As I watched my father's car disappear down the street, I swallowed hard and exhaled slowly through my nose. The school was too alive for my taste—voices, footsteps, laughter, the chaotic noise of too many people in a space too small.
And then I saw her.
Sitting on one of the benches near the entrance, phone pressed to her ear, posture too relaxed for someone clearly nervous on the inside. It took a second for my brain to connect the dots.
Damn.
My gaze lingered on her for too long before I realized it, and a thought shot through my mind like a stray bullet: 'I hope the wolf boy's super hearing is as selective as it is in the series… and that he didn't hear anything I said to my dad.'
I ran a hand through my hair, looking away by instinct, and then turned back to watch her with more attention.
Allison Argent.
Seeing the name associated with a real face was strange. Not uncomfortable, just strange.
In my memory, that scene came attached to a very specific sequence: Allison talking on the phone, Scott standing too far away to hear… and yet hearing everything. Every word. Every pause. As if, in a school with hundreds of students, the universe had decided to silence everything just to help the romance happen.
Convenient as hell.
I looked around, almost expecting to find Scott leaning somewhere, pretending he wasn't paying attention to anything while listening to exactly what he shouldn't.
There were too many students, too much noise, too much life for that to make sense, and yet, Beacon Hills had this annoying talent for bending logic when it wanted to.
I took a deep breath.
If the story really had the bad habit of aligning itself, then I needed to do one simple thing: get there first.
"Let's go…" I murmured, adjusting my backpack on my shoulder as I entered the school. "Time to face this nightmare."
As soon as I walked through the glass doors, I felt the world shift.
Not visually, not immediately. It was more like… depth.
As if something had been unlocked inside me, allowing me to see beyond the obvious even when I wasn't trying.
I was hiding it, but I could still see.
Most people inside had a minimal amount of mana. Too small to be noticed by anyone who didn't know what to look for.
In some, it pooled in their legs. In others, it gathered around the heart. Those with the classic "diligent student" look usually carried their mana concentrated in their heads.
My mother was like that.
Mana existed in them, sustained them, balanced them, but it didn't respond; it was just there.
As I walked down the hallways, I felt eyes following me. Maybe because I was the new student. Maybe out of simple curiosity. Or maybe…
Well.
I wasn't exactly invisible.
I ignored it and kept walking, trying to look normal while absorbing everything around me. Beacon Hills wasn't just a crowded school. It was a place full of things that didn't yet know I could see them.
And that, suddenly, made everything much more interesting.
I walked down the hallway to the main office with an almost automatic step, observing more than actually paying attention. The school had that smell of modeling clay, books, cold coffee, disinfectant. Students passed by in droves, backpacks bumping against backs, conversations overlapping.
My vision floated at the edge of my gaze: lines, dots, small pulsations of mana where no one expected them to be.
The office door was ajar. I walked in. The room was practical: shelves with folders, a bulletin board full of notes, and behind the desk, a middle-aged man with a serious air was leafing through some files.
There was something about that face that seemed vaguely familiar to me; maybe I had seen the same angle in some scene of the show. It was weird recognizing an expression in a world I supposedly didn't know.
"Nathan Salt," he said, looking at the file with the same efficiency I had seen in receptionists. "New enrollment, right? Here are your schedules."
He handed me a folded paper. I took it, read it without rushing; subjects, rooms, breaks, teacher names. All too normal for the tornado I was carrying inside.
He raised his head, as if he had checked the calendar on the corner of the desk.
"Hm. Wait a minute," he spoke. "It seems you have a schedule conflict with another student. You're going to Room 203 together, I'll take you."
Before I could answer, the office door opened, and the student walked in. She needed no introduction.
Allison Argent was there, casual, shoulders relaxed, hair tied in a practical ponytail. My stomach did that stupid flip it does when the world forces a memory in your face.
As soon as she entered, the first thing I noticed was her mana. Unlike absolutely everyone I had met so far, Allison's mana was divided; she had mana around her eyes, at the fingertips, in her nose and ears.
"Allison, this is Nathan, our new student." The principal introduced her without ceremony. "You have the same class now. I'll walk you to the room."
