Chapter 24

Silver woke up in pain.

It wasn’t sharp — just a heavy, dull ache that settled into every muscle and bone like a warning. His ribs screamed when he moved, and the air felt too thick to breathe. As consciousness fully returned, so did the memories — ugly, fast, and broken. His life blurred in fragments behind his eyes, and all of it looked so unbearably sad.

His family had lied to him.
Scott didn’t trust him.
Michael… said he loved him.
And Thomas Heart tried to kill him.

His arms were still streaked with dried blood, and the damp, stained washcloth lay crumpled on the floor where he’d dropped it the night before. He remembered crying — in Michael’s arms, no less — and the memory of it made his stomach twist. The comfort he’d found in that moment now felt like betrayal. Especially with the way Scott had looked at him.

And the kiss.

Silver had kissed Michael.

He didn’t know why. Not really. Maybe because Michael said all the right things. Maybe because he just wanted to feel anything that wasn’t fear or emptiness.

He didn’t shower. He didn’t change. He only tugged off his jeans and traded them for sweatpants, wincing as the thin cotton shirt brushed against the raw marks on his chest and arms. It hurt, but he didn’t care. Maybe he deserved it.

He padded down the stairs slowly, expecting to find silence. Or maybe his mother pretending nothing had happened.

Instead, he stopped short.

Rachel and Thomas Heart were sitting in the living room.

Rachel’s face lit up in alarm the moment she saw him. “Oh, Silver!”

She was on her feet in seconds, rushing toward him like a mother should — like his mother never had. She reached out and touched his arms, her breath hitching at the bruises that marked his skin like a map of last night.

“What happened to you?” she whispered.

Silver couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even meet her eyes.

Her tone dropped, full of concern. “Who did this?”

Silver’s gaze flicked over her shoulder.

Thomas Heart sat on the couch, legs crossed, watching him with the cold disinterest of someone assessing a broken toy. Silver’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Rachel followed his gaze. “Silver?” she asked again, more gently now. “Sweetheart…”

But before she could finish, another voice called out.

“Silver.”

Victoria’s voice. Sharp. But softer than usual. Almost… shaking.

He turned toward the stairs.

“Mom,” he said quietly.

Victoria was standing at the bottom step. Her eyes were wet. She didn’t rush to him, didn’t pretend to scold him for coming down looking like this. She just stared — her hand hovering between them like she wanted to touch him but didn’t know how.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

Silver blinked. He hadn’t heard her ask him that in… he couldn’t remember how long.

“I’m fine,” he lied.

Victoria nodded slowly, but her eyes betrayed her. “How was your night?” she asked.

Silver gave a hollow laugh, something bitter and broken. “Michael and I had a good time,” he muttered.

Victoria hesitated. “Do you think we could talk later? Just the two of us?”

Silver didn’t answer right away. He didn’t trust what might come out of his mouth. But after a beat, he nodded.

He glanced around the room, eyes scanning. “Where is Michael?”

“He was with me last night,” he added quickly, defensively — too defensively.

Rachel offered a kind, tired smile. “He went with Allison to drop something off at her friend Matt’s. He left it in her car. It… wasn’t a good night for them, I guess.”

Silver didn’t answer. His arms hung limp at his sides.
His eyes drifted back to Thomas Heart — still watching him like he was something to be kept in check.

And suddenly, everything felt like it was about to come undone again.

🦎

Silver sat in his room, he sat patiently on his bed, waiting for Lydia. It was her birthday and she was supposed to come over to show the twins what she wanted them to wear.

Silver laughed at the memory of saying yes, it seems so childish now.

But Silver never had control of his own life, why would it start at seventeen?

Silver heard the soft knock at his bedroom door before it creaked open. He looked up as Victoria stepped inside, closing the door gently behind her.

“You said we could talk,” she said.

Silver sat on the edge of his bed, arms wrapped around himself like a shield. His wish he had on sleeves, covering the bruises and scars. He didn’t look at her.

Victoria crossed the room slowly. Not as the cold, distant hunter she so often was — but as a mother. One who didn’t quite know how to fix what she’d broken.

Victoria sat down on the edge of the bed across from him, leaving a careful distance.

“Why are you here?” Silver’s voice was quiet but sharp.

She flinched—just barely—but enough for him to see it.

“For the seventy – two hours,  they held me for suicide watch because dad was scared to bring me home and watch me die.” Silver said calmly. “Then for the next three years, it was you and I, homeschooling while Allison had a life. I was a dumb kid to think that after all of that you would care about me.”

“But then you met Michael.” Victoria says with a smile, “It was fine. You were happy.” Silver held back a scream as he stood up and faced his mom, “And what about what happened last night, mom? What about the lies and the secret plans or the bruises on my body?”

“I just wanted you to be happy and safe.” Victoria said. Silver was heartbroken.

Argent walked in on the moment, “We should take a step back. Victoria.”

Silver glanced up, meeting his father’s steady gaze. For a moment, the tension in the room seemed to soften.

