Chapter 26

Silver sat hunched in the chair across from Marin, his legs pulled up slightly and fingers fidgeting nervously with the edge of his sleeve. Though he tried to hide the scars beneath the fabric, the bruises still showed faintly on his skin.

The blinds were drawn, and the faint buzz of the fluorescent light overhead filled the quiet room. Marin spoke gently, “Silver… I don’t need the full story.” She paused for a moment, then added, “But I need to know how you are.”

Silver’s jaw tightened and he swallowed hard, his fingers curling more tightly into his sleeves. She didn’t push any further—just nodded and waited patiently.

Finally, Silver began, “My mom—” but then he faltered, and his thoughts slipped away into a memory.

Argent stood in the hallway, just outside a closed bedroom door. His knuckles rapped softly against the wood.

“Silver?” he called gently. No response. The silence pressed too long, so he pushed the door open.

Inside, Silver sat hunched at the edge of his bed, one leg drawn up against his chest. His shirt lay crumpled on the floor, leaving his bruised torso exposed—deep violet and yellow blotches climbing up his arms, faint scars slashing across his ribs and shoulders. Wounds old and new, quiet testaments of pain no teenager should bear. A split lip. A fresh gash along his cheekbone. But it was his eyes that stopped Argent cold—vacant, glassy, as if the boy inside had vanished entirely.

Argent stepped carefully into the room, his voice low. “I knocked.”

Silver didn’t look at him. “You’re not great at waiting,” he muttered.

Argent almost smiled, but it didn’t reach past the ache in his chest. He sat down across from the bed, on the edge of the desk, his hands folded tightly.

“I didn’t want you to hear this from anyone else.”

Silver’s eyes finally lifted, wary and exhausted. Argent swallowed hard, and then, with a voice gentler than Silver had ever heard from him, he said, “Your mother’s gone.”

The world stopped. Silver didn’t move, didn’t breathe for a long moment.

“Gone where?” he asked, hollow.

Argent didn’t answer.

“No,” Silver said, almost to himself. His voice cracked, just slightly. Then he laughed—a bitter, brittle sound.

“Of course. Of course she did. Because why the hell not, right?”

He stood abruptly, the chair screeching against the floor. His entire body trembled as he shouted,
“Did she even say goodbye? Did she ask about me? Or was that too hard for her too?”

Argent looked up, pained.
“She did.”

Silver’s breath caught.

“She said she was afraid she’d already messed you up too much,” Argent said quietly. “That she let people hurt you because she didn’t know how to love you the right way. But she wanted me to tell you—”

“Tell me what?!” Silver screamed, eyes blazing. “That she’s sorry? That she didn’t mean it? That she actually gave a damn?!”

Argent stood now too, still calm but firm.
“She said she was sorry she never made you feel wanted.”

Silver’s laugh this time was sharper, more fragile.
“That’s rich. Now she wants to love me?” he snapped. He paced the room, his breath jagged and unsteady.

“All I ever wanted was for her to look at me like I was hers. Like I mattered. I kept trying to be good—quiet, small, easy to love.”

He turned on Argent, voice rising with fury and grief. “But she hated that I was different. She hated me for being soft, for crying too much, for loving the wrong person.”

Argent didn’t flinch.
“She didn’t hate you.”

Silver broke then. His voice fell to a whisper, raw and shaking.

“I was her son. I was right there, and she made me feel like I was a mistake every day. I needed her and she—” His voice cracked.
“I was so angry. I hated her for what she did. I hated myself for wanting her anyway.”

His next words barely made it out.
“And now she’s gone, and I can’t even hate her without feeling like the villain.”

He dropped to the floor, knees giving out. His hands trembled as he curled forward, sobs wracking his thin frame, years of silence and pain flooding out in unstoppable waves.

“I just wanted her to want me,” he whispered.

Argent hesitated, unsure for just a moment, then knelt beside him. Carefully, without a word, he wrapped his arms around the boy. Silver stiffened, resisted—but Argent didn’t let go. And finally, slowly, Silver collapsed into him, clinging tight, like a drowning child who’d forgotten what it meant to breathe.