"Nice to meet you," she said, with a contained smile. Polite. Calculated just right. "Allison."
The way she pronounced my name sounded… too normal. As if she had heard it before. Or maybe it was just the formality of the moment. Still, my brain made a point of noting it.
"Nice to meet you," I replied. "Nathan. But most people call me Nate."
I put the papers in my pocket, adjusted the backpack on my shoulders, and stood up. My hands were shaking slightly, little enough for no one to notice, but enough for me to feel.
The principal closed the folder and walked out ahead, guiding us down the hall.
The sound of the school came rushing back as soon as we stepped through the door: voices echoing, hurried footsteps, laughter that was too loud.
"So, Argent…" I started, trying to sound casual. "Are you new here too? Where are you from?"
Allison walked beside me with a firm, controlled step. Nothing exaggerated, nothing theatrical. She had that air of someone used to being watched and, at the same time, trained not to let herself be molded by it.
"My family travels a lot," she replied. "I spent the last year in San Francisco. I think that counts as an answer."
She smiled slightly, not showing everything. "And you?"
"Just arrived," I shrugged. "I confess it's a relief not to be the only new student. Lowers the insecurity a little… at least in theory."
"You don't seem very insecure," she commented, tilting her head slightly, as if genuinely curious.
I gave a half-smile, one of those automatic ones.
"That's because I fake it well," I replied. "Or because I've already given up on trying to impress anyone today."
She let out a low, short laugh, more through her nose than her mouth.
"Makes sense," she said. "Most people try to seem like something on the first day."
"And you?" I asked, without thinking much. "What are you trying to seem like?"
Allison shot me a quick, assessing glance before shrugging.
"Normal," she answered. "Usually works."
"Beacon Hills doesn't seem like a place very cooperative with the concept of 'normal'," I observed as we walked.
"Not really," she agreed, with a corner smile. "But you learn to get by."
I hiked my backpack higher on my shoulder.
"Well, then I'm relieved I'm not the only newbie trying to get by. Shares the embarrassment, at least."
"Yeah," she smiled again, lighter this time. "Shares the mistake too, if we get lost."
"Deal," I agreed. "But if that happens, I'm saying it was your idea."
"Of course you are." She arched an eyebrow, amused.
The principal cleared his throat on purpose, the dry sound echoing down the hall and cutting the conversation in half.
"We're here," he announced, stopping in front of a light wooden door. "Literature Room."
He opened the door unceremoniously, and the murmur inside faded slowly, as if someone had turned down the school's general volume just a notch.
"Attention, everyone." His voice was firm, trained to be heard without needing to shout. "We have two new students today."
Some curious glances looked up immediately. Other students just feigned interest but still watched from the corner of their eyes.
"Allison Argent, some of you already know," he continued, gesturing slightly toward her. "And this is Nathan Salt. You can call him Nate."
I felt the collective weight of silent evaluation fall on me. That quick, cruel, and inevitable analysis that any classroom performs in less than five seconds.
"Welcome," concluded the principal. "Sit wherever you like."
He took a step to the side, clearly ready to disappear from the scene, as if he had fulfilled a bureaucratic task and nothing more.
Allison went in first, unhurried, as if already used to the attention. I followed her, feeling that strange sensation again—the mana around her reacting subtly to the change in environment, reorganizing itself, like water finding a new container.
My eyes swept the room instinctively.
Occupied desks, backpacks dumped on the floor, whispered conversations slowly resuming. At the back of the room, I recognized a face I definitely shouldn't be recognizing so soon.
Scott McCall.
He was sitting near the window, elbow resting on the table, looking forward, too calm for someone who, in theory, didn't know me. When my eyes passed over him, Magic Sight did what it always does: it drew the world beneath the veneer.
Unlike anyone else in that room, Scott was the only one in whom I couldn't see a trace of mana, or anything resembling it.
It was as if his body was… empty. But it wasn't.
Around Scott, a black silhouette sketched itself out like a living shadow, covering his shoulders, back, and head. An elongated snout, yellow eyes glowing in an almost lazy way. It wasn't a flesh-and-blood werewolf; it looked more like an image overlaid on reality, translucent, instinctive.
As if the curse were always there. Just waiting.