Victoria walked over to her son, cupping his face and wiping away the tears. “I love you Silver. But you need to grow up, okay? Michael is someone who can protect you, Allison will find someone like Michael.”

Victoria didn’t say anything else. She just turned and walked to the door, her footsteps light, but her silence heavier than anything she could’ve said. The soft click of the door closing behind her felt final.

Silver didn’t move. He sat frozen, staring at the carpet like it might finally reveal some long-hidden truth. His breathing was shallow, arms still locked tightly around his own body as if to keep everything from spilling out.

Argent moved quietly, lowering himself onto the bed beside his son but leaving space between them. Not too close. Not assuming. Just… present.

“I’m not here to defend her,” Argent said after a long silence, his voice steady. “You have every right to be angry.”

Silver didn’t look up.

Argent exhaled slowly. “But I need you to hear me. Your mom… she’s scared. That doesn’t excuse what she said. It doesn’t make it right. It just means she’s human. Flawed. Like all of us.”

Silver’s lip curled, his eyes still on the floor. “She didn’t even ask if I was okay.”

“I know,” Argent said gently. “She should have.”

Silver’s voice cracked then—low, bitter, wounded. “Maybe you should’ve just left me there.”

Argent flinched. “Silver… why would you say that?”

“Because it’s easier for everyone at this point,” Silver muttered, his voice rising just slightly. “You didn’t even bother to tell me you were going after the Kanima. You just left me in the dark—again. Just like always. You keep lying, Dad. So what else are you hiding? What else are you going to apologize for on her behalf? A mother who only ever wished she had one child.”

That struck something deep in Argent. He looked at his son—his bruised, exhausted son—and felt the weight of failure settle into his chest. But something sharp and defensive rose alongside the guilt, and his voice snapped before he could stop it.

“I told you what you needed to know to keep you safe,” he said tightly.

Silver finally turned to look at him, eyes shining, lip trembling. “No,” he said. “You told me what was convenient. And you kept the rest so I’d stay loyal—obedient. I’m not your soldier, Dad.”

Argent stared at him. For a moment, neither of them said a word.

The room felt too small, too loud with everything unspoken.

Finally, Argent stood up, but he didn’t leave. Not yet.

“You think I don’t regret what we’ve done?” he said, his voice quieter now. “You think I don’t look at you and wonder if I broke something I can’t ever fix?”

Silver didn’t answer. He just pulled his knees up closer to his chest and looked away.

Argent’s jaw tightened. He wanted to reach for him. He didn’t.

Instead, he said softly, “When you’re ready to talk to me like I’m your father and not your enemy… I’ll be here.”

Argent lingered for another second. Then, with a heavy breath, he walked out, closing the door behind him—but not all the way. He left it cracked open.

A few seconds passed.

Then a soft knock.

Silver didn’t look up at first, until Lydia’s voice cut gently through the quiet. “Hey. Can I come in?”

Silver wiped at his face quickly. “Door’s open.”

Lydia stepped inside, holding a garment bag and a tired smile. But the moment she saw his face, the smile faltered.

“Everything okay?”

Silver shook his head slowly. “No.”

She set the bag down and crossed the room without another word. She didn’t push. She just sat down beside him.

After a long pause, his voice came out small. “Can I come to your house?”

Lydia didn’t hesitate.

“Of course you can.”

🦎

The moon light spilled through Lydia’s massive bay windows, casting golden streaks across the marble floors. Silver tugged at the sleeves of the crisp blue button-down she made him wear—pressed, fitted, and so unlike him. He looked down, exhaling through his nose.

He was glad his scars were covered.

Lydia descended the staircase, her heels clicking confidently with each step. She looked like she was about to accept an award, not host a birthday party.

“Fix your collar,” she said, pointing as she passed by. “You look like you lost a fight with a Macy’s clearance rack.”

Silver rolled his eyes but adjusted it anyway.

Lydia headed for the living room where silver balloons were already drifting near the ceiling. She started arranging cupcakes into perfect symmetry on the table and tilted her head when she caught Silver staring blankly at the speaker she asked him to set up ten minutes ago.

“You good?”

Silver hesitated. Then, quietly, “I kissed Michael.”

Lydia paused her hand hovered in the air for a moment before she slowly turned to him. “Okay,” she said, walking over. “Does this mean you are officially back together with him?”

Silver looked down at his hands. “No. No, I can’t.” He huffed. “Everyone was watching… and he said things. Stuff I wanted to hear. Stuff I didn’t even know I needed to hear until—”

“Until you kissed him.”

Silver’s voice trembled with frustration as he finally admitted, “I don’t know what to do, Lydia. Everyone says Michael belongs with Allison. But me… Scott… it’s complicated. I love Scott—I really do—but it feels like I’m always losing.”

He shook his head, eyes heavy with exhaustion. “Scott warns me that Michael’s playing me. That he’s using me. And still, I defend Michael like it’s a war I have to win. Maybe it’s easier that way. Because Michael saw how broken I was. Saw how easy I was to lie to.”

Lydia took a shaky breath, a faint smile breaking through. “Well, that’s why we work. Crazy works with crazy.”

