NOTE: don't forget to join my Patreon.com/Argonaut007 to get access up to 10+ Advance chapters.
------
Morning unfolded gently over Beacon Hills, the kind of quiet sunrise that made everything seem ordinary. Golden light spilled across rooftops, filtered through trees, and warmed the streets just enough to lull people into comfort. It was peaceful—convincingly so.
But beneath that fragile calm, something was wrong.
Scott, Allison, and Stiles moved through town with urgency, their pace brisk and their expressions set. There was no room for distractions, no time to waste on normal teenage routines. Whatever illusion the morning tried to create, they weren't buying it.
Their destination was clear.
The Hale Estate.
Stiles glanced over his shoulder as they walked, his unease barely hidden beneath his usual humor. "So… just to be clear," he muttered, lowering his voice slightly, "we're about to walk into the territory of the strongest supernatural group in town… and ask them for help. Again."
Scott didn't break stride. His focus remained ahead, steady and unwavering. "We don't have a choice."
Allison walked beside him, her expression calm but firm. "People are dying," she added simply.
Stiles raised a finger as if to argue, then sighed. "Right. That's… a pretty solid reason. Still terrifying though."
The moment they reached the gates, something shifted.
They didn't need to knock.
The entrance opened on its own—silent, controlled, almost deliberate. It wasn't welcoming. It was aware.
Stepping inside always felt like crossing into another world.
The estate was alive with motion. Not chaotic, not wild—disciplined. Betas sparred across the training grounds, their movements precise and purposeful. Strength wasn't just encouraged here. It was cultivated, refined, expected.
At the center of it all stood Arthur Corvinus.
Waiting.
Hands tucked casually into his pockets, posture relaxed as if he'd been expecting them all along.
"Morning," he greeted, his tone easy, almost amused.
Scott didn't return the casual energy. "We need your help."
Arthur tilted his head slightly, studying them. "That serious?"
Stiles stepped forward before Scott could elaborate, words spilling out in a rush. "Flying half-body monsters, things that eat organs, attacks happening at night—this isn't just weird, okay? This is next-level nightmare fuel."
Arthur blinked once, then shrugged faintly. "That still sounds like Beacon Hills."
Allison crossed her arms, her gaze steady. "This isn't normal."
Scott nodded, stepping in again. "New creatures have shown up. They're targeting civilians."
Something in Arthur's expression shifted—not dramatically, but enough. His attention sharpened.
"Explain."
Scott took a breath. "One of them is called a manananggal. Deaton confirmed it."
Recognition flickered across Arthur's face.
"Aswang," he corrected calmly.
The word lingered in the air for a moment, unfamiliar yet heavy with implication.
Arthur's gaze drifted briefly, as if piecing things together, before returning to them. "These creatures aren't here by accident."
Scott frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"
"They're opportunists," Arthur explained, his voice steady. "Beacon Hills has had a surge in deaths. Conflict attracts attention."
A pause.
"Predators notice weakness."
The realization hit harder than any direct threat.
Stiles swallowed, his voice quieter now. "…So what you're saying is—we've basically turned this place into an all-you-can-eat buffet."
Arthur gave a small shrug. "In simple terms? Yes."
Stiles groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "I really need to move."
Scott stepped forward again, more serious now. "Will you help us? There have already been multiple casualties."
Arthur didn't hesitate.
"Of course."
The answer came easily, without doubt or negotiation.
"We'll help."
The relief that followed was immediate, visible in all three of them. It wasn't just about strength—it was about having someone who understood the scale of what they were facing.
Stiles let out a long breath. "Okay, good. Because I was one bad day away from packing my bags."
Allison, however, wasn't finished.
She stepped forward, her gaze locking onto Arthur's.
"Can you teach me how to fight?"
The question cut through the moment.
Scott blinked, caught off guard. "Wait—what?"
Stiles turned his head slowly, eyes widening. "…Well, that's new."
Arthur didn't answer right away. Instead, he studied Allison carefully, as if weighing not just her words, but the intent behind them.
"We can train you," he said at last.
A brief pause followed before he added, "But ranged weapons aren't our expertise. If you want to improve with bows or crossbows, your family would be better suited for that."
Allison shook her head immediately. "I'm not asking for that."
Her voice carried a quiet determination.
"I want to learn close combat."