'Holy shit…' I swallowed hard at the exact moment Allison sat down behind him.
Scott turned almost automatically, as if he already knew she was there, and held out a pen without thinking twice.
No trace of the shadow reacted. That made me even more uncomfortable.
I moved quickly, before anyone noticed my overly fixed stare, and sat behind Stiles, who occupied the chair next to Scott.
I had barely finished pulling out the chair when Stiles turned around.
It wasn't abrupt. Nor casual.
It was too fast to be just curiosity.
"You're new," he said, not smiling. It didn't sound like a question.
"I am," I replied, resting my backpack on the floor. "Nathan. Nate, if you prefer."
He stared at me for a second longer than acceptable. His eyes moved fast, analyzing: face, posture, hands, then Scott, then me again. Like someone who had already decided to be suspicious before even having a reason.
"Stiles," he said finally. "And this is Scott."
Scott turned this time.
The movement was simple, too human. A normal boy introducing himself. But the thing around him, the shadow, adjusted along with him, as if following every gesture by reflex.
"Hi," he said, with an easy smile. "Welcome to Beacon Hills." The silhouette didn't smile.
"Thanks," I replied, keeping my voice neutral.
Stiles tilted his head.
"Did you choose to sit here for a specific reason?"
"Yes," I said, rolling my eyes. "The front seats looked dangerous."
He let out a half-laugh through his nose. "Good answer."
Before he could continue, the classroom door opened with enough force to make some conversations die instantly.
"Wonderful." The voice came loaded with boredom. "New students, late and talking."
Mr. Harris walked in, crumpled suit, sour expression of someone who clearly hated adolescents as a concept. He dropped his briefcase on the desk with a dry thud.
"Sit. Open the book. Page one hundred and twelve." No "good morning." No warm introduction. Exactly as I remembered.
As the room obeyed, I felt Scott's attention return to the front. But not completely. Something in him was still… alert.
The mana around the other people stabilized, as it always did when routine took control. Stiles', however, did not. It remained restless, rearranging itself all the time, as if he were always about to get up and run.
"You're not from here," Stiles murmured, without looking at me.
"We noticed that, Sherlock," I replied in the same tone.
"No," he corrected. "For real."
Before I could answer, Scott spoke quietly, still staring at the open book: "Stiles…"
"What?" he retorted. "I'm just being polite."
Scott sighed. "Ignore him," he said to me. "He does that to everyone."
Lie.
The shadow around Scott moved again—not aggressive, not defensive, more curious.
"So..." Scott continued, "where did you say you came from?"
"From a quieter place," I replied. "Definitely less… alive."
"Beacon Hills is small," he said. "But things happen fast here."
Stiles closed his book too slowly.
"And you," he said, "seem like the type of person who notices that fast."
I faced him directly for the first time.
"Maybe I just pay too much attention." For an instant, his gaze hardened.
"That's how it starts." He smiled.
Harris cleared his throat loudly.
"McCall. Stilinski." His eyes cut across the room. "If you're finished with your private book club, perhaps you'd like to share with the class."
Stiles turned to the front, theatrically offended.
"Sorry, Professor. We were discussing contemporary literature… the new student is full of opinions."
Some stifled laughter emerged. Scott just shook his head, embarrassed. The class went on, but not for me.
Because, while Harris spoke about symbolism and irony, the silhouette around Scott raised its head again, and this time, I was absolutely sure:
It was watching me. But not as a threat. Its vision alternated from Allison to me. Every time she interacted with me, I could feel Scott's wolf getting bothered.
And Stiles had noticed it too.
I looked away at the blank notebook on my desk, forcing my shoulders to relax. The basic rule of survival when facing a predator is not to stare, and that shadow over Scott, as ethereal as it was, operated under rules of pure instinct.
If I seemed like a threat, the wolf would react. If I seemed like prey, the wolf would react. The trick was to seem like... furniture.
"Mr. Salt," Harris's voice cut the air like the crack of a whip. "Since your attention seems as volatile as that of your colleagues in front of you, perhaps you can tell us what the central metaphor of paragraph three is?"
I raised my head slowly. Harris was staring at me with that sadistic pleasure of someone expecting failure.
