Chapter 13: Aftermath
The sun is barely up when I stumble through the front door.
My shirt is soaked with blood—dried now, stiff and brown. The shoulder is healed, but the fabric tells the story. Three long tears where claws ripped through.
I'm halfway up the stairs when Coach steps into the hallway.
Arms crossed. Expression unreadable.
"Where's the blood from?"
I freeze. "It's not mine."
"Adam Michael Greenburg."
Middle name. That's never good.
I sigh and turn around. Pull off my jacket. The torn shirt underneath reveals three pink scars on my shoulder—raised and fresh, but closed.
Coach stares. His Haki signature shifts from frustration to confusion to something that might be horror.
"That was last night?"
I nod.
Long silence. The grandfather clock in the living room ticks. Outside, a car drives past.
"Sit down," Coach says finally.
We go to the kitchen. He doesn't make food this time. Just sits across from me, hands folded on the table, waiting.
"Explain."
"I was helping a friend."
"Scott?"
I don't confirm. Don't deny.
"He has a medical condition. Dangerous. I was there in case something went wrong."
"And something went wrong."
"Yeah."
"He did that to you?" Coach gestures at my shoulder.
"It wasn't his fault. He wasn't in control."
Coach's jaw tightens. "What kind of medical condition involves clawing people?"
I don't answer. Can't answer. Because the truth—werewolf transformation—is worse than anything I could make up.
"It's genetic," I say finally. "From my dad's side. I heal faster than normal. That's why the wound is already closed."
It's a half-truth. The worst kind of lie—close enough to reality that it feels plausible.
Coach studies me. His Haki signature is chaos—trying to reconcile what he's seeing with what makes sense.
"Your biological father," he says slowly. "The one who died."
"Yeah."
"Did he heal like this?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
Another long silence.
"Your mother can't know about this," Coach says.
"I know."
"She's already worried. If she finds out you're getting hurt—"
"I'll be more careful."
"That's not good enough."
"It's the best I can do."
Coach stands, paces to the window. Stares out at the backyard. His hands are shaking.
"I don't understand what's happening," he says quietly. "But I know it's dangerous. And I know you're not telling me everything."
"Coach—"
"I'm not asking you to. But I need you to promise me something." He turns. "Don't die. Whatever this is, whatever you're doing—don't make me bury you."
My throat tightens. "I'll try."
"Try harder."
School on Monday feels surreal.
The halls are too bright. Too loud. After spending Saturday night in a basement with a transforming werewolf, fluorescent lights and locker small-talk feel like a different universe.
Jackson is waiting by my locker.
"Greenburg."
I glance at him. "Jackson."
"I saw you and McCall leaving the preserve Saturday night. Late. What were you doing?"
My Haki picks up his emotional signature—curiosity mixed with suspicion. He's been watching us. Trying to figure out what makes Scott special.
"Hiking."
"At midnight?"
"Insomnia."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
Jackson's eyes narrow. "You two are up to something. I don't know what, but I'm going to find out."
"Good luck with that."
He walks away. But the damage is done. By lunch, the rumor has spread—Adam and Scott are in a fight club. Or dealing drugs. Or involved in some other appropriately dramatic teenage scandal.
Lydia Martin overhears it in the hallway. "Scott? Fighting? Please."
But her eyes linger on me. Analytical. Calculating. Her Haki signature spikes—curiosity, intrigue.
She noticed something. I'm not sure what. But Lydia Martin doesn't miss details.
Dangerous.
Lunch period. Scott, Stiles, and I claim our usual table in the corner.
Scott hasn't looked at me all day. Guilt radiates from his Haki signature like heat.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly.
"For what?"
"For hurting you."
"You weren't you."
"That doesn't make it okay."
"Scott." I set down my sandwich. "You were chained in a basement, going through your first transformation. You weren't in control. And I'm fine."
"You had three claw marks across your shoulder."
"Which are already healed."
Stiles leans forward. "Define 'healed' because I reviewed the camera footage. You regenerated in real-time. That's not normal."
"I'm not normal. We've established this."
"Yeah, but—" Stiles gestures vaguely. "—what ARE you?"
"Honestly? No idea."
"That's not comforting."
"It's the truth."
Scott is still staring at his tray. "What if I'd killed you?"
"You didn't."
"But I could have."
"And Derek could've killed the Alpha. And the Alpha could've killed all of us. We survived, Scott. That's what matters."
He looks up. "How are you so calm about this?"
"I'm really not. I'm just good at pretending."
Stiles snorts. "That's the most honest thing you've said all week."
The tension breaks. Scott manages a weak smile.
But I know the questions aren't going away. Scott, Stiles, Derek—they all know I'm not human. Not fully. And eventually, they're going to demand real answers.
Answers I don't have.
That night, I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling.
My shoulder throbs. Not pain—just the phantom sensation of healing. The scars are barely visible now. Faded pink lines that will probably disappear completely in a few days.
Phase 2 regeneration. Visible. Undeniable.
Derek saw it. Scott saw it. Stiles saw it on camera.
The secret is fraying. And I don't know how much longer I can keep pretending.
My phone buzzes.
Scott: Thank you. For staying with me.
Anytime.
Scott: I mean it. You didn't have to do that.
Yes I did. You're my friend.
Long pause. Then:
Scott: I'm glad.
I set the phone down and close my eyes.
We survived the full moon. Barely.
But the Alpha is still out there. And Kate Argent just arrived in town.
The war is just beginning.