Another beat.
"I don't want to stand there helpless every time something happens. I want to be able to fight back."
Scott looked at her, concern flickering across his face—but beneath it, understanding. He knew that feeling all too well.
Arthur held her gaze for a moment longer, then nodded.
"Alright."
"We'll train you."
Stiles raised his hand like a student in class. "Quick question—do I get training too, or am I still just the guy who screams and runs?"
Arthur glanced at him briefly. "You're the distraction."
Stiles grinned. "…Honestly, I've been training for that my whole life."
—
By the time afternoon rolled in, Beacon Hills High had returned to its usual rhythm.
Lockers slammed. Students laughed. Conversations filled the hallways.
Normal.
Or at least, something that looked like it.
Scott approached his locker, trying—unsuccessfully—to slip back into that version of reality.
"Scott."
He turned.
Jackson stood a few feet away.
There was something different about him. Not just his posture or tone—but the weight behind his gaze.
"What's up?" Scott asked cautiously.
Jackson stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Make me like you."
Scott froze.
"…What?"
"I saw you," Jackson continued, unwavering. "Last night."
A flicker of tension crossed Scott's face. "You shouldn't have been there."
Jackson ignored the warning. "You were fighting those things. You weren't normal."
Scott hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "It's not that simple."
"Then explain it."
There was no hesitation in Jackson's voice. No doubt.
Scott exhaled slowly. "Only an alpha can turn someone."
Jackson absorbed that without flinching. "Then who do I ask?"
Scott shook his head. "I can't tell you that."
A brief silence stretched between them.
"I need to talk to them first," Scott added. "It's not my call."
Jackson studied him for a moment longer.
Then, unexpectedly, he nodded.
"Okay."
A beat passed.
"…Thanks for not lying."
Scott blinked, surprised.
Jackson turned and walked away, but the tension in his shoulders hadn't eased. If anything, it had deepened.
—
Later that day, back at the Hale Estate, Scott stood in front of Arthur once more.
"He wants to become one of us."
Arthur raised an eyebrow slightly. "Jackson?"
Scott nodded. "I told him I'd talk to you first."
Arthur leaned back slightly, considering.
"To be like us," he began, "is both a gift and a burden."
Scott remained silent, listening.
"We're stronger. Faster. More capable than normal humans."
A pause.
"But that strength comes with responsibility."
His gaze darkened slightly.
"And that weight isn't something everyone can carry."
Scott nodded slowly. "Jackson isn't exactly known for patience."
"Which makes him dangerous," Arthur replied.
Another pause.
"Let me speak to him."
—
By evening, the field had grown quiet.
Jackson stood alone, a lacrosse stick resting loosely in his hand. His thoughts were elsewhere, distant and unsettled.
Arthur approached without hurry.
"So," he said, stopping a few steps away, "what brought this on?"
Jackson didn't turn immediately. "I want to be like you."
A brief silence followed.
"I want to be strong," he added. "I want to be better."
Arthur stepped closer, his gaze steady. "You saw Scott fight."
Jackson nodded.
"Then you already know," Arthur continued, "this isn't something you take lightly."
Jackson's grip tightened slightly.
"We don't choose this," Arthur said. "But once we have it, we don't get to ignore what comes with it."
Jackson remained silent.
"People are dying," Arthur went on. "Not just from monsters."
A pause.
"We're hunted too."
Jackson looked up. "…Hunters?"
Arthur nodded. "You've heard about the Hale fire."
A flicker of recognition crossed Jackson's face. "…Yeah."
"That wasn't an accident," Arthur said evenly. "That was a massacre."
The weight of that truth settled heavily.
"The world we live in isn't fair," Arthur continued. "It's not forgiving."
He stepped back slightly.
"If you want this power just to impress someone…"
Jackson flinched at the implication.
"…then you're not ready for it."
Silence stretched between them.
Long. Heavy.
Arthur turned and walked away without another word.
Nearby, Scott and Stiles watched from a distance.
"…That was intense," Stiles whispered.
Scott nodded. "Yeah."
They left shortly after, giving Jackson the space he needed.
Alone on the field, Jackson stared down at the ground, his thoughts no longer clear or confident.
For once, it wasn't about status.
Or winning.
Or proving something to others.
For the first time—
Jackson Whittemore was thinking about what it would cost.