Silver sat slouched in the chair across from Marin’s desk, the silence between them stretching thin. His eyes stayed fixed on the window, unfocused, his voice low and uncertain when he finally spoke.

“Allison’s been staying at Michael’s,” he said after a long pause.

There was a beat of quiet before he added, softer this time,”His mom left. Said she couldn’t handle it anymore.”

Marin shifted slightly in her seat, her expression patient but searching.  “That’s not your burden to carry, Silver.”

Silver finally looked up at her, his eyes tired, lips tight. “But it still feels like mine.”

His voice cracked a little. “She’s gone. My mom. And now his too.”

He paused, struggling to put shape to the guilt swirling in his chest.

“Michael’s changing. Allison too. And I keep thinking—” he hesitated, then finished in a whisper, “If I’d said something sooner, maybe none of this would’ve happened.”

Thunder echoed low and distant, the storm brewing outside no match for the one building inside. In the hallway, Rachel Heart stood beside a half-packed suitcase, her hand clutching her car keys with white knuckles.

Thomas Heart stood firm across from her, arms crossed, his face tight with fury. Michael stood between them, eyes flicking back and forth, breath caught in his throat.

“So you’re just running. Like always,” Thomas said coldly.

Rachel’s expression hardened. “No—I’m leaving because I won’t sit here and watch you drag our son into this obsession. Into your war.”

“You knew what this was. You knew what we were,” Thomas snapped.

“No,” Rachel fired back. “I knew what you were. But I thought I could raise Michael to be better than this.”

“Mom, please—” Michael’s voice cracked, trying to reach her, to stop the unraveling.

And then she moved past them, not looking back.

Silver sat hunched in the chair across from Marin, fingers twisted in the hem of his sleeve. His voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.

“I keep trying to see my sister,” he said. “I keep trying to see the person I grew up with. But she’s gone, isn’t she?”

Marin didn’t respond right away. She watched him carefully, her voice soft but steady when she finally asked,
“Do you think you’re responsible for the choices other people make?”

Silver didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The silence that followed was thick, stretched, and heavy with all the guilt he couldn’t bring himself to say out loud.

🦎

The porch light flickered faintly above Scott as he stepped outside, the air thick with fog and silence. He braced his hands on the railing, shoulders tight with the weight of everything he couldn’t fix. For a moment, the night felt still—until a figure emerged from the shadows at the edge of the yard.

Scott straightened, tensing—until he saw who it was.

Argent.

He wasn’t in full hunter gear tonight. Just a plain jacket. No weapons drawn. Just a quiet, heavy presence in the dark.

“Did he tell you who hit him?” Argent asked without preamble.

Scott looked down, jaw tight. “He’s not talking to me,” he said quietly.

Argent nodded once, then was silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke again, it was softer.

“Do you know why we call him Silver?”

Scott turned to face him, puzzled. He shook his head.

Argent gave a short, bitter laugh—more grief than amusement.

“Even though ‘Argent’ already means silver… yeah, I know. A little on the nose.” He exhaled through his nose. “But it wasn’t about the family legacy. It wasn’t even about the code.” He looked past Scott, into some place far from the porch.
“It was about him.”

Scott stayed quiet, listening.

“The night he was born…” Argent began, voice rough around the edges, “the doctors said he wouldn’t make it through till morning. His lungs weren’t developed enough. He couldn’t breathe. Not on his own.”

Scott’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t speak.

“I was terrified,” Argent continued. “Victoria was with Allison—who came out screaming like she had something to prove. But Silver… he came out quiet. Too quiet.” He swallowed. “They rushed him away. Hooked him to every machine in the room. I stayed with him all night, my hand on the glass of the incubator, just praying for something, anything.”

His voice softened, words turning careful.
“They tried this oxygen treatment. Experimental. Infused with trace amounts of colloidal silver—supposed to reduce inflammation, help with infection. It wasn’t supposed to work.” A small breath. “But it did. His oxygen stabilized by sunrise.”

Argent stared at the ground.

“So yeah. We named him Silver. Not because silver kills monsters. Because it saved him.”

Scott’s chest ached with the weight of it, of what that name must have meant to a man like Argent.

Argent’s voice lowered, almost like he was speaking to himself.

