Confirmation

-----♡-----

Cassie let out a content sigh as she curled under the blanket, her fingers trailing lazily against my arm. The room was dark and quiet, save for the soft hum of Scott's old ceiling fan ticking in the corner. My heartbeat had finally started to slow down—no adrenaline, no chaos, just... breathing.

And her.

But then, of course,it hit me.

"Ugh," I muttered, shifting slightly.

Cassie cracked one eye open. "What?"

I hesitated. "I always sleep in the middle of the bed..."

She blinked at me like I'd just confessed to some deeply personal crime. "Stiles I've been sleeping here, in your bed for like six months. Not anymore."

"I know, I'm trying," I said, already flopping onto my side like a dramatic Victorian heroine. "But I can't fall asleep unless I'm in the middle. I don't know, maybe I'm subconsciously drawn to symmetrical safety or-"

"Then we spoon," she said, voice thick with sleep as she scooted back toward me without hesitation.

I blinked. "I can spoon!"

"You better."

"Okay, okay, I'm spooning." I slid in behind her, my arm wrapping around her waist as she tucked her hands under the pillow. Her hair smelled like her shampoo—vanilla and something woodsy—and her body was warm, soft, familiar.

A beat of silence.

"Mmm," I sighed. "This is... cozy."

She gave a sleepy little grunt in response.

Then, it started. The tingling. The slow, creeping ache.

"My arm's falling asleep," I whispered.

Cassie groaned. "Stiles."

"I don't like this."

"You're impossible."

"I know, I'm sorry..."

She rolled over with a dramatic huff, half-laughing as she grabbed my face and pulled me in. "Okay, just come here, like this."

My head hit her collarbone, one of her legs tangled with mine, and somehow the angle was better. Warmer. Safer.

I blinked up at her. "I think this is good."

She brushed a thumb over my temple. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. This is good... really good."

She pressed her lips to my forehead, her breath warm against my skin.

-----⊹₊⟡⋆----

I stood by the counter, arms crossed, watching them like a hawk as they gathered the last of the gear. It felt too quiet in the house, too calm for the kind of storm we were planning to walk into. Or maybe invite in.

"Is three enough?" Kira asked, carefully tucking small cameras into a bag.

"It depends on how many cameras they have," Stiles replied, not even looking up. "But I think so."

Liam shifted nervously near the table. "Are we really doing this?"

"We're doing it, tonight," Scott said with that calm voice that always made everyone feel like they had a shot at surviving.

Everyone but me. I could see the tension in his jaw and shoulders.

"But isn't it kind of dangerous...?" Liam asked, clearly trying not to sound as unsure as he looked.

"It's incredibly dangerous," Stiles said, nodding. "And borderline idiotic."

"Have you guys done something like this before?" Liam asked.

"Something dangerous?" Stiles paused. "Or something idiotic?" I grinned weakly.

Kira snorted. "I think it's a 'yes' to both."

"You don't have to be part of it if you don't want to," Scott offered gently.

"I'm not scared!" Liam said quickly.

"Then you're borderline idiotic," Stiles muttered.

I rubbed my temple, biting back the dozen different protests boiling in my chest. "This whole thing is borderline idiotic," I said aloud instead, quieter than I intended, but firm.

Stiles glanced at me, brow lifted. "Cass, you got another plan?"

"No," I said, exhaling through my nose. "But that doesn't mean I like this one."

If I had a dollar for every time they pulled something reckless out of thin air and just hoped it wouldn't end in blood, I could've matched the Deadpool's bounty money by now.

"If we do this," Stiles said, looking around the room, "we don't know what's coming for us. You know that, right?"

"How do we know something's definitely coming?" Kira asked.

Scott stepped forward, his expression tightening. "Because the tape from Garrett's bag said 'visual confirmation required.'"

"Simon said the same thing," Stiles added. "He couldn't get paid by the Benefactor until he had proof that you guys were dead."

"So the idea is..." Scott glanced at the rest of us. "What if you kill someone on the Deadpool, but you can't send the proof?"

"You don't get paid," Kira finished.

"But how does that get us any closer to the Benefactor?" Liam asked, brow furrowed.

Scott looked at him. "He still needs to know if the target is really dead."

"Especially if it's someone high on the list," Stiles said, eyes flicking briefly to me.

I swallowed hard.

"So if he wants visual confirmation..." Liam trailed off, connecting the dots.

"He's going to have to come himself," Scott finished.

There was a heavy silence, like the room itself was holding its breath.

I looked around at them, Liam, still green but trying to be brave; Kira, all lightning and heart; Stiles, who would burn the world down to protect us; and Scott, steady and kind, already carrying the weight of a hundred impossible choices.

I didn't want this. Not any of it.

"I hate this plan," I muttered, breaking the silence. "But I hate not knowing who's coming after us more."

Kira reached over and gently squeezed my hand.

"I'll cook tomorrow," I added. "For everyone. So no one's allowed to die."

Stiles grinned. "Cassie's house rules. Got it."

-----⊹₊⟡⋆----

The room felt heavy with anticipation, like the air itself knew what we were about to do. Flickering candlelight danced on the walls, casting long shadows across everyone's faces. We were sitting in a circle, knees bumping, shoulders close. It should've felt intimate. Instead, it felt like the kind of quiet right before a storm hits.

Liam was sitting next to me, tapping his knee anxiously with the flat of his palm. I could feel the tension radiating off him in waves.

"Are you guys totally sure about this?" he asked, voice pitching higher than usual. His eyes were locked on Scott, like he was the only one who could give him the answer he needed.

Kira gave a small smile, nudging Scott with her shoulder. "I think Liam's kind of nervous. Maybe you should tell him it's going to be all right."

