The sunset was different.
Redder. More intense. As if the sky itself knew that tonight would be unlike any other.
I stood by my bedroom window, watching the last bands of orange light fade behind the trees. Shadows stretched out, swallowing the yard, the forest beyond, everything.
And I could already feel it.
It wasn't the moon yet—it hadn't risen. But it was as if my body knew it was coming. As if every cell were preparing, anticipating, yearning.
My heart was beating faster than normal. My hands trembled slightly. There was energy running beneath my skin, contained electricity waiting to explode.
Tonight. The full moon.
A knock on the door.
"Daniel?" My mother's voice. "It's time."
I took a deep breath, stepped away from the window, and opened the door.
She was already dressed to go out—jeans, sturdy boots, a light jacket. But it was her expression that struck me. Concern. Determination. And something else. Pride, maybe.
"Are you ready?"
No.
"Yes," I said.
We went downstairs together.
In the living room, my father was checking a backpack—flashlights, water bottles, a first-aid kit we probably wouldn't need, but that he insisted on bringing anyway.
Marcus stood near the window, arms crossed, staring outside. He was too quiet. Too tense.
He feels it too, I realized. The moon drawing closer. Even with all his control, even after years of experience, the full moon still affected him.
"Everyone ready?" my father asked, zipping the backpack closed.
"Ready," my mother replied.
Marcus turned away from the window.
"Let's go."
[Abandoned Warehouse – Outskirts of Beacon Hills]
Stiles's Jeep skidded to a stop in front of the old warehouse, kicking up dust.
Scott got out of the car, looking around. The place was isolated—far from town, far from houses, far from anyone who could get hurt.
Exactly what they needed.
"Are you sure this is the place?" Scott asked, his voice tense.
Stiles got out on the driver's side, holding a flashlight.
"It's the most isolated place I could find," he said. "And look—"
He pointed inside the warehouse, where steel chains were already installed, secured to reinforced metal beams.
"When did you—"
"Last night," Stiles said quickly. "After you went to sleep. I brought my dad—told him it was for a theater project. He helped me set everything up."
Scott walked into the warehouse, approaching the chains. They were thick, industrial-grade, the kind used in heavy construction.
He touched the cold metal.
"Do you think it'll hold?"
Stiles hesitated for just a fraction of a second.
"Daniel said it would be enough."
Scott turned sharply.
"Daniel? When did you—"
"At the library," Stiles said. "He helped me with the research. About… mythology."
"Mythology," Scott repeated, unconvinced. "Stiles—"
"He knows a lot about this stuff," Stiles continued, avoiding Scott's eyes. "Like, a lot. It helped."
Scott stared at him for a long moment.
"Do you trust him?"
"I…" Stiles paused, thinking. "Yeah. I think so. He could've turned us in to Derek, to anyone. But he didn't. He just… helped."
Scott didn't look fully convinced, but he didn't have the energy to argue.
He leaned against the wall, then slid down until he was sitting on the cold concrete floor.
Stiles knelt beside him, picking up the chain.
"Ready?"
Scott held out his wrist.
Stiles wrapped the chain around it twice before locking it with a reinforced padlock.
Click.
The sound echoed through the empty warehouse.
Scott pulled, testing it. The chain went taut, but didn't give.
"Now," Stiles said, sitting beside him, "we wait."
Scott looked up at the dirty window high on the wall. There was still some light outside, but it was fading fast.
"Stiles," he said quietly, "if I… if I lose control—"
"You won't."
"But if I do—"
"Scott." Stiles looked straight at him. "I'm your anchor. Remember? What Daniel said about emotional connection. That's me for you. Your best friend. The person who knows you better than anyone."
"And if that's not enough?"
Stiles didn't have an answer.
So he just stayed there, beside Scott, as daylight died outside.
[Forest – Ritual Clearing]
The clearing felt different.
During the day, my father had prepared everything. The runic symbols were drawn on the ground—a large, complex circle, with specific runes at the cardinal points.
Candles stood at the four corners, their flames already lit, flickering gently in the night breeze.
And at the center of it all, an open space.
For me.
"Step into the circle," my father instructed gently.
I obeyed, carefully avoiding smudging the chalk lines.
The moment I reached the center, I felt it.
The air was different here. Thicker. Charged with something I couldn't name, but that made my skin tingle.
"The runes are active," my father explained, taking position at one of the cardinal points. "They'll contain the energy. Any transformation that happens inside this circle won't be felt outside."
