hangs up. "What is it?"

"Isaac," Scott says, already reaching for his seatbelt. "Something's wrong. We have to go."

I don't ask questions. I just floor it.

The whole drive there, my thoughts keep flicking back to Scarlett. The way she looked—like a ghost, but not in the way people look when they're scared. She didn't look scared. She looked... unreadable. Like she'd built walls so thick no one could get through.

Maybe not even Scott.

That thought unsettles me more than I want to admit.

But the moment I pull up to Derek's loft, all of that gets shoved into the back of my mind.

Isaac is already pacing outside, his movements jerky, his eyes flicking between us frantically.

"They're gone," he says, voice sharp. "Boyd and Cora. They got out. We have to stop them before they kill someone."

Scott doesn't even hesitate. He's already nodding, slipping into Alpha-mode, taking charge.

I force myself to focus. Scarlett can wait.

Werewolves first, mysterious twin sister later.

We pile into the Jeep and head straight for the Preserve.

•=============•

A/n:

Heyyyy!!

So I'm gonna be posting a chapter a day until all my pre written chapters are posted!

I'm gonna try and edit them tonight so wish me luck!

Thank you all so much for reading I love you all so so much

Byeeeee

WC: 2435