Scott nodded, but his voice wasn't nearly as convincing as she probably hoped. "It's going to be all right."

Liam didn't look convinced. He turned to me instead, his eyes wide, looking so much younger than usual. "They've done this before, right?"

Before I could even open my mouth, Noshiko chimed in from across the circle, calm and unnervingly matter-of-fact. "I've seen it done."

Liam blinked at her. "Is that just as good?"

"No," she said simply.

Kira groaned. "Mom, you're not inspiring confidence."

"Good," Noshiko replied without missing a beat. "This is a terrible idea."

I felt Liam tense beside me, so I scooted closer, pressing my side gently against his.

"Do you want us to do it without you?" Kira asked her mother, eyebrow raised.

There was a pause before Noshiko moved forward. "Put your hand over his heart."

Kira moved, pressing her hand to Scott's chest..

"What if it doesn't work?" Liam whispered, barely looking at me. "What if something goes wrong?"

"Hey-" I leaned in a little, lowering my voice to something just for us. "Look at me."

He did. Hesitantly.

I gave him the softest smile I could manage. "Scott is gonna be okay. And if anything even thinks about going wrong, I'll yank you out of there myself, no hesitation."

His eyes searched mine like he wasn't sure he could believe me. Like he wanted to, more than anything.

"You promise?"

"I swear on every dinner I've ever made for this pack." I nudged him gently. "And that's a lot of dinners, for the record."

That got a laugh. Quiet, but real. His shoulders dropped a little.

"You're gonna be fine, Liam. You're the toughest kid I know."

Scott shifted, looking at Noshiko. "Hold on, what happens while I'm out? Am I gonna feel anything?"

Noshiko didn't even look up from what she was doing. "It might feel like you're dreaming."

Scott frowned. "Good dreams, or bad?"

"I suppose that's up to you," she said.

-----☾-----

Scott looked dead.

I knew he wasn't, not really, but my brain wouldn't stop screaming otherwise. He wasn't breathing. His skin had lost all its color. His body laid there too still, like it had already given up. Like he had.

Melissa was next to him, trying to keep it together, but I could see the cracks. Her hands hovered helplessly above his chest, as if she wanted to shake him awake but didn't dare touch him.

"I still hate this plan," she said softly, voice shaking. "I mean, this is pretty significantly terrifying, he looks dead."

I stepped up beside her and gently wrapped my arm around her shoulder, grounding her even as my own hands shook. "He's not. He's okay. He's coming back."

Noshiko turned slightly toward her. "Give me your hand."

Melissa did, and I felt her tense against me. She pressed her hand to his chest, feeling the week pulse of his heartbeat.

"Is that enough to keep a werewolf alive?" Melissa asked, her voice brittle.

"Enough for an Alpha," Noshiko replied.

Melissa nodded slowly. "How much time do we have?"

"Forty-five minutes," Noshiko said.

Melissa's eyes locked onto her. "What happens after that?"

Kira looked up from where she was kneeling near Scott. "I bring him back the same way."

"No," Melissa snapped, eyes wide. "I mean... what happens if he stays like this longer than forty-five minutes?"

There was a beat of hesitation. Then Noshiko, exasperated, said, "No one's told her?"

"Told me what?" Melissa's voice cracked.

I held her tighter.

"What happens after forty-five minutes?"

Noshiko looked down, her face unreadable. "...He dies."

The words landed like ice in my chest. I felt Melissa's whole body seize beside me. My mouth opened, but nothing came out.

I pulled her closer, pressing my forehead to hers. "He's not going to die," I whispered, for her, for me, for all of us. "Not today."

She nodded faintly, but her tears were already falling.

I looked over to Stiles, who was watching me with worried eyes. I gave Melissa's hand one last squeeze and stepped back, my hand finding Stiles' like second nature. He tugged me toward the hallway, and I let him.

-----☾-----

The air in Argent's apartment was tense. Stiles was perched on the edge of the desk, tapping his fingers like he didn't know what else to do with them. I leaned against the wall just behind him, arms crossed.

"That's your assassin-speak?" Stiles asked, squinting at the screen like he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

Argent didn't even look up. "I said, 'He's dead.' What more do you want?"

I saw the way Stiles rolled his eyes. "It's a little dry... You could've said something like, 'Target has been neutralized.' Or 'The crow flies at midnight.' That's always cool."

Argent gave the faintest grunt of amusement. It was the most emotion he'd shown all night. "Hmm..."

He paused, then tilted his head towards the computer, calm and methodical in that way that always unnerved me just a little too much.

"Type this," he said. "Visual confirmation isn't possible. Police coming to claim body in forty minutes. Tell him: number one on the list is dead. I killed him. And if the wire transfer isn't completed in forty minutes..."

He finished the sentence himself by typing it in, fingers clicking with chilling precision.

I'M COMING FOR YOU.

I swallowed.

We were lying, faking deaths, setting traps for killers we still didn't fully understand. My friends were on a hit list, and here we were, bluffing the Benefactor like it was a game of poker and we didn't have a single good card in our hand.

I rested my palm lightly against the small of Stiles' back. He didn't flinch—just leaned into it, ever so slightly. We didn't say anything. We didn't need to.

"We should head back to the hospital." I said quietly.

-----☾-----

Three computers sat lined up on the bed, wires tangled like vines, screens flickering with grainy surveillance footage from around the building. I stood just off to the side, arms crossed, trying to ignore the way my stomach kept twisting like something bad was already on its way.

"Is that supposed to look like that?" Liam asked, squinting at one of the monitors, where one of the cameras was glitching.

"No. No, it's not..." Stiles muttered, leaning in. His eyes narrowed behind the screen glare, fingers dancing over the keys.

"What is that?" Kira asked, stepping closer.