My mother moved to another point. Marcus to the third.
"And the fourth point?" I asked.
"It's yours," Marcus said. "You're at the center. You are the fourth point."
Something about that felt right. Like I belonged here, in this moment, in this place.
The last light of day vanished.
And then, slowly, inevitably, the moon began to rise.
I saw it first as a glow on the horizon.
Then the silver edge appeared between the trees, lifting itself slowly, majestically.
And everything inside me responded.
My heart slammed violently in my chest. My breathing turned shallow. Heat exploded through my body, as if my blood had become liquid fire.
Oh God.
It wasn't pain. Not exactly. It was… intensity. Pure, overwhelming, impossible to ignore.
It was as if every sense had been amplified a thousand times at once.
I heard everything—the wind in the leaves miles away. Small animals moving through the underbrush. The river flowing half a kilometer from here. Even my family's heartbeats—three distinct rhythms, calm and controlled.
I felt everything—the texture of the air against my skin. The vibration of the ground beneath my feet. The warmth of the candles. The chill of the night breeze.
And the moon.
I felt it like gravity. As if it were pulling me, calling me, commanding me to respond.
Transform, something inside me whispered. Release. Let it happen.
My hands began to tremble—not from fear, but from effort. From resisting the call.
"Daniel." My father's voice, firm, an anchor in the storm. "Breathe. You're in control."
I tried. Took a deep breath, searching for calm in the chaos.
But it was like trying to hold a hurricane with bare hands.
"The moon offers power," my father continued, his voice cutting through the haze. "You choose whether to accept it or resist it. There's no shame in transforming. Just maintain control."
Control.
The word echoed in my mind.
I looked up, straight at the moon—huge now, perfectly round, so bright it almost hurt to look at.
And I made a decision.
I'll transform. But on my terms.
I closed my eyes. Breathed. And consciously called the transformation.
I didn't let it overwhelm me. I summoned it.
My eyes opened—and I knew, without needing to see, that they were glowing golden amber.
The transformation came.
Claws burst from my fingertips—sharp pain, burning, but bearable. Fangs lengthened in my mouth, reshaping my jaw.
And then the armor.
I felt the bones beneath the skin of my forearms begin to move, to change, to emerge.
Bone plates pushed through the skin—white, gleaming in the moonlight, covering my forearms like armored bracers.
The pain was intense, but I accepted it, worked with it instead of against it.
I felt the armor trying to spread—up my arms, over my shoulders, across my chest.
No.
I stopped it there. Just the forearms, and a light layer over the shoulders.
The pressure was immense. The moon screamed for me to let go, to transform completely, to embrace all the power it offered.
But I resisted.
Enough. Just this much. I decide how far.
I opened my eyes—when had I closed them?—and looked down.
My hands were claws. My forearms were encased in bone armor. I could feel the fangs in my mouth.
But I was still me. Conscious. In control.
I looked at my family.
All three of them had transformed as well—not fully. Like me, only partially. Amber eyes glowing, claws extended, armor plates visible.
But completely in control. Calm. Watching.
My mother smiled, pride clear even through the transformation.
"Look at him," she whispered.
Marcus nodded slowly.
"Hold it," he said. "Breathe. Control."
And that's exactly what I did.
Seconds passed. Minutes. Time lost meaning.
There was only the moon. The transformation. And my will holding everything together.
[Warehouse]
Scott saw the moon through the window and froze.
He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't do anything except stare at it, hypnotized, terrified.
"Stiles…" his voice came out hoarse. "It's… happening…"
His hands began to shake—not lightly. Violently. The chains rattled, the sound echoing through the empty warehouse.
"Look at me!" Stiles stepped directly in front of him, blocking his view of the moon. "Scott! Look at ME!"
But Scott couldn't. His eyes kept being pulled toward that silver light, toward that primal call he didn't understand but his body recognized.
The first wave of pain hit him like a train.
Scott screamed, doubling over as the chains strained to their limit.
"STILES!"
"I'm here! I'm RIGHT HERE!" Stiles grabbed Scott's face with both hands, forcing his focus. "Focus on me! On my voice! You KNOW me!"
But Scott barely heard him through the agony.
His bones were changing. He could feel it—no, hear it—cracking, rearranging, lengthening. His spine curving. His fingers breaking and reforming.