The room went silent. I felt Allison's mana behind Scott agitate slightly—empathic anxiety.
Scott stopped moving. His shadow, however, took the moment to approach, the translucent snout hovering inches from my face, sniffing the air for fear.
It was bizarre having a spectral monster growling in your face while a literature teacher waited for an answer about Heart of Darkness.
I took a deep breath, pulling my own mana inward, compacting it in the center of my chest. A simple concealment exercise.
"The jungle," I replied, voice monotone. "It's not just the setting. It's a mirror of the characters' moral degradation. The deeper they go, the less human they become."
Harris blinked. The answer was right. Too right for him to mock, but too short for him to praise.
"Correct," he muttered, visibly disappointed, before turning back to the board.
I let out the breath I was holding.
In front of me, the wolf's shadow retreated, looking bored with my lack of emotional reaction. Scott relaxed his shoulders, the tension leaving him in physical waves.
But Stiles...
Stiles turned back minimally, pretending to pick up an eraser that hadn't fallen.
"Nailed it," he whispered, fast and low. "Harris hates it when people get it right. Takes away his joy of living."
I gave a weak smile, not showing teeth. "I'll note that down."
"Also note that he has a flask of whiskey in the bottom drawer," Stiles continued, eyes still fixed on mine, searching for something. "Just in case you need blackmail material."
"Stiles," Scott reprimanded in a whisper, without turning.
"What? Information is power, Scott."
The interaction lasted seconds, but it was enough for me to notice the discrepancy.
Stiles' mana was chaos—nervous sparks and erratic patterns—but his mind? His mind was sharp as a razor. He wasn't joking about the blackmail; he was testing me. Throwing out "trust" bait to see how I would react.
Suddenly, I felt a light touch on my shoulder.
The world stopped.
The shadow over Scott, which was almost sleeping, inflated instantly, the fur on its nape bristling, teeth bared in a silent snarl that made my Magic Sight vibrate.
I turned my head slowly. It was Allison. She held out a folded paper.
"Fell off your desk," she whispered, with a gentle smile.
I looked at the paper. It was my schedule. I hadn't even noticed it had slid off.
"Oh." I took the paper, avoiding touching her hand. The static electricity around her fingers was... inviting. "Thanks, Allison."
"You're welcome."
I turned back to the front.
Scott was rigid as a statue. I could see his knuckles white, gripping the edge of the desk. The wolf's shadow was now, literally, with its paws resting on Stiles' shoulders, growling directly at me.
The message was clear: Mine.
The problem was that Scott didn't know that. He just felt the discomfort, the irrational anger, the jealousy burning without logical reason. He was a confused teenager being piloted by a territorial beast.
Stiles noticed the shift in Scott. He lightly kicked his friend's foot under the table.
"Hey," Stiles whispered, voice tense. "Breathe, dude. You using that asthma inhaler still?"
"No," Scott replied, voice hoarse. "I lost it, in the woods, but I'm fine."
"You don't look fine. You look like you're gonna bite the desk."
I closed my eyes for a second, pretending to scratch my forehead. This was going to be a long school year. I needed to establish boundaries, and fast. If Scott's wolf decided I was a rival for territory or the female, my life as a "normal student" would end before lunch.
The bell rang. The shrill sound made me jump, not from the noise, but from the sudden explosion of movement in the room.
Chairs dragging, books closing, chaos returning. I got up quickly, throwing my backpack on my back. I needed to empty it into my locker.
I reached locker 103, spun the combination, and opened the metal door. I threw the books inside, took out the Economics one, and took a deep breath.
Three lockers away, Allison Argent was putting her things away. She seemed oblivious to the chaos of the hallway, but as soon as I closed my locker, her eyes met mine.
And, to my surprise, her face lit up. It wasn't a polite smile like in the office. It was a smile of relief. The smile of someone finding a lifeboat in the middle of the ocean.
"Nate!" she called, closing her locker and taking a step in my direction.
Before I could answer, however, a force of nature intercepted the path.
Lydia Martin.
If Allison had organized mana, Lydia was... noise.
A visual static, a pale and vibrant mist that trembled around her like a silent scream. It was the energy of death, cold and chaotic, but she wore it like haute couture.
