The small apartment was bathed in the quiet hum of thought.
The lights were dim, save for the bright white beam of Malik's desk lamp, which spilled over the cluttered surface—notebooks, loose photographs, crime scene clippings, a few printed newspaper scans, and a steaming mug that had long gone cold.
A whiteboard stood tall, angled slightly toward his living room couch. Upon it, Malik had carefully taped photos of each known Alpha victim, their names scrawled beneath in clean block letters. Red string connected points. Circles. Arrows. Questions written in dry-erase marker hung like ghosts:
Laura Hale – Alpha.
Bus driver: Garrison Myers.
Deer with spiral – Lure?
Spiral: Vendetta?
Hale Fire – Catalyst?
Malik stood shirtless, in joggers, bare feet silent on the floor as he slowly paced with a half-empty bottle of beer in his hand. The amber liquid sloshed as he raised it to his lips again. Not out of celebration. Just rhythm. Focus.
He stopped in front of the board and tapped his finger against Laura Hale's picture.
"She was the first," he murmured aloud, to no one but the silence. "Alpha blood. That wasn't revenge—it was a power grab."
He stepped back and stared.
"Unless it's both."
His mind worked like a predator hunting through fog. The spiral—a symbol of vendetta in old werewolf lore. Malik had read about it before. The symbol didn't just mean "revenge." It meant ritual vengeance. Something sacred. Calculated. Carved not in hate, but in purpose.
He walked to his bookshelf and pulled out an old leather-bound tome he inherited from his great-grandfather. Malik flipped through the brittle yellow pages until he found the symbol again—a crude spiral scratched into parchment.
Vendetta. Blood for blood. Often used to mark a feud passed down through lineage. When carved into flesh or death—it signals the beginning of retribution.
He read it twice. Then looked up, eyes narrowed.
"If this was revenge…" he said, turning toward the whiteboard, "…who's it against?"
Laura Hale had returned to Beacon Hills and was killed shortly after. The spiral had been carved into the deer's corpse. Public. Deliberate. A message—but not for Derek.
"No… not for him," Malik muttered.
He pulled another article from the pile on his desk—a newspaper clipping printed weeks before Laura's body was discovered.
Local bus driver Garrison Myers tragically mauled.
Formerly an insurance adjuster for Northern California Regional...
Malik froze.
He dropped the beer bottle into the trash with a soft clink and leaned in.
"Insurance adjuster…"
His eyes widened.
"If he was assigned to the Hale fire… if he signed off on it, approved the payout, or even helped cover up the investigation..."
He moved with sudden urgency, pinning a new photo next to Garrison Myers'—an old aerial shot of the burned Hale house, blackened timbers and collapsed roofs.
"That fire… the Hale fire… it wasn't just an accident. And if Laura came back to investigate it, then maybe—maybe the Alpha didn't want revenge on her."
His breath caught as realization settled into his bones.
"He wanted what she had. Her spark. Her Alpha power."
He turned slowly to look back at the board.
"If he killed her to become Alpha… and is now killing the people involved in the fire… that's not just vengeance. It's legacy."
Malik's jaw tightened.
"Which means…"
He circled a question in bold:
Is the Alpha… a Hale?
A deep, distant howl split the air.
It was unnatural—long, loud, and amplified. Too clear. Too deliberate.
Malik stiffened, every hair on his body rising.
"That wasn't natural…"
He strode to the window, setting the book aside. He opened it quietly and sniffed the air.
Nothing... and everything.
His skin prickled. The direction was obvious—Beacon Hills High.
His fingers were already at his waistband, stripping off his joggers, leaving him in only a pair of black compression shorts. He crouched on the windowsill, his glowing amber eyes flickering as the instincts rose like a tide.
"No mistaking it now… they'll hear that too. Derek. The Alpha…"
He took one last sniff, ensuring no nearby humans were in view, then leapt into the air—his body shifting mid-flight, bones snapping and reshaping in a blur of black fur and surging muscle.
The giant black wolf landed soundlessly in the alley behind his apartment.
And then he ran.
He ran like he had something to prove. Like the truth was sprinting away from him.
The wind whistled through his fur. Trees blurred past. Dirt and leaves kicked up in his wake as his paws pounded against the forest floor.
Whatever was waiting at that school—he'd be there first