A growl tore from his throat—inhuman, savage, terrifying even to his own ears.
"Think about your mom!" Stiles shouted now, desperate. "About Allison! About ME! YOU ARE NOT A MONSTER!"
The words pierced the haze of pain.
Mom. Allison. Stiles.
Scott clung to them like a drowning man.
Mom, who works two jobs to give me a good life.
Allison, with that smile that makes my heart race.
Stiles, my best friend since forever, who's here right now, even though he's terrified.
The transformation continued—he couldn't stop it. His body changed by force, no matter how hard he fought.
But his mind… his mind remained.
Fragile. Thin. But there.
Scott opened his eyes—now golden, glowing, supernatural.
He looked at Stiles, who was still there, hands on Scott's face, refusing to back away even from a fully transforming werewolf.
And Scott, through the transformation, through the pain, through the instinct screaming for him to attack…
…held on.
He pulled against the chain, testing it. The steel groaned under the pressure, but it held.
And then Scott howled.
It wasn't human. It wasn't civilized. It was pure, primal—a sound that tore through the night and echoed for miles.
An announcement.
A warning.
A werewolf was born.
[Forest]
I heard it.
Across the distance, through the forest, through everything.
A howl. Far away, but unmistakable.
And everything inside me responded.
My head turned automatically in that direction, my entire body tensing.
An involuntary growl slipped from my throat.
Another predator.
It wasn't a conscious thought. It was instinct. Primitive. Inevitable.
The armor on my forearms tried to expand, reacting to a perceived threat.
"Daniel." Marcus's voice, sharp. "Control."
I forced the armor to stop. Forced the growl down.
But I couldn't force my instincts not to recognize what that sound was.
I looked at my family. All three of them had turned the same way.
"Scott," my mother said quietly. "He transformed."
"And he's contained?" my father asked, head tilted, listening. "Doesn't sound like he escaped."
Marcus was tense, his entire body on alert.
"A new beta. No alpha. No pack." He shook his head. "Dangerous."
A second howl cut through the night.
This one was different. There was pain in it. Confusion. Desperation.
And something inside me tightened.
"He's suffering," I said.
"He's fighting," Marcus corrected. "That's normal. The first transformation is always the worst."
"You should go," I said suddenly.
Marcus turned to me, frowning.
"Go?"
"Help him. Scott doesn't know what to do. He's alone, confused, terrified—"
"He has the human friend," Marcus said.
"That's not enough!" My claws dug into my palms. "You KNOW that. A human can't help with what he's going through. But you can."
My parents exchanged looks.
"Daniel's right," my father said slowly. "A new, uncontrolled beta without guidance… could hurt someone. Or worse."
"Hurt himself," my mother added. "Physically or mentally. Trauma from a first transformation can last years."
Marcus looked at me, then at them, then back at me.
"And you?" he asked. "We leave you here alone, fighting the full moon?"
"I can handle it," I said, more confident than I felt. "You stay with me. But Scott… he needs someone who understands. Someone who can really help."
Marcus hesitated. I could see the internal battle in his eyes.
Finally, he let out a heavy sigh.
"You stay in the circle," he said firmly. "Do NOT leave the runes. For any reason. Understand?"
"I promise."
He looked at my parents.
"You stay with him. Any trouble, any sign of loss of control—"
"We know," my father said calmly.
Marcus nodded. Then he closed his eyes and called the full transformation.
I'd seen it before, but it was still awe-inspiring.
The armor exploded across his body—not just forearms and shoulders, but chest, back, legs. Bone plates locking together, covering vital points, turning him into something between a man and a living tank.
His eyes burned bright amber. Claws black as obsidian. Fangs long enough to tear through steel.
This was the full combat form. A Lupaztlán at full power.
"I'll be back soon," he said, his voice deeper, resonant.
And then he was gone.
One second he was there. The next, he vanished into the darkness of the forest, moving so fast he was nothing but a blur.
And I was left with my parents.
Well, not alone. But without Marcus—my uncle, my trainer, my anchor.
The moon seemed even brighter now.
And the pressure increased.
My parents sat inside the circle with me, one on each side.
They didn't speak at first. They just stayed there, a silent but comforting presence.
But I could feel it.
The energy inside me wanting to explode. Wanting to run, hunt, fight, do something.
My muscles trembled with the need for movement. My heart pounded so hard I could hear it echo in my ears.