Silver smiled back, as the doorbell rang—signaling the start of the party. “Come on, birthday girl.”

He stepped back, giving Lydia room as the first guests started arriving—among them, his sister and Michael.

Silver stood back as Lydia was swarmed with hugs and cheerful birthday wishes. He let the moment pass, quietly retreating toward the drinks table and pouring himself a glass of punch. The party noise felt distant, like static he couldn’t quite tune into.

“Silver!” Michael’s voice cut through the noise. He let go of Allison’s hand and crossed the room quickly. “Hey—are you okay? My mom said you didn’t look too good this morning.”

Silver gave a small nod, trying not to let too much show on his face. But Michael reached for his hands anyway, brushing his fingers across Silver’s knuckles, the familiar touch making something tight in Silver’s chest loosen—just a little. A faint smile tugged at his lips.

Michael’s brows furrowed. “What happened?”

Before Silver could answer, Allison stepped in, her voice laced with concern as she glanced between them. “Seriously, are you okay? Mom and dad wouldn’t say anything to me.”

Silver’s gaze shifted toward the back door. “Can we talk outside?” he murmured.

Allison followed him out to the porch, where the music was muffled and the night air felt cooler on his skin. Silver leaned against the railing, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“The plan didn’t work,” he admitted quietly. “After you left… things got messy. I got knocked around in the crowd.”

Allison’s expression turned grim. “Matt had pictures of me.”

Silver blinked. “Matt… your date? From last night?”

She nodded, jaw tight. “He left his camera in my car. I looked through it this morning. Silver—there were pictures of me. A lot of them. From school, from practice, from outside my house.”

Silver’s face darkened. “Jesus.”

“I couldn’t go alone,” she added. “Michael came with me to return it.”

Silver looked down, then nodded. “I’m glad he was there for you.”

There was no sarcasm in his voice—just exhaustion. A kind of quiet acceptance.

But something in Allison’s eyes shifted, like she could feel how far away her brother was drifting, even as he stood right beside her.

🦎

Lydia’s backyard buzzed with low music and half-hearted party chatter, but it felt more like a wake than a birthday. The energy was weird, fractured.

Stiles nudged Scott with his elbow. “Have you seen Jackson anywhere?”

Scott shook his head. “No. Seen Silver?”

Stiles frowned. “No. But we should probably tell him what we found.”

Scott rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m still not totally sure what we found.”

“I figured it out,” Stiles said, leaning in with lowered voice. “It has something to do with water—the swim team, the way the Kanima reacted around the pool…”

“So… whoever’s controlling the Kanima really hated the swim team?” Scott asked, brows furrowed.

“Hated the 2006 swim team,” Stiles clarified. “So it could be a teacher… or someone who was a student back then. Who are we missing?”

Before Scott could answer, **Silver**, **Michael**, and Allison stepped over. Silver lingered at the edge of the group, sleeves pulled low, gaze firmly on the floor.

Allison arrived just behind them, glancing around. “Jackson’s not here…”

Stiles did a quick scan of the room and nodded. “Yeah, no one’s here.”

“Maybe it’s just early?” Scott offered weakly.

“Or maybe nobody’s coming because Lydia’s turned into the town whackjob,” Stiles said grimly.

“We have to do something,” Silver said suddenly, his voice quiet but firm. “We’ve completely ignored her for the last two weeks.”

He still didn’t look up. His face was half-hidden in the dim light, but Scott could see the faint bruises beneath his makeup—and the fact that Silver couldn’t bring himself to meet his eyes hit harder than any punch.

Scott tried to keep it light. “She’s completely ignored Stiles for the last ten years.”

“I prefer to think of it as me not having made it onto her radar yet,” Stiles muttered, clearly wounded.

Scott sighed and glanced again at Silver before quickly looking away. “We don’t owe her a party.”

“What about the chance to get back to normal?” Allison asked, arms crossed.

Michael raised a brow, voice teasing. “Define normal.”

Allison’s tone softened, regretful. “She wouldn’t be the town whackjob if it wasn’t for us.”

Scott nodded slowly. “I guess I could use my co-captain status to get the lacrosse team here…”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, lighting up. “I also know people who can get this thing going. Like, really going.”

Allison narrowed her eyes. “Who?”

Stiles smirked. “I met them the other night. Let’s just say—they know how to party.”

🦎

“If I tell you something,” Silver said, eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the yard, “can you keep it a secret?”

Allison glanced at him, concerned. “Of course. I’m your sister.”

He nodded slowly, but didn’t speak right away. A breath shuddered out of him before the words came.

“I didn’t get attacked by the crowd last night,” he said quietly. “I got into a fight.”

Allison’s stomach twisted. “Silver…” she said softly, her voice full of concern.

“It was bad,” he continued, voice barely above a whisper. “But I didn’t want to tell anyone because I didn’t want to make it a bigger deal than it already is.”

“Who was it?” she asked. “Who hurt you?”