Stiles exhaled sharply. "The roof. Camera's glitching. Someone's gonna have to go check it out."

"I'll go," Kira said instantly, already half-turned toward the door.

"Whoa, whoa—" Stiles reached out, stopping her with a hand to the arm. "This might not just be a malfunction."

"That's why I'm bringing this." She held up her katana like it made the whole thing sound perfectly reasonable.

"I'm coming with you!" Liam said, puffing up a little too fast, like his courage had kicked in before his logic.

I bit back a sigh and lifted my hand. "I guess I'm coming too."

Stiles' head snapped toward me, eyes wide and deeply unimpressed. "No..." he muttered, then immediately stepped in front of me, pulling me gently to the side.

He lowered his voice, his hand brushing my arm in that way that said don't do anything reckless, even if he knew that's exactly what we were about to do. "Stay. please."

I froze, my heart hitching at the plea in his voice. There was something raw in his expression—something vulnerable he didn't usually let me see. The kind of look that said I can't lose you, too.

I glanced at Liam. He caught my eye and gave me a small, almost imperceptible nod. Like he was telling me I got this. Go be where you're needed.

I exhaled slowly and stepped back, grounding myself beside Stiles as Kira and Liam disappeared out the door.

"Hey," Stiles said after a few seconds, his voice soft now, almost boyish. "Thanks... for staying."

I turned my head toward him. He wasn't looking at the screens anymore, just me. And it wasn't flirtatious or teasing, like usual, it was real.

"You'd do the same for me," I said gently.

His eyes flicked down, then back up. "Still. It means a lot."

I gave him a small smile, and without thinking, he reached over and laced our fingers together. Not tight. Just enough. His thumb brushed the back of my hand.

We stayed like that for a moment, just standing there in the too-white hospital room with the low hum of machines filling the space between heartbeats. Then the lights flickered.

Stiles and I both tensed.

"Was that...?" he started.

And then the overheads began strobing, white, then red, then out. Emergency backup lighting kicked on a second later, washing everything in an eerie glow.

"Oh, no," I whispered.

"Scott," Stiles said, already moving. He let go of my hand, but only so he could grab my wrist and pull me with him. "Come on."

-----☾-----

We rounded the corner just as the lights kept pulsing red, emergency sirens wailing softly in the background. Stiles was already pulling out his phone, practically barking into it.

"Come on, come on... Answer the phone, Argent! Come on, Argent, answer the phone... Why are you not answering the phone—"

The doors to the morgue exploded open, and Argent went flying through them like a human wrecking ball, landing hard with a grunt.

"Holy sh—" I barely had time to finish before we saw who threw him.

Kate Argent strolled in like she owned the hospital. All slow, all smug, like some twisted model of chaos wrapped in leather and bad intentions.

"Stiles, get out of here!" Argent gasped from the floor.

But Stiles didn't move. And neither did I.

Kate's eyes flicked to us. "Get out of the way, Stiles. I'm taking the body."

"Why?" he snapped. "Visual confirmation?"

She smirked, tilting her head like we were children playing detective. "Don't worry, handsome, I'm not the Benefactor."

"And yet you're still terrible," I muttered under my breath, stepping just half a foot closer to Stiles.

Argent dragged himself upright. "Then what do you want with the body?"

Kate turned to him, sighing like this was such an inconvenience. "I wish I could tell you."

Argent was standing between us, pulling out his second gun, leveling it at her.

"I always forget you carry two," she said, almost fondly.

"Back off," he growled.

"You sure you can pull the tri gger fast enough?"

"I don't want to."

"You're not going to kill me."

"I'm not going to let you take his body."

I pressed myself in front of Stiles. "Okay," Stiles said, hands raised slightly, "well... obviously, you guys have a lot to talk about. Maybe I saw some coffee, a vending machine, outside?"

Argent looked like he wanted to sigh and say not helping, but to his credit, he didn't. He kept his weapon trained on his sister.

"Listen to me, Kate, we have a plan."

"If killing Scott was part of it," she said coldly, "you're worse than me."

Stiles scoffed. "He's telling the truth, we're trying to get to the Benefactor."

Argent added quickly, "If you didn't notice, you're on that list too, and you're worth more than most."

Kate tilted her head, something dark and self-satisfied creeping into her expression. "That's why I'm here."

God, I hated her.

"Then back off and let us do what we planned," Argent snapped. "Take the Berserkers and go."

"Kate, please. We have a plan."

The tension in the room stretched tight as a wire, and I didn't move an inch from where I stood in front of Stiles. She looked at him before backing up, walking back out of the hospital. I exhaled, my hand releasing Stiles'.

"We need to get Kira in here. Now." I said.

-----☾-----

The hospital parking lot was mostly empty by the time we pulled out. Liam slumped in the passenger seat, arms crossed and one leg bouncing with leftover adrenaline. The moonlight caught the bruises under his jaw, a reminder that the kid had been through hell.

I gave it maybe thirty seconds of silence before I cracked. "You fought Berserkers," I said flatly, eyes flicking between him and the road.

Liam glanced at me. "You heard about that?"

I turned toward him slowly, giving him my you seriously think I wouldn't? face. "You punched one in the face, Liam. They're like... rage monsters in bone armor. That wasn't brave. That was a death wish with poor judgment."

He shrugged. "Kira needed help. I wasn't just gonna sit there."

"That doesn't mean you throw yourself into a glorified wrestling match with a murder-skeleton!"

Liam muttered something under his breath, too quiet for me to catch.

"What was that?" I said, raising an eyebrow.

"I said, I didn't die," he repeated, louder this time. "So clearly it wasn't that dumb."

I swerved slightly just to make him grab the door handle.

"Okay! Okay, point taken," he yelped.

I smirked. "Good."