The moon called to me. Screamed for me to leave this stupid circle, to run free beneath its light.
So strong. So hard to resist.
My mother reached out and took my hand—claws and all.
"Breathe with me," she said softly. "In. Out. With me."
I tried. Synced my breathing with hers.
In—counting to four. Out—counting to four.
It helped. A little. But it didn't remove the pressure. Nothing could.
"The first full moon is always the worst," my father said quietly. "Your body is adjusting. Learning how to handle the influence."
"Does it get easier?" My voice was tight, strained.
"Yes," my mother promised. "Each month it gets a little easier. Until eventually, you barely feel it."
"Like you?" I looked between them. "You seem so… calm."
My mother smiled, but there was sadness in it.
"Years of practice, sweetheart. Years of full moons, learning our limits, making mistakes."
"And we're not calm," my father added. "We've just learned how to look calm. To control the outside, even when inside we're still fighting."
That helped. Knowing they felt it too. That it wasn't just me being weak.
Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. Time warped under the full moon.
I fought every second. Every breath was an effort. Every heartbeat a battle to stay in control.
The moon was at its highest point now. Its zenith. The moment of greatest power.
And I trembled with the effort of staying human.
Well. Partially human.
The claws, fangs, and armor were still there. I'd given up trying to retract them—it took too much energy, energy I needed to keep control of everything else.
Just make it until dawn, I told myself. Just a few more hours. I can do this. I CAN do this.
But part of me wondered if I really could.
[Derek's Loft]
Derek stood by the window of the loft, staring at the moon.
He felt it too. Even as a born werewolf, not a beta, the full moon still affected him. Still pulled at something inside.
But he'd learned long ago how to control it. How to use the power without losing himself.
Then he heard it.
A howl. Distant, but unmistakable.
Scott.
"Shit."
He transformed—not fully, just eyes, fangs, claws. Enough to sharpen his senses.
He focused in the direction of the sound, tracking it.
Outskirts of town. East side. Industrial area.
Why there?
It didn't matter. Scott had transformed. And without proper supervision, without control, he was a danger—to himself and everyone else.
Derek grabbed his leather jacket, the keys to the Camaro.
And ran out the door.
The Camaro roared through the night, Derek driving with precision but excessive speed.
He kept the window open, tracking by sound and scent.
Blood. Fear. And… steel?
Interesting.
He accelerated.
[Warehouse]
Marcus arrived first.
He slowed as he spotted the blue Jeep parked outside, approaching silently.
Through the thin walls of the warehouse, he listened.
Growls. Chains rattling. And a human voice—young, scared, but steady.
"…your anchor! You are NOT going to hurt me! You are Scott McCall, my best friend, and you are NOT a monster!"
Marcus peeked through the grimy window.
Inside: Scott fully transformed—a golden-eyed werewolf, bound by industrial chains to a steel beam. The chain was stretched to its limit, but it was holding.
And the human boy—Stiles—stood against the opposite wall, hands raised, talking nonstop.
Acting as an emotional anchor.
Impressive, Marcus thought. The human is actually working. And the chains… they're holding.
He was about to reveal himself, to offer help, when—
The warehouse door burst open.
"SCOTT!"
Derek Hale stormed in like a hurricane, eyes glowing supernatural blue.
Then he stopped. Saw Scott. Saw Stiles.
And then he saw Marcus in the shadows near the window.
Their eyes met.
And Derek froze.
Because Marcus's eyes were not Alpha red.
They weren't the blue of a werewolf who had taken a life.
They weren't the gold of a beta.
They were amber. Deep gold, bright, different.
"WHO ARE YOU?!" Stiles shouted, spinning between Derek and Marcus, clearly terrified.
Scott snarled at both of them, yanking on the chains, instincts screaming threat, threat, THREAT.
Marcus didn't answer Stiles.
He simply looked at Derek—assessing, considering, deciding.
Then he spoke, his voice calm but carrying undeniable authority.
"Let's talk outside." It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order. "Now."
He turned and walked out of the warehouse.
Derek hesitated, eyes shifting from Scott (restrained, barely controlled by Stiles) to the door Marcus had exited through.
Then, slowly, he followed.
Stiles stood there, mouth open, completely confused and terrified.
"What the hell just happened?" he whispered.
Scott only growled, fighting the chains, fighting the wolf, fighting everything.
And outside, beneath the full moon, two supernatural predators were about to have a conversation that would change everything.
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 2…