Silver hesitated, eyes flicking toward the lit windows of the house before returning to the ground. “None of this ever felt right. The Hearts coming here, Michael acting like nothing ever happened between us… I thought maybe it was just about our past. About what we’ve all been through.” He swallowed, the words sticking in his throat. “But it’s more than that.”

Allison turned toward him. “What do you mean?”

He glanced at her—just for a second—but it was enough to show her the fear behind his eyes. “It was Thomas,” he admitted.

Allison’s breath caught. She didn’t speak. And for a second, Silver’s expression darkened—because she didn’t say anything. She didn’t react.

He drew back slightly, defensive. “What, you’re not surprised?”

But then Allison blinked and her expression shifted. Her voice was soft, sure. “No—I’m just trying to stay calm. Because I don’t want to make it harder for you to say this.”

Silver looked at her, stunned.

Allison stared at him, horrified. “Silver… why didn’t you tell me sooner? Does dad know? Or mom?”

“Because I didn’t want to make it a problem,” he said quietly. “Because if I say it out loud, it becomes real. And because… because Michael’s still in my life, and I don’t know what that means anymore.”

Allison blinked hard, trying to keep her expression steady. Allison reached for his hand. “You don’t have to pretend. Not with me.”

Silver gave her a small, broken smile. “Thanks. After everything, I’m glad you’re my sister.”

And for a moment, the twins stood side by side — not healed, but holding onto each other like they used to.

🦎

They stood outside on Lydia’s deck , just out of earshot of the pulsing music below. Stiles folded his arms, staring hard at Scott.

“Are you gonna apologize to Silver or what?” he asked, not bothering to hide the judgment in his voice.

Scott frowned. “Why should I apologize?”

“Because you’re you!” Stiles threw his hands up. “You two are in love and absolutely terrible at talking about it!”

Scott groaned. “I didn’t do anything wrong. He doesn’t want to listen to me.”

“Exactly,” Stiles snapped. “Which means you definitely did something wrong.”

Scott let out a frustrated breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not apologizing.”

Stiles squinted. “Is that the full moon talking, buddy?”

Scott gave a pained groan. “Probably.”

“Why do you even care so much about being right?” Stiles asked, his voice softening slightly.

Scott’s next words came quieter, almost like a confession. “Because I’m scared if I say the wrong thing… he’ll just disappear.”

A voice echoed down the hallway.

“Wow. This is really depressing for a party.”

Both Scott and Stiles turned to see **Michael** leaning against the door. One hand was tucked into his pocket, the other loosely holding a red cup. His eyes flicked lazily toward Scott.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Scott said, cold and flat.

Michael didn’t flinch. “Neither should half the people downstairs, but Lydia let them in.”

He took a slow step forward, shrugging like the tension meant nothing to him.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not here to fight. Unless you want to… in which case, let me finish my drink first.”

Stiles groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oh my God. Do you ever shut up?”

Michael grinned. “Not when I’m winning.”

Without another word, he turned and wandered back toward the noise below, disappearing into the crowd.

Stiles let out a sharp breath, voice rising with frustration. “Something’s gotta go right here! We’re getting our asses kicked, people are dying, I got my dad fired, you’re failing school, I’m in love with a nutcase—”

Scott blinked.

“—and if I have to watch you lose Silver to someone like Michael,” Stiles finished, eyes blazing, “I’m gonna stab myself in the face.”

Scott gave him a small smile, the first in hours. “Don’t stab yourself in the face.”

“Why not?”

Scott looked over Stiles’ shoulder, nodding toward the crowd beyond.

“Because Jackson’s here.”

🦎

The music downstairs throbbed like a distant heartbeat. Laughter echoed beneath it—dim, muted—but up here, in the narrow stretch of hallway, everything was still. Too still.

Michael gripped the banister at the top of the stairs, knuckles white. His breath came in shallow, rapid bursts. Sweat slicked his hairline, dampening his collar. He squeezed his eyes shut.

Then came the whisper.

It slid through the silence like a blade: his name.

The light overhead flickered. Shadows curled inward. A mirror appeared on the wall that hadn’t been there before. And in it—Michael saw himself.

No. Not himself.

His eyes were colder. His father’s eyes. The same smirk twisted his mouth. Same tilt of the head. The reflection stepped forward, sneering.

“You didn’t save him,” the thing said. “You broke him.”

Then came the noise—too much, too fast. Voices, glass shattering, bass rattling through the floorboards. Michael staggered, slammed into the wall.

When he looked up, Silver stood at the end of the hall. Shirt torn. Eyes hollow. Lips pale. He didn’t speak. Just stared.

Michael blinked.

And it wasn’t Silver anymore.

It was Allison. Then Scott. Then Thomas Heart.

All of them staring him down.

Silver’s voice echoed first:
“You told me I was safe.”

Then Allison:
“You promised I was different.”

Scott’s glare cut through the air like fire:
“You said you wanted to protect him.”

And finally—his father stepped forward from the dark, grin sharp and proud.
“You’re me now.”

Michael backed away, breath choking in his throat. The hallway narrowed. The shadows thickened.

And then—warmth.