Silence fell again. He rubbed the back of his neck, probably replaying the fight in his head. I could tell he was trying to convince himself it wasn't that bad. Classic post-battle denial. Scott did it all the time. So did I, for that matter.

But Liam was still a kid, even if he hated being called one.

"You scared me, y'know," I said softly, not looking at him.

He blinked. "Really?"

"Yeah, really. You're like this mini tornado of werewolf rage sometimes, but you're also my mini tornado. I'm allowed to care if you come out of a fight looking like you lost a round with a lawnmower."

He snorted. "I didn't lose."

"Did you win, though?" I asked, smirking.

"...I didn't die."

"Wow, what a high bar we've set."

He grinned, and I let the mood settle for a second before flicking my eyes toward him again. "Seriously, Liam. Next time, remember you are still just a kid. Let us take care of it."

His smile faded into something softer, something real.

"Thanks, Cass."

We pulled up to his house. The porch light was still on.

He hesitated before getting out. "Goodnight, Cass."

"Night, kiddo. Go ice your ribs before I make you."

He groaned. "You sound like Melissa."

"Thank you, greatest compliment I've gotten all week."

Liam gave me a mock salute and disappeared into the house.

I sat in the quiet for a minute, hands still on the wheel, eyes unfocused. He was gonna be okay. I exhaled, finally shifting into drive, heading towards Stiles' house.

-----☾-----

Malia was curled up on the couch when I got back, arms wrapped tight around herself like she was the only thing keeping her from falling apart. Stiles was standing by the doorway.

"Hey," Stiles said gently, stepping toward her. "Where have you been?"

"Talking to Peter."

I blinked, exchanging a glance with Stiles. His entire face screamed bad idea.

"Okay... you think that's a good idea?" he asked carefully.

Malia shrugged. "If he can help me find my mother, I don't think I care."

I moved to sit beside her, keeping a bit of space between us. Not because I was afraid of her, but because I knew that feeling. That quiet, festering ache of being afraid of yourself.

"You might be related to him," I said softly, "but you're not him."

Her expression didn't change. "Maybe I am."

Stiles came around and sat on the other side of her. "You're not."

Malia looked at the floor. "That night I caused the car crash..."

"You mean when you were out of control during the full moon-" Stiles started, trying to give her an out.

She cut him off. "There's something I didn't tell you. Right before we got in the car, my adoptive mom and I had this huge fight. I don't remember what it was about, but I remember what I said." Her voice broke. "I said, 'I wish you were all dead.'"

I leaned in, heart heavy. "Malia-"

"I meant it," she whispered. "In that moment, I meant it. And then... they died. Maybe it wasn't just the full moon. Maybe that's who I really am."

My throat tightened. I glanced at Stiles, and he gave me this little nod, like go ahead. So I did.

"You're not a killer just because you had a dark thought," I said. "We've all had them. Ugly, painful things we wish we could take back." I paused, swallowing hard. "Sometimes... they don't go away. Sometimes they stick."

She looked at me for the first time, brows furrowed. "Stick how?"

I hesitated, just a beat too long. "There's this voice that's been in my head. Since the Nogitsune. It doesn't talk all the time, not anymore. But it whispers. And when it does, it says things that feel a little too much like me."

Stiles turned to me sharply, eyes searching, like he hadn't realized it was still happening. I didn't meet his gaze.

"I know that fear," I told her. "Of becoming something you don't want to be. But just because the thought's there doesn't mean it wins. It's not who you are, Malia. You're fighting it."

Malia stared down at her hands again, but she didn't look quite so hollow.

"Killing doesn't run in a family," Stiles said gently.

"Maybe it does in mine," she whispered.

"No," I said, stronger this time. "And even if it did, it ends with you."

-----☾-----

Later that night, when the house was quiet, I made my way into Stiles' room. He was already in bed, blinking at the ceiling like his brain was still chasing itself in circles.

Without a word, I slipped under the covers and curled up next to him. He instinctively opened his arms, pulling me close.

"You okay?" he asked softly, his breath warm against my temple.

I didn't answer right away. I didn't want to lie, and I wasn't sure I could say the truth out loud again without cracking open.

"Sometimes... I can still feel him," I whispered. "Like a shadow, just sitting behind my thoughts. And I know it's not real, not him, not anymore. But it's like he left fingerprints in my head. Like part of me still wants to believe the worst version of myself."

Stiles went still for a second. Then he pulled me tighter.

"You are not him," he said firmly, voice fierce in the quiet. "You're you. The girl who saved me from him."

I felt the pressure build in my chest and blinked hard. "You really believe that?"

"I know that." He tilted my chin so I had to look at him. "You're not a monster, Cass. You're the one that beats the monster."

And God, I wanted to believe that. So I nodded and tucked my head against his chest, letting his heartbeat drown out the rest of the noise in my head.

Chapter 63

I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold like it was some kind of sitcom I'd seen a hundred times.

Stiles was pacing again. Always a sign he was about to drop some conspiracy-level theory like it was casual morning news.

"It's not just that she could still be alive—" he started.

Oh boy. Here we go.

Lydia jumped in, calm but sharp as ever. "It's that she would've had to fake her death."

I blinked slowly. "Cool, cool. Normal people just write wills and die peacefully. Not our crowd."

Across the room, Sheriff Stilinski raised one unimpressed eyebrow, arms folded in that classic dad-who-knows-he's-about-to-regret-asking stance.

"Your grandmother, Lorraine Martin, faked her death?" he asked, voice already teetering between disbelief and "I need a drink."

Stiles nodded like it was obvious. "Definitely."

Lydia paused. "...Maybe."

Stiles frowned. "More than likely, yes."

I tilted my head at them. "Okay, so somewhere between 'definitely dead' and 'secret cryptic tech genius puppet master'? Love the range, honestly."