“I didn’t name him that to make him a weapon.” He paused. “I named him that because he was strong. Because he survived what should’ve killed him before he even had a chance to cry.”

Silence lingered for a long moment.

Then Argent continued, his tone darker now, edged with regret. ” But somewhere along the way… we stopped fighting for him. We let him carry the name, the expectations, the scars—without ever asking if he wanted any of it.”

His eyes flicked up, meeting Scott’s.

“We failed him. I failed him.” His voice dropped. “Silver isn’t a weapon. He’s not a tool for this war. He’s a miracle we treated like a mistake. And I won’t lose him to this fight.”

Scott swallowed hard, throat tight. He nodded slowly.

“Neither will I.”

Argent rested a hand on the porch railing, shoulders suddenly heavy with years of guilt and choices.

“Take care of him,” he said. “And if you can’t… make damn sure he knows he’s not fighting alone.”

And with that, Argent turned, disappearing back into the mist. Scott watched him go, heart racing—not from fear, but from something deeper.

🦎

Silver stepped forward, his face pale in the dim light. His breath caught when he saw Allison standing there—rigid, like a soldier, someone he barely recognized.

“Allison,” he whispered, barely audible, but she heard him. She turned slowly, and for a fleeting moment, something flickered in her eyes—regret? Recognition?—before it vanished like smoke.

“You shouldn’t be down here,” Allison said coolly.

“Funny,” Silver replied, stepping closer, “because I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

Her jaw clenched, but she stood her ground.

Silver’s voice cracked as he stepped closer, eyes blazing. “You act like you’re some kind of warrior now, but you’re just Gerard’s puppet. You’ve lost yourself, Allison. “

Allison’s laugh was sharp and empty, like breaking glass. “Oh please. At least I’m out there trying. What have you done, Silver? Hiding in your room, waiting for someone else to fix your mess. Grow up.”

“You think it’s simple for me?” Silver’s chest tightened, rage burning hotter. “You don’t get to judge me! I’ve been fighting every day, just surviving—while you’ve been pretending you’ve been on my side. You don’t care about Michael. You care about control. About not losing the one thing that makes you feel something.”

Allison’s eyes shimmered with tears, voice trembling but fierce. “Michael is everything. You don’t get it. I tried, I did but I love him, Silver. And he loves me.We didn’t mean for it to happen like this. But it did.”

Silver’s laugh was bitter and raw. “No, you’re right Allison. You and Michael deserve each other. Both of you love sneaking around and lying.”

Her face twisted with pain and fury, but Silver didn’t wait to hear her reply. His footsteps echoed through the house as he stormed out, the door slamming behind him.

🦎

Inside Lydia’s quiet living room, Silver wiped at his eyes, his ragged breaths slowly calming. Lydia didn’t push him to speak; she simply sat beside him, offering silent support. After a moment, Silver leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed on the floor.

“Everything’s falling apart,” he admitted quietly. “And I keep trying to glue it all back together with whatever’s left of me, but… it’s not enough. I’m not enough.”

Lydia’s voice was steady and warm. “You are. Even when they don’t see it, you are.”

Silver let out a dry, humorless laugh. “You don’t even know what I’m holding together.”

Tilting her head, Lydia watched him carefully. “Then tell me.”

He hesitated, jaw clenched tightly, as if battling some inner storm. For a moment, it looked like he might run. Then he finally spoke. “You ever feel like you’ve been walking through a world that’s slightly off? Like everyone knows something you don’t?”

“All the time,” Lydia admitted softly.

Silver turned toward her, desperation flickering behind his eyes. “It’s not just Allison and Michael. It’s not just Gerard, or my family, or the way Scott looks at me like I’m a bomb about to go off. It’s… everything. Everything’s been wrong for a long time, and no one’s been honest. Not with me. Not even about what’s out there.”

Lydia’s expression shifted — a crack in her usual composure, like a door slowly opening. “Silver… what are you trying to say?”

He stared at her for a long moment. His fingers tightened on his jeans, throat working around the words before finally letting them out low and cautious: “There are things in this town. Creatures. Monsters. People who aren’t… exactly people anymore.”

Her lips parted, confusion blooming in her eyes.