Real hands on his arms. Not imagined.

He blinked. Allison stood in front of him, eyes wide, voice calm but urgent.

“Michael. Hey. It’s me. It’s just me.”

His hands were shaking. His whole body trembled. He couldn’t stop it.

“I don’t want to be him, Liss,” he whispered, hoarse, barely getting the words out.

Allison didn’t flinch. She cupped his face with both hands, grounding him.

“You’re not,” she said softly. “You’re not him. Look at me. You’re still you.”

But Michael’s eyes were distant, flicking past her for a moment like he could still see the ghosts lining the hallway.

His voice cracked open—fragile, desperate.

“I can’t hurt you—”
A pause. A breath.
“I need you.”

And this time, it was only about her.

Allison leaned in, her forehead resting against his. She closed her eyes, her voice steady and full of something heavier than forgiveness.

“Then stay. Stay with me, Michael.”

And for the first time in a long time, he did.

🦎

Victoria’s voice was fragile but carried a sharp edge of defiance as she spoke.

“You really think I’d do this with prescription pills?”

Argent shifted uneasily, swallowing hard before replying.

“According to statistics, that’s usually the way…”

He stopped himself, eyes softening as he added,

“But you’re not most women.”

Victoria exhaled slowly, a faint nod the only answer she gave.

“I’ll go upstairs and write the letter.” Without another word, she moved toward the door, her steps steady but heavy with unspoken

weight.

Gerard takes a moment before walking towards his son. his expression cold but his voice smooth.You’re going to have to go upstairs.

Gerard stood near the base of the stairs, his figure shadowed beneath the hallway light. He didn’t speak at first, simply watching his son as if weighing him. Then, he stepped forward with calm precision, voice smooth but unyielding.

“You’re going to have to go upstairs,” Gerard said, his words clipped but not unkind. “Help her do this with some dignity.”

Argent Argent didn’t move. His jaw was tight, his hands curled into fists at his sides. It wasn’t fear exactly — it was something deeper. Something heavier.

“I don’t know if I can,” he said, voice low and raw.

Gerard’s eyes narrowed slightly. He took another step, his tone dipping into something colder — something harder, but laced with a twisted form of understanding.

“You think this is the hardest thing you’ll face?” he asked. “This is just the beginning.”

He paused, letting the silence drag before continuing.

“You have a son. A boy who’s bruised — not just skin and bone, but deeper. You’ve seen it. The weight in his eyes. The way he folds in on himself like he’s apologizing for taking up space.”

Argent looked away, but Gerard pressed on, voice sharper now.

“He needs you. Not to coddle him. Not to lie to him. He needs you to be strong. To show him how to stand when everything inside him wants to shatter.”

Argent’s throat worked as he swallowed back the lump rising there.

“I don’t know if I’m strong enough for that,” he whispered, almost ashamed.

Gerard’s expression didn’t change. If anything, his gaze grew colder.

“Then figure it out,” he said flatly. “Because sons watch their fathers. That’s how they learn what strength is. What it means to survive.”

His voice dropped, becoming almost intimate in its intensity.

“If you don’t shape him into something better — someone who fights — someone else will. And they won’t be kind.”

He stepped in closer, lowering his voice even further.

“You don’t need to know who put those bruises on him to understand the message. That wasn’t random. That was personal. That was someone trying to make him feel small. Like he didn’t matter.”

Argent looked up sharply, something flickering behind his eyes.

Gerard finished with finality.

“Now go. Before it’s too late.”

Argent didn’t argue. He nodded once — slow, reluctant — and turned toward the staircase. Each step creaked beneath his weight, the silence pressing in all around him like grief made physical.

🦎

Scott leaned against the patio railing, the buzz of Lydia’s party dimmed in his ears. He barely noticed the music, the laughter, the steady rhythm of teen chaos behind him. His fingers curled around a plastic cup he hadn’t touched.

Lydia appeared beside him, radiant and sharp as ever, arms crossed over her chest and eyes already narrowing.

“You’re not drinking,” she said, not even bothering to make it a question.

Scott gave her a small shrug. “I can’t tonight.”

Lydia let out an annoyed sigh. “Okay, seriously—what is with the two of you?”

“Stiles? He’s drinking,” Scott offered weakly.

“Not Stiles. You and Silver.” She turned fully to face him now, her expression unreadable—but her tone was clear. “You’ve been avoiding each other all night. Why?”

Scott looked down. He didn’t answer.

Lydia didn’t need him to. She sighed again—this one slower, heavier.

“He told me he kissed Michael.”

That made Scott flinch.

Lydia’s voice dropped, her usual fire burning low and steady. “He also told me he regrets it. That he doesn’t know why he did it. And that you haven’t talked to him since.”

Scott swallowed hard.

“Scott,” she said, more gently this time. “He’s scared. And it’s not just the usual Silver panic. He’s scared you hate him.”

Scott’s voice was quiet. “I don’t.”

“Then tell him. Because Michael’s got his claws in deep, and Silver’s not the same around him. You know that, right?”