Sheriff Stilinski sighed. "Oh, I'm guessing you've got a story to back this up?"

"Lydia thinks she might be helping the Benefactor," Stiles said. "Or is the Benefactor," he added, like a punchline.

I resisted the urge to facepalm.

Sheriff stared at them both. I could practically hear the migraine forming behind his eyes.

"That sounds like a story worth hearing," he said, slow and wary, like he was bracing for impact.

I couldn't help but smirk. "I hope you brought snacks, Sheriff. This one's gonna be a rollercoaster."

Stiles shot me a sideways grin, the corner of his mouth twitching up like he appreciated the backup.

Sheriff Stilinski was giving us all the kind of stare you save for kids who've clearly broken at least three laws but you haven't figured out which ones yet.

Then he cleared his throat. "Anybody seen Parrish?"

"Haigh?" Stilinski called down the hallway.

Deputy Haigh poked his head in, looking mildly inconvenienced. "Haven't seen him—"

The door slammed open, and there he was, Parrish. Naked, covered in soot and ash, steam practically radiating off of him like he'd just walked through a damn volcano.

He growled, voice guttural and barely human.

I nearly screamed. Stiles actually did scream. Lydia ducked behind me so fast I almost ate her hair.

"Holy-!" Haigh yelped, stumbling back.

"You're dead! You're supposed to be dead!" he cried, pointing like Parrish was the ghost of Christmas vengeance.

"Hey!" Stilinski barked, rushing in with his hands up like this was a hostage negotiation with a lava monster. "Hey! HEY!"

Parrish just stood there, breathing like he'd run through fire—which, to be fair, he probably had. His eyes were glowing faintly, and smoke curled off his skin.

My heart hammered. I took a step in front of Stiles on instinct, raising my hands even though I wasn't sure what exactly I planned to do. "Parrish?" I said cautiously. "Buddy... if you're about to go full Human Torch, maybe give us a five-second warning first?"

He blinked slowly, like he was just registering the chaos around him. "I... think I passed out."

Haigh was still staring at him like he'd seen a zombie. "But you're dead!"

Parrish looked down at himself. "Apparently not."

Stiles peeked out from behind me, voice still a little high-pitched. "Okay, so... Parrish is alive, naked, and possibly flammable. Just a regular Thursday."

I let out a breath, one hand pressed to my chest as I gave Stiles a look. "Next time you ask me to come to the station with you, remind me to not say yes."

He gave me a weak smile. "No promises."

"Let's get him to Derek. And call Scott." I said after a beat of silence.

-----☾-----

"He covered you in gasoline?" Derek asked, incredulous.

Parrish nodded. "Yeah. Then lit the flare and, boom. Whole body. On fire."

I winced, eyeing the burns that should be there, but weren't. "That's... not something you walk away from."

"It's the hair and nails, isn't it?" Lydia said suddenly, her mind already halfway to the next revelation. "The parts of the body that are essentially dead."

"Well, they should be gone," Derek agreed.

Parrish looked at all of us, voice tight with disbelief. "I was set on fire. All of me should be gone."

"Not if you're like us," Scott said carefully.

Parrish's brows knit. "Like you?"

Derek shook his head. "I don't think he's like us."

"Then what is he?" Lydia asked, glancing at me for a second—as if hoping I might have an answer.

I didn't. But my brain was already spiraling through every supernatural entity I'd read about. Phoenix maybe? Something rare, something reborn through fire. My mind itched for the bestiary, for answers I could hold in my hands.

"Sorry," Derek muttered. "I have no idea."

"But you knew about Jackson and Kira," Scott said.

"This is a little out of my experience," Derek admitted. "There might be something in the bestiary, did you try Argent?"

"I don't know where he is..." Scott frowned.

"He hasn't responded to my calls." I added

"Okay, hold on, what's a bestiary?" Parrish asked, voice rising slightly. "Actually, that's not even my first question. Just... just tell me one thing." His eyes swept over us; me, Lydia, Scott, Derek. "Are all of you like Lydia? Are you all psychic?"

Derek arched a brow. "Psychic?"

"Yeah, not exactly..." Scott muttered.

I offered Parrish a small, steady smile. "Let's just say 'gifted' and leave the specifics for later."

His mouth twisted into something like a grimace. "Okay... Then what are you?"

-----☾-----

"What's a Kanima?" Parrish asked.

Scott hesitated. "We'll get back to that." Good call, I thought. It wasn't a beginner-level topic.

"Just know that everyone like us, everyone with some kind of supernatural ability, is on the Deadpool." I said.

Parrish exhaled shakily. "But I don't even know what I am."

"Pretty sure they don't care," Derek said, voice low.

I watched Parrish carefully. He was doing what I'd done months ago, scrambling to make sense of a body and a world that no longer followed the rules he grew up believing in.

"How many professional assassins are we talking about?" he asked.

"We're starting to lose count," Lydia murmured, tone heavy.

"But is it still just professionals?" Scott added.

"I don't think Haigh's ever tried anything like this," Parrish said. "I think he was taking a chance."

Derek nodded grimly. "That means anyone with the Deadpool could take a chance."

A chill ran down my spine. "They've made the supernatural into a vending machine hit list," I muttered. "Pick a name, get a payout."

Parrish looked at Lydia. "But if Haigh had it, then who else does? How easy is it to get this thing now?"

"Meredith was only at my grandmother's lake house once..." Lydia said softly. "But I think once was enough..."

Derek leaned forward. "How did your grandmother know her?"

"She didn't. She found her. Because of another woman, Maddy. The woman she loved."

Lydia's voice had gone gentle, almost nostalgic. I moved closer without thinking, staying just within her reach if she needed grounding.