“Some of them I’ve known my whole life. Some I used to love. Some… I think want me dead.”

He paused, searching her face. “I want to tell you everything. I do. But I don’t know how to say it without sounding like I’ve lost my mind.”

Leaning in, Lydia’s voice was gentle, inviting. “Try me.”

Silver exhaled and laughed once—empty, defeated. “You’re not going to believe me.”

He leaned back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling as if waiting for it to cave in. Lydia watched him, unreadable.

🦎

Scott sat quietly, lacing his cleats, the weight of tension etched deep on his face. Nearby, Stiles paced nervously, clutching his helmet under one arm, his eyes flicking anxiously toward the door.

“Your dad coming?” Scott asked quietly.

“Yeah, he’s already here,” Stiles replied, not stopping his pacing.

Scott glanced up. “You seen Silver?”

“No,” Stiles answered, then quickly asked, “You seen Lydia?”

“Not yet,” Scott said, his voice low.

Stiles stopped, frustration bubbling beneath his words. “You know what’s going on? I mean, really?”

Scott sighed, the weight of it heavy in the air. “Not yet.”

Stiles’s voice dropped, filled with a nervous edge. “It’s gonna be bad, isn’t it? Like, people screaming, running-for-their-lives, blood-and-maiming kind of bad?”

Scott’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening with grim resolve. “Looks like it.”

Stiles’s voice softened, almost pleading. “I want to help. But I can’t do the things you can do. I can’t—”

“It’s okay,” Scott interrupted gently.

“We’re losing, dude,” Stiles said, voice trembling.

Suddenly, Coach stormed in, his voice booming through the room. “What the hell are you talking about? The game hasn’t even started! Helmet on, Stilinski—you’re in for Greenberg.”

Stiles froze, stunned. “What?! What happened to Greenberg?”

The Coach rolled his eyes. “He sucks. You suck slightly less.”

Stiles blinked, overwhelmed. “I’m playing??? On the field? With the team?”

The Coach’s tone dripped with sarcasm. “Yes, unless you’d rather play with yourself…”

Stiles stammered, caught between fear and excitement. “Already did that today—twice.”

“Get the hell out there!” the Coach barked.

🦎

The crowd roared around them, the stadium lights flickering over the chaotic battle unfolding on the field below. The scoreboard ticked down relentlessly as players clashed fiercely, the tension thick enough to choke. Silver sat beside Lydia in the bleachers, his hoodie pulled tight around him, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the scars crisscrossing his arms—a silent map of pain and survival. His eyes were distant, haunted, as if somewhere far beyond the noise. Lydia watched him quietly, her hand resting gently on his knee, a steadying presence amid the storm.

Then Gerard’s voice echoed through the tension, cold and calculated.
“Let’s put a real clock on this game, Scott. I’ll give you until the last thirty seconds.”
He paused, letting the threat hang. “When that scoreboard begins counting down from thirty, if you haven’t given me Derek… Jackson will kill someone.”

Scott’s voice was grim and low, barely a whisper, but resolute. “I’m not giving you Derek.”

Gerard’s voice pressed on, cruel and taunting.
“So tell me, Scott—who’s going to die tonight? Who’s it going to be? Your mother? Your best friend’s father? The pretty redhead who survived the bite?”
The words were knife-sharp, twisting deeper with each phrase.
“Or should I do everyone a favor… and end the traitor in my family?”

Scott’s breath caught in his throat.
“That’s right,” Gerard sneered. “I told Silver the truth. About Allison. About Thomas. I told him I’d kill him myself. And he still stayed. Tell me, Scott—who’s more broken now?”

Scott’s eyes searched the crowd—and then they found Silver. His heart lurched. He looked behind him again, catching sight of Silver smiling softly as he talked to Lydia, a rare moment of peace in the chaos.

” Don’t fool yourself, Scott. You think you’re in control? I’m the one holding all the cards. You give me Derek, and I’ll let you have Silver.”

Scott whispered to himself, barely audible over the roar.
“Silver…”

The stadium buzzed with cheers and stomping feet, a roaring chaos below, but Lydia and Silver sat just above it all—watching, waiting, caught in their own quiet bubble. From the sidelines, Melissa called out, her voice carrying over the noise.
“He’s probably just warming up…”

On the field, Stiles panicked, his voice high and frantic.
“Oooh! I got it, I got it, I got it, I got it. I got it, I got it!”