“He told me he still loves you. And then he laughed. Laughed, Scott—like it was a joke that someone like him could love someone like you and not end up broken.”

Scott exhales shakily, the weight of that hitting him all at once.

There was a long silence between them before Lydia softened slightly again, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“This is supposed to be a party. You’re allowed to be happy.”

Scott gave a shaky laugh. “You know something?”

Lydia tilted her head. “What?”

He lifted the cup and gave her a quiet, thankful smile.

“You’re right.”

Her smirk returned, satisfied.

“Told you.”

Scott took a sip and finally exhaled.

“…Actually, yeah. Really good.”

🦎

Scott stepped through the soft, golden light spilling from Lydia’s back porch, his eyes scanning the edge of the yard. He was looking for Silver. He needed to make sure he was okay—that whatever drink had been passed around at the party hadn’t gotten to him.

But Scott stopped cold when he saw them.

Michael was sitting in the shadows beneath a tree, his hand loosely intertwined with Allison’s. Her thumb brushed slowly across the back of his hand in a small, comforting gesture. They looked quiet, connected—like they’d been there for a while.

Michael looked up, spotting Scott. He didn’t flinch, didn’t look guilty. Just sighed, tired and resigned.

“Of course,” Michael said quietly.

Scott took a breath, steadying his voice as he stepped closer.
“Is this why you disappeared?”

Allison opened her mouth, gentle but firm.
“Scott—”

Michael cut her off, standing slowly without letting go of her hand.
“No. I disappeared because I didn’t want anyone seeing me like this. Weak.”

Allison rose with him, standing close. She didn’t say anything more, but her body language said enough—she wasn’t moving away from him.

Scott’s gaze narrowed.
“Does Silver know?”

Michael didn’t respond. But Allison’s spine straightened.

“No,” she said quietly. “And he doesn’t need to. Not right now.”

That hit Scott harder than he expected. His voice dipped, hurt threading through it.
“You’re protecting him?”

Allison met his eyes, the guilt already there.
“I’m not choosing sides. But I found him alone, shaking, barely able to breathe. You weren’t there, Scott. He didn’t even want me to stay. But I did. Because he needed someone.”

Scott’s jaw tensed. “So you’ll lie to Silver?”

Michael finally spoke again, his voice low and steady.
“Until this is over. Then I’ll tell him. I owe him that much.”

Scott shook his head, not satisfied.
“You owe him more than that.”

That was when Allison snapped.
“And so do you, Scott.” Her voice sharpened, her frustration finally spilling out.
“You think he doesn’t notice the way you look at him? Like he’s fragile? Like he’ll break if you get too close? He already thinks he’s broken. Don’t add to it.”

Michael’s voice was quieter now, but there was weight behind it.
“You don’t have to trust me. I don’t expect you to. But deep down, you know he’s safer with me right now.”

Scott didn’t respond. Because deep down, he knew it was true.

Michael bent to brush dirt off his jeans, then met Scott’s eyes one last time.
“Say whatever you want about me. But I’ve never stopped protecting him. Even when I shouldn’t.”

He turned and walked past Scott without hesitation. Allison lingered for just a moment longer, a sad, complicated expression on her face—like she wished this could’ve gone differently. Then she followed Michael, disappearing into the dark edges of the party.

Scott stood alone under the porch light, the noise of the party pulsing behind him—but everything inside him felt still. And heavy.

🦎

The moonlight sliced through the blinds in clean, pale lines, casting long shadows across the room. Argent stood frozen in the doorway, barely breathing, his heart pounding in a way that made his chest feel tight and heavy.

Victoria was curled against the wall, a shadow of herself. Sweat clung to her skin, and her fingers trembled as they gripped the hilt of a silver blade. For a long moment, Argent couldn’t move—not because he was afraid of monsters or death, but because this was his wife. And she was asking him to help her die.

“It’s happening,” she whispered, her voice smaller and more fragile than Argent had ever heard.

Slowly, he crossed the room and knelt beside her, careful not to touch her—not yet. She spoke again.

“You know what to do. What to tell them.”

Argent nodded, his jaw clenched tight. His voice cracked when he finally spoke.

“History of depression. That’s what I’ll say.”

He was already grieving her, even as she sat right there in front of him.

“Allison needs to say it, too,” Victoria said, barely able to look at him.

Argent swallowed hard. “I won’t let her believe it.”

Victoria’s voice trembled as she spoke again. “She’ll hear things. That I was weak. That I ran.”

Argent wanted to tell her none of it was true, but all he could manage was, “She’ll know the truth. That this was the hardest thing you ever did.”

Victoria gave a small nod, as if that was enough to ease her burden just a little. But then she said something that struck Argent like a blade.

“What about Silver?”

The name hung heavy in the air. Argent closed his eyes, releasing a slow breath as the weight of their son—scared, bruised, angry—pressed down on him. The boy they both had failed.

She didn’t look at him when she spoke.

“I was so afraid of messing him up,” she whispered, “that I stood back and let others do worse.”

Argent’s throat tightened.