"I never met her," she said. "But I saw her name everywhere. She used to be part of a yacht racing team. There were plaques and trophies in the lake house from all the regattas she'd won."

Parrish tilted his head. "How did she die?"

"'How' isn't the story..." Lydia's eyes clouded. "It's what happened right before."

And just like that, the room slipped into her story. Her voice softened, became faraway, like she was hearing it all in her head again. She talked about her grandmother in San Francisco, the phantom storm, the screaming. The moment the world cracked open in Lorraine's mind and left her with a truth no one believed.

I watched Lydia's hands twist together in her lap as she recounted the story.

"I drove her to suicide," she whispered.

"No," I said, finally stepping in. "No, you didn't. Meredith made her own choices. You didn't twist her arm. You didn't write her name."

Lydia didn't look at me, but her jaw clenched, and that was enough to tell me she'd heard me.

"She left me this message in the same code," Lydia said, more to herself than anyone.

Scott frowned. "But she didn't leave a cipher key, did she?"

I didn't say anything. But my eyes drifted toward Parrish again.

-----☾-----

My car rumbled to a stop in Stiles' driveway, headlights cutting through the dark like they were trying to make sense of the night the same way I was. I turned the engine off and let the silence settle, thick and heavy. Parrish sat in the back seat, quiet and tense, and Lydia hadn't moved since we left the loft.

I glanced at her. She was hugging herself, face turned toward the window, but I could see the edge of her expression in the glass, haunted, exhausted. She looked like she was trying to keep herself together with sheer force of will.

"Hey," I said gently, shifting to look over my shoulder. "You good to head in?"

Parrish blinked out of whatever spiral he was in and gave a tight nod. "Yeah. I'll—uh—I'll go get some water. Or coffee. Something."

He slipped out, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

I didn't say anything right away. I just sat there beside Lydia, giving her a second. Sometimes people need that more than words.

Eventually, she broke the silence.

"I didn't mean for any of this to happen," she said, her voice brittle. "I didn't know. About Meredith. About what it would do to her."

I turned toward her, placing my hand over hers. It was cold, and tense like she didn't know how to let go of the guilt curling in her chest.

"You were trying to find answers," I said. "Just like the rest of us."

"I'm a banshee," she whispered. "I'm supposed to know things, Cass. I'm supposed to hear things. But all I ever seem to do is find the bodies too late. Or scream when it's already over."

I hated hearing that from her. Lydia Martin, the girl who could walk into a room and silence it with a glance, now curled in on herself like she was breaking. I reached out and gently tucked her hair behind her ear, the way I used to when we were kids and the world still made sense.

"You're not responsible for what people do with their pain," I said quietly. "Meredith made choices, but she shouldn't have had to. None of that is on you."

Lydia's eyes met mine, glossy and wet, but she didn't cry. She never does unless she's completely alone.

"She trusted me," she said. "She just wanted to help."

"And she did," I told her. "In her own way. And now we do right by her. We finish this. We stop the Benefactor. We make sure no one else ends up like her."

Lydia exhaled shakily, something fragile cracking under the weight of her breath. "How can you sound so sure?"

I gave her a small smile. "Because if we don't figure this out... who else will?"

That earned a soft, humorless laugh. "God, that's such a Stiles thing to say."

I smirked and nudged her gently with my shoulder. "Don't tell him. He already has a big enough ego."

Lydia managed the ghost of a smile.

I squeezed her hand one more time before we both stepped out of my car.

-----☾-----

The house was dim, the only light coming from the small lamp on the side table in the living room. Lydia perched on the arm of the couch, staring at the notes spread across the coffee table. Parrish stood behind her, arms crossed, still quietly processing. And Stiles—Stiles paced.

I leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching him spin through every possibility out loud like his brain was a whiteboard he couldn't stop scribbling on.

"So Meredith knew your grandma," he muttered, tapping his pen against his palm. "She helped create the code. She knew about the Deadpool. And she was at Eichen House?"

Lydia nodded. "She was hospitalized there for over a year. That's where they found her."

Stiles's eyes snapped to hers. "Then that's where we need to go. That place is connected to all of this, Meredith, the code, everything."

He looked at me like the pieces were finally slotting together. "Cass, we need to go tomorrow. First thing."

I didn't answer right away. My chest tightened before I even said the words.

"I'm not going."

His head jerked toward me. "Wait, what?"

"I can't go to Eichen, Stiles."

He stopped dead in his tracks. "Wait, what do you mean you can't? Since when do you, what are you talking about?"

I kept my voice calm, even as my chest tightened. "You're going into a place that's built to break people. I don't know if my mind can take Eichen House," I admitted. "Lydia needs someone who can help her unravel whatever's waiting inside, not someone who's going to instinctively fight their way out."

He shook his head like he didn't want to hear it. "You think that's all you are to me? To this pack?" Lydia gave me a look and pulled Parrish into the kitchen, leaving us alone.

"Of course not," I said gently, stepping closer. "But someone needs to stay with Scott, Kira, Liam, keep them safe. Things are unraveling too fast, and if something hits while we're gone—"

Stiles let out a frustrated sigh and turned away from me, running both hands through his hair. "I hate this," he muttered. "I hate that we're being pulled in different directions again. Every time I feel like I finally get to breathe, something tries to take you away."

I stepped up behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist. "Nothing's taking me away, Stiles."

He leaned back into me, letting out a slow breath. "Then why does this feel like goodbye?"

"It's not," I whispered, pressing my lips to his shoulder. "This is just... us protecting the people we love. In different ways."

He turned around slowly, and I could see it in his eyes, every thought, every fear, every ounce of love he didn't know how to say.

"You're everything to me, Cass," he said, voice hoarse. "You know that, right?"

I nodded, eyes stinging. "And you're mine."