Lydia stopped next to Allison, but her eyes weren't on the new girl's jacket. They were on me.
She scanned me from top to bottom. It was a clinical assessment, quick and shameless. I felt like I had gone through a social X-ray. Her mana vibrated with a pointed curiosity, circling in my direction.
"That jacket is absolutely killer," Lydia said to Allison, but without looking away from my face. "But you didn't tell me the accessory that came with it was so... interesting."
Allison blinked, confused, and looked at me.
"Oh... that's Nate. We met in the office. He's new too."
"New," Lydia repeated the word as if tasting a candy. She finally turned to Allison but kept a corner smile, approving. "You have good taste for first friends, Allison."
I felt the weight of stares in the hallway. Being noticed by Lydia Martin on the first day was the social equivalent of having a target painted on your back.
"Hi to you too," I said, keeping the tone casual and leaning against my locker. "And thanks. I think."
Lydia smiled, that predator smile that knows it's at the top of the food chain. "You're welcome. I'm Lydia. And this is my new best friend, Allison." She linked her arm with Allison's, claiming immediate possession.
Allison looked a bit stunned but looked at me with a silent plea for help.
"Nate helped me find the Literature room," Allison lied lightly, trying to include me so as not to be alone with the redhead hurricane. "He... well, he's the only person I know here besides the principal."
"Well, now you know us," a male voice cut into the conversation.
Jackson Whittemore appeared behind Lydia. His mana was the opposite of hers: electric blue, prickly, glitching like a short-circuited wire. Pure arrogance masking deep insecurity.
He draped his arm around Lydia's waist, marking territory, and stared at me with that automatic disdain that American high school team captains seem to learn in the cradle.
"Who's this?" Jackson asked, chin slightly raised.
"Nate," I replied before Lydia could speak. I didn't look away. Staring down a spectral Alpha werewolf was scary; staring down Jackson Whittemore was just annoying.
He measured me, probably deciding if I was a threat to his status or the lacrosse team.
"Cool jacket," he said to Allison, ignoring my existence right after. "Anyway, Lydia, party on Friday."
"A party?" Allison asked, and I saw her shoulders tense.
"Yeah, Friday night," Jackson continued, smiling that rehearsed crooked smile. "Everyone goes after practice. You should go."
"Oh, I can't," Allison replied quickly. "It's family night this Friday. Thanks, but..."
"Are you sure?" Jackson insisted, invasive. His mana stretched toward her, aggressive. "It'll be fun."
Allison took half a step back, uncomfortable. She looked at Lydia, then at Jackson, and then her eyes landed on me again.
"Are you going, Nate?" she asked suddenly.
The question caught everyone by surprise. Jackson frowned, Lydia raised an eyebrow, curious about my answer. Allison was using me as a shield, and honestly? I couldn't blame her.
I knew I should say no. I knew parties in Beacon Hills ended in bodies in the woods or traumatized teenagers.
But Allison was looking at me as if I were her only anchor of normality there.
"Depends," I replied, shrugging and looking directly at Jackson. "If the music is good and the drinks aren't cheap... maybe I'll show up."
Lydia let out a short, delighted laugh.
"I like him," she decreed. "You're coming, Allison. And you're bringing Nate. If he doesn't go, you drag him."
"But..." Allison tried to argue.
"No buts." Lydia cut her off, surgical. "We're going to have fun. Beacon Hills needs fresh meat."
She squeezed Allison's arm and started guiding her down the hall.
"Let's go, we have lacrosse practice to watch," Lydia said, and then looked at me over her shoulder, green eyes shining with malice and interest. "See you there, Nate?"
"Maybe," I replied.
Jackson shot me a final "stay out of my way" look before following the two, shoulder-checking me on purpose as he passed.
I remained standing there as they walked away.
Allison looked back one last time, mouthing a silent "thank you" just with her lips. I nodded slightly.
I let out the air I hadn't realized I was holding.
"Great," I muttered to the hallway. "Now I'm friends with the Hunter, approved by the Banshee, and hated by the Kanima."
I ran a hand through my hair.
"If I survive until the end of the week, it'll be a miracle."