Victoria swallowed, eyes glassy but not crying. Not yet. “I thought Michael could fix it. I thought loving someone else would be enough.”

Argent turned his face slightly, jaw clenched. His voice, when it came, was low and steady—because it had to be. Because one of them had to hold it together.

“You let him think he was a burden,” he said quietly.

Victoria flinched. Her grip on the knife slipped just slightly.

“Wasn’t he?” she asked—barely a whisper. Not cruel. Just broken.

And for the first time in years, Argent couldn’t look at her. Shame twisted in his gut like a blade of its own. He stared down at his hands, trying to keep them from shaking.

“No,” he said. “He was your son. He is our son.”

Victoria let her head fall back against the wall. Her fingers, still curled around the hilt, twitched like they didn’t know what to do anymore.

“If you talk to him…” Her voice cracked, and Argent looked up.

She was unraveling. Not from pain—but from all the years she pretended not to feel it.

“Don’t tell him I was trying,” she said.

Argent blinked. “What?”

Her eyes found his then—just for a second—and it shattered him.

“Just tell him…” Her lips trembled. “Tell him I’m sorry I never made him feel wanted.”

Argent reached out then, not for the knife, but for her hand. He covered it with his own, wrapping his fingers over hers like they were back in their twenties again, before all the monsters came.

“I’ll tell him,” he said. His voice barely held.

And in that small, unbearable moment, they didn’t speak again.

🦎

The rave lights strobe across the lawn, pulsing to the beat of music. Bodies dance and sway in the dark, but Silver has drifted away from it all. He stands alone just past the reach of the party, where the tree line starts.

He swallows thickly, breathing through his nose.

Then he hears it—

Whispers.

Male voices. Familiar. Cruel. Laughing.

“No…” Silver whispers.

He turns toward the trees.

In the shadows between trunks— they’re standing there.

The bullies. Dead boys. But alive here. Watching him.

Their eyes glow faintly in the dark. Arrows clutched in their hands like they’re hunting. Like they’re still chasing him.

“Run, Argent.”

The ghost pull back the bow. The twang of the string snaps through the air.

Silver flinches— hard. He stumbles to the side, as if dodging something real. His breath catches.

Another arrow. He drops low, arms over his head. Shaking.

The whispers grow louder.

The laughter turns inhuman.

“Stop it. You’re not real.”

Silver looks down at his arms, seeing the blood soak through the blue shirt. He tries to stop the bleeding,

But something slashes across his back—

A burning sensation, sudden and sharp, through the thin fabric of his shirt. Silver cries out, spinning, clutching at his back.

Nothing’s behind him. The trees are empty.

But his hand comes back slick with something warm. Blood? No. Nothing’s there. Just the ghost of pain.

Silver dropped to his knees in the dirt, breath short, vision swimming. His heart pounded against his ribs like it was trying to escape.

Footsteps approached—fast, heavy, urgent.

“Silver!” Michael’s voice cut through the haze. He appeared from the dark, dropping beside him in an instant. “Silver—hey, look at me.”

Silver’s whole body shook. His eyes were wide, unfocused, locked on something only he could see.

“They were there…” he whispered, broken. “I saw them. I heard the arrows. I—I felt it again.”

Michael gently gripped his shoulders, steadying him as he turned him slightly. He lifted the back of Silver’s shirt, expecting blood, anything—but it was clean. No wound. Just skin, flushed from fear and memory.

“There’s nothing there,” Michael said softly, trying to keep his voice calm. “You’re safe. It’s in your head.”

Silver’s throat worked to form the next words.
“Then why does it still hurt?”

Michael didn’t answer. He just wrapped his arms around Silver and held him. Tight. Protective. Real. He didn’t let go, even as Allison rushed over to them, crouching beside them both.

“We heard you scream,” she said gently, brushing the hair back from Silver’s clammy forehead. “We were looking everywhere.”

Michael looked up at her. They exchanged a look — one of shared worry.

Silver’s breathing finally began to slow, his head leaning into Michael’s shoulder as if gravity had won.

“You’re okay,” Allison whispered. “You’re not there anymore.”

But eventually, Michael’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Then Allison’s. They both checked their screens.

Michael frowned, then looked at Silver.

“Silver… we have to go.”

Silver blinked at them, slowly grounding himself.
“What? Why?”

“Dad,” Allison said, standing. “Something happened. We need to go. He wants us home.”

Michael nodded grimly.
“Same with mine. Something’s not right.”

Silver pulled away, shaky but standing.
“Then go. You should go.”

Michael placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Come with us.”

Silver looked back toward Lydia’s house—toward the laughter and the music and the growing tension buried somewhere in the crowd.

“Scott’s still here,” he said quietly. “And Lydia. Something’s going on.”

“Silver, please—” Allison started, but he shook his head.

Michael’s jaw tightened like he wanted to argue—but he didn’t. He understood.

“Be careful,” he said finally. “If anything happens—”

“I’ll call.”

Michael hesitated, then gave him one last look. Allison pulled Michael back, guiding him toward the driveway.