He leaned in, forehead to mine, his hands cupping my face like I might disappear if he let go.

"Come back to me," I whispered.

His lips found mine, soft and desperate, and for a moment, nothing else mattered. When we pulled apart, he didn't speak. He just pressed one last kiss to my forehead, like a promise, and then walked toward Lydia.

I stood in the doorway, watching him go, before making my way back to my own home.

-----☾-----

The morning after Stiles and Lydia left for Eichen House felt... off. The kind of quiet you only noticed once it settled in your bones. I felt it the moment I stepped out of my car into the lot at Beacon Hills High, the stillness, the tension, like the air itself was bracing for something.

Coach was already on the field, barking orders at the lacrosse team. I stayed off to the side, arms crossed, keeping my eyes on Liam mostly. The kid looked wired, like he hadn't slept, like something was crawling under his skin and he couldn't shake it.

"All right..." Coach started, pacing in front of the team. "Now, I know the start-of-season bonfire's a big deal for you guys. I also know it gets out-of-hand sometimes."

I rolled my eyes. Understatement of the year, Coach.

"The alumni show up, there's other teams, and alcohol—lots and lots of alcohol," he continued, clearly already defeated by the inevitability of teenage chaos.

Someone snickered. Coach snapped. "All right, shut up!"

I smirked a little, but it didn't quite reach. My mind kept wandering—flashing to Stiles, to that moment he cupped my cheek last night and told me he'd come back to me. That Lydia needed a detective, and the pack needed a shield. I knew we were doing the right thing, splitting up... but it didn't make my chest hurt any less.

"I also remind you," Coach went on, pointing at Scott, "your team captain, McCall, will be there. And I can count on him to narc on any and every one of these little bastards. Get back to class!"

The team scattered. I pushed off the bleachers and crossed the grass to Scott and Liam. Scott gave me a quiet nod, he looked like he hadn't slept either.

"Hey," he said to Liam, voice soft. "You okay?"

Liam didn't answer right away. His jaw was clenched. When he finally spoke, it was like the words had been caught in his throat.

"Last night... my printer went off by itself."

I furrowed my brow. "That's... not great."

"I couldn't turn it off," he said. "I hit the cancel button, but it just kept printing."

Scott leaned in slightly. "Printing what?"

Liam pulled out a crumpled paper from his jacket pocket. His hands were shaking as he handed it to Scott, and when I looked over Scott's shoulder, my stomach turned.

Another Deadpool list.

"You see the difference?" Liam asked.

I scanned the names. Derek wasn't there anymore. And then-

"Oh my god," I whispered. "Liam..."

"I'm not worth three million anymore," he said. "It's eighteen now. Eighteen million."

He looked up at us, eyes wide, terrified. And I felt it like a jolt, this kid was a target. He wasn't just in the middle of it anymore. He was on the list. High up. Expensive. More than me now.

I looked at Scott. "They're escalating."

He nodded grimly. "And fast."

-----☾-----

I wasn't entirely sure how I ended up helping Malia do her hair in my bedroom before the bonfire, but here we were. I'd braided a small section back from her face and was trying to figure out how much eyeliner was too much for a werecoyote who didn't understand subtlety.

"Close your eyes," I said, carefully flicking a line of black over her eyelid. "If you flinch, I'm gonna stab you in the eye."

"Your threats are comforting," she muttered, but didn't flinch. I finished up her makeup, moving away towards the bed.

Malia held up two tops in front of the mirror like she was picking armor. To be fair, for her, maybe she was.

"This one shows more stomach," she said, lifting the cropped one higher. "But this one says, 'Don't talk to me unless you want your face punched in.'"

I glanced up from her bed, where I was helping untangle a couple of her necklaces. "Go with the second one. It's way more you."

She tugged it on, before turning to face me. "So... Peter."

I paused, my eyes darting up to her. "Yeah," I said softly. "How are you feeling about that?"

Malia opened her eyes. "Like I want to punch someone in the face. But also... like I don't know who."

"Peter is a lot of things," I said, capping the pen and setting it aside. "But being your father doesn't define you. It doesn't make you him."

"He's not all bad," she added, more quietly, like she didn't want to admit it.

I nodded. "No. But he is dangerous. You know that, right?"

Malia looked at me, and for once, she wasn't sharp or sarcastic, just serious. "Yeah. I know."

"But family is also who you choose. Like me, Stiles, Scott. We are your family too, even if its not by blood."

-----☾-----

The bonfire was already roaring when we got there. The kind of fire that lit up the whole forest clearing and made every movement flicker like something out of a fever dream.

I wasn't supposed to be drinking. I knew that. But after the week we'd had—Deadpools, Eichen House, Liam's name going for eighteen million—I needed to feel something normal. So, I sipped from the red Solo cup Mason handed me. It tasted like gasoline and fruit juice, but it dulled the edge just enough. I wasn't drunk, not really. Just... loose.

And hyper-aware.

I leaned against the edge of an old picnic table, watching the firelight catch on Malia's hair as she spun too fast to music that didn't deserve the enthusiasm. Liam wasn't far behind her, a drink in each hand, smiling like he was just another teenager at a party instead of a supernatural fugitive with a literal price on his head.

I took another sip of my drink and scanned the crowd again.

"Hey," Scott said, coming up beside me, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

I nudged him with my elbow. "Big fan of underage parties and public fire hazards?"

His smile barely twitched. "Only when they don't include assassins and emotional breakdowns."

"Too late," I said, tipping my cup in Malia's direction. "She's not doing great."

Scott followed my gaze, and his brow furrowed immediately. "Is she drunk?"

"She's definitely something." I hesitated, then added, "She mentioned Peter earlier. She's trying to numb out."

Scott sighed through his nose, jaw tense. "I should talk to her."

I glanced back toward Liam, who was now downing whatever was in his cup like it was water. "Then I'll keep an eye on our ticking time bomb."

"You sure?"

"Positive," I said. "You get Malia. I've got Liam."

Scott looked at me, really looked, and in that moment I knew what he wasn't saying. He was tired. We all were. But tonight, just for a few hours, we were pretending we weren't.

"You're a good friend," he said quietly.

I grinned. "Don't let that get around. I have a reputation to maintain."

He gave a small, grateful laugh, then moved toward Malia as I headed for Liam.

-----☾-----

I should've known it was going sideways when Malia grabbed my arm, blinking too fast and swaying on her feet.

"Vodka," she mumbled when I asked what she'd had to drink. "Just vodka..."

But Malia wasn't acting drunk. She was unbalanced, sure, disoriented, but there was something in her eyes that said it wasn't alcohol. She looked like she was fighting something that no one else could see.

Scott came up behind her, concern flickering in his expression.

"Malia... What's in this? What did you have to drink?" he asked, catching her by the elbow.

"Just vodka..." she repeated, stubborn.

"Stay on your feet and keep moving," he said quietly.

I nodded and stayed on her other side, watching the bonfire flicker across her face as she tried to breathe steady. People around us laughed and danced like nothing was wrong. No one else noticed that the werewolves were... off.

Then I saw Liam. And it clicked.

He was hunched near the drinks table, jaw clenched, shoulders tight. Mason hovered at his side, worried.

Scott moved toward them fast, Malia half-draped on his shoulder, half draped on mine.

"Malia..." he tried again, then turned to Mason. "How much has he had to drink?"

"Not enough to get him like this..." Mason replied, voice low and sharp with concern.

Something was definitely wrong. But not wrong in a too-many-shots kind of way. Wrong in a something's affecting them kind of way.

Scott glanced at me, then Mason, his voice going tense. "Something's happening. We need to get them out of here."

Then his words started slurring.

"I think we're gonna have to... um..." My stomach dropped. Scott didn't slur. Scott didn't get drunk.

Mason stepped closer, eyes wide. "How much did you drink?"

"Nothing," Scott said. "Not even a sip."

We all went still for a second.

Scott blinked hard. "...It's not the drinks. It's the music."

My heart skipped. I glanced toward the speakers. The music had been bothering me all night, shrill and wrong, threading through the air like static.

Scott staggered. "I have to... I have to turn off the music. Don't let them out of your sight."

"Wait—" Mason tried, reaching for him, but Scott was already pushing into the crowd.

We started after him, but security stepped in, too fast, too aggressive.

"Hey! What are you doing? These are my friends," Mason said, standing in front of Liam.

"They're overly intoxicated," one of the guards said flatly. "They need to be escorted out."

"I'll go with them," Mason offered.

"That won't be necessary."

Mason's voice rose. "I said, they're my friends—"

One of the guards stepped toward me.

"Back off," I warned, shifting in front of Mason and Liam.

But his hand shot out, fast and precise, his hand cracking across my cheek. I barely had time to register the sting before my knees buckled.

My vision spun. I tried to shift into defense, to dig my heels in, to hold on to even a shred of awareness, but my vision was fuzzy, Malia's weight dragging me down. .

Mason's voice echoed, distant. "Cassie!"

-----☾-----

My skull pounded. My throat was dry.

Then I heard Scott.

"What is that?" he asked, his voice ragged.

I forced my eyes open. The world tilted hard. The floor beneath me was linoleum, and the walls... lockers. We were inside the school.

One of the guards stood a few feet away, twisting the cap off a red container.

Gasoline.

"It's gasoline," the guard answered casually. "Haigh says we gotta burn you."

Burn you.

I bolted upright, vision still swimming, and instinctively rolled to my side to hide the movement. My heart thudded loud in my ears, panic, but also rage, hot and surging.

The lighter flicked once, an orange spark against the fluorescent hallway lights.

Scott moved before it could catch.

He lunged forward, still unsteady but focused, and knocked the lighter clean out of the guard's hand. It clattered across the tile floor, skidding to a stop just inches from the gasoline trail.

"Don't," Scott growled, staggering to his feet.

The guard's hand reached for his belt again.

Too slow.

A crash echoed from the far end of the hallway—then another, louder, closer. A blur of force slammed into the second guard, sending him flying into a row of lockers.

Derek.

And right behind him, Braden, sharp-eyed and steady, a gun raised and ready.

Chaos erupted. One of the guards swung at Derek, but he barely flinched, catching the man by the collar and slamming him into the floor. Braden took the other one down with clean, practiced precision, kicking the weapon from his hand before he could aim it anywhere near us.

I didn't wait to watch the fight.

I scrambled toward Liam, who was still slumped near the lockers, looking pale and glassy-eyed. "Hey," I whispered, dropping to my knees beside him. "I've got you. Just stay with me, okay?"

He blinked slowly at me, dazed. "Cassie...?"

"I'm here," I promised, curling an arm around him protectively as the noise continued behind us. "You're gonna be okay."

One of the guards hit the wall hard with a grunt, and then the hall went still.

Derek's footsteps came next, heavy and fast, and then he was in front of me, crouching down.

"You good?" he asked, his hand reaching out to mine.

I nodded, still clutching Liam. "He's out of it, but breathing. I think it was the music, something in it. They're all affected."

"I know," Derek said, helping me to my feet before effortlessly lifting Liam into his arms. "We'll figure it out."

Then, he surprised me.

He pulled me into a hug, one arm still steady around Liam.

"Glad you're okay, Cass," he murmured, voice quiet and genuine against my hair. "Scared the hell out of me."

I swallowed hard, letting myself lean into it just for a second. "Me too."