“Silver,” she said over her shoulder, eyes full of worry, “Just… don’t do anything reckless. Please.”

He offered a small, tired nod.

As the two of them disappeared down the street, Silver turned back toward the house, the beat of the music pulsing through the walls.

He pulled his sleeves down over his arms and walked back into the party—alone, but not running.

🦎

The hospital hallway was sterile and humming under too-bright lights, but none of that softened the sharp, raw sound of Allison’s scream.

“No—no! No, Dad, no!” she shouted, stumbling past the nurse at the door.

Her eyes locked on the still figure in the hospital bed. Victoria lay unmoving—cold, pale, empty of everything that once made her fierce.

“If this is some kind of sick training session—if this is another test—you tell me now. You tell me!” Allison sobbed, voice cracking like glass.

Argent caught her before she hit the floor, wrapping her in his arms as she collapsed into him, fists pounding uselessly at his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, sweetie.”

“What happened?” she cried. “What happened?!”

He rocked her gently, helpless against the grief in her voice. “She’s gone. It happened too fast.”

By the door, Rachel Heart stood frozen, one hand over her mouth, her eyes glossy with tears. Behind her, Thomas Heart stood rigid, arms crossed and jaw tight—not untouched, but unreadable.

Before anyone noticed him move, Michael was already beside Allison. He crouched down, gently pulling her into his arms as her knees gave out. She buried herself into his chest, clinging to him like the ground had vanished beneath her.

“She was just yelling at Silver last night,” Allison whispered, trembling. “She was fine…”

Michael said nothing. He only held her tighter, his own face pale and distant.

Across the room, Chris Argent looked up suddenly, as if waking from a nightmare. His eyes darted across the hallway, panic starting to creep into the corners of his grief.

“Where’s Silver?” he asked, sharp.

Rachel took a breath, then turned away. “I can’t be here,” she said softly. “I have to go.”

“Rachel,” Thomas barked, but she didn’t stop.

She turned on her heel and stared him down with more fire than grief in her eyes. “She said awful things to him, Thomas. I heard them. Before we left. He looked—he looked destroyed.”

Rachel’s voice cracked, but she didn’t look away. “Maybe Silver isn’t here for a reason.”

Thomas stepped toward her, clearly furious, but didn’t argue.

Allison, still in Michael’s arms, spoke again—quietly this time. “He hated her when she walked out that door.”

Chris closed his eyes. The weight of it hit him like a second death. His son’s final words echoed in his memory:

“You should’ve left me there.”

“I’m not your soldier.”

He’d thought they’d have time. Time to fix it. To talk. To heal.

He turned slightly, as if his feet were preparing to move—but then he looked down. At Allison. His daughter, curled up and trembling in Michael’s arms.

And he stayed.

Chris lowered himself to the floor beside them, wrapping one strong arm around Allison’s shoulders.

🦎

Silver tried to ignore the sting of shoulders slamming into his own, the throb of music rattling in his chest. He didn’t remember the party being this loud—this chaotic. People were shouting, laughing, stumbling. Lights flickered like the world was breaking apart in pieces.

“Silver?” a familiar voice called through the noise.

“Scott?” Silver turned, shouting over the chaos. “Scott!” he called again, desperate.

“It’s me,” Scott said, finally reaching him and pulling him close. “It’s me, I got you.”

Scott wrapped his arms around Silver protectively, shielding him from the wave of panicked teens pushing past them. But he froze when he got a good look.

The bruises.

They were worse up close—discoloring Silver’s skin, shadowing his jaw, the tired ache heavy beneath his eyes. Scott hated himself even more in that moment. Michael had told him Silver would be safer with him—but this? This wasn’t safe. This was broken.

He looked nothing like the boy Scott had met—bright, sarcastic, guarded but alive. Now he just looked… worn.

“Hey, hey!” Stiles appeared, weaving through the crowd, wild-eyed. “You found Silver! I can’t find Lydia, and dude? Anyone who drank that crap is freaking the hell out.”

“I can see that,” Scott muttered, eyes darting across the room.

“What the hell do we do?” Stiles asked, voice rising with panic.

“I don’t know,” Scott said, steadying Silver. “But we gotta—”

Screaming cut through the crowd.

“I can’t swim!” Matt’s voice rang out. “No, no, no, no—stop, guys! I can’t swim! I can’t—I can’t—”

Then silence.

Everyone turned. Matt stood soaked and trembling, eyes darting, his breathing sharp.

“…What are you looking at?” he demanded, voice hollow and trembling.

A beat later, someone shouted from the other side of the room.

“The cops are here! Party’s over!”

Red and blue sirens lit the windows. Screams rose as teens scattered, knocking over chairs and drinks as they rushed to escape.

But Silver didn’t move. His eyes were locked on something in the distance—something weaving through the crowd.

The tail.

He saw the slithering, scaled tail of the Kanima darting between partygoers.

“Oh my god,” Scott breathed, catching up to him.

Silver didn’t hesitate. He chased after it, heart pounding.

“It’s Matt?” Silver asked, skidding to a stop, confusion all over his face.