Lydia watched him fumble, her tone gentle and understanding.
“He’s just a little nervous…”

Silver muttered under his breath at the same time, calm but sharp.
“Plenty of time to turn it around.”

Lydia glanced at Silver, eyebrows raised in surprise. He offered a faint, wry smile in response.

“Did we just say the same thing?” she asked softly.

Silver nodded without looking away from the field.”I’m picking up your optimism. What’s it like to be the only cheerful one in the room?”

Lydia rolled her eyes but smiled, “Better than being the grumpy skeptic.”

Suddenly, a sharp cry pierced the air—Stiles stumbling and yelling, “OW!” Lydia winced.

Silver’s expression shifted, half amused, half worried.
“Okay… maybe not plenty of time.”

Their eyes met, exchanging a look full of unspoken words—a mix of tension, humor, and genuine worry, binding them closer in the chaos surrounding them.

🦎

The trees whispered around them, branches swaying in the cold wind that cut through the darkness. Shadows stretched long as Thomas stood still, his voice low but commanding.

“Play it again.”

Allison nodded and pressed play on the pre-recorded howls echoing through the forest—sharp, desperate cries that sliced through the night air.

“Come on! Run!” Erica’s voice rang out, urgent and frantic.

“Run! Run!” Boyd’s shout followed.

“Come on!” Erica’s pleading grew louder.

“Allison, wait—” Argent’s voice interrupted, but Erica’s was firmer.

“No! No, run! Go! Go!”

Then, with a sudden, sharp twang, Allison released her arrows. They struck true—one embedding itself in Boyd’s leg, the other in Erica’s. Both stumbled and fell to the ground, gasping.

Erica’s voice dropped to a harsh, pleading whisper.
“Stop.”

🦎

The roar of the crowd swells as the game kicks off. Cheers echo, the band blares, and whistles pierce the air — but Silver doesn’t hear any of it.

He’s sitting beside Lydia, arms crossed tightly over his chest, jaw locked. His posture is rigid, like he’s trying to keep himself from unraveling. His face is blank — unreadable — but his eyes shimmer faintly under the field lights. Glassy. Strained.

He’s not here for the game. Not really.

His gaze drifts past the players and crowd, and then he sees him — Gerard Argent, standing by the edge of the field with cold eyes scanning the bleachers.

Gerard’s stare lands directly on Silver.

For a moment, Silver didn’t breathe. His spine stiffened. His shoulders pulled in tighter.

Then, the voice — sharp and venomous — sliced through the present like a knife.

“Sometimes, the family has to cut out the rot before it spreads. Named after a king… and yet you let them turn you into a joke.” Gerard’s words echoed in Silver’s mind.

He swallowed hard, jaw twitching.

Then another voice — warmer, familiar, but no less cruel.

“We didn’t mean for it to happen like this. But it did.” Allison’s voice came, heavy with regret.

Her voice echoes like a bruise inside his skull.

He shifts in his seat, breathing shallow.

Lydia glances at him but says nothing. She sees the way his knuckles go white, how his arms curl tighter around himself. How his fists tremble.

Silver quickly clenches them to hide the shake. Bites the inside of his cheek.

He stares forward — but his thoughts are screaming.

And still, Gerard doesn’t look away.

🦎

Erica’s voice broke through the night, pleading.
“Stop! Please, Allison—stop!”

But Allison stood beside her, arms crossed, her expression colder than it should be. Michael lingered off to the side, silent, his eyes unreadable as he watched everything unfold.

Argent approached slowly, his usual commanding presence replaced by hesitation—uncertainty shadowing his every step.

“You owe me a new bow,” Allison said dryly, not looking away.

Argent’s voice was low and sharp.
“You owe me an explanation.”

“For what?” Allison shrugged. “I caught them. Me.”

Argent’s tone tightened. “‘Caught’ came very close to ‘kill.’ And that’s not how we do this.”

Allison shrugged again, unapologetic. “Maybe it’s not how you do it. But I think my way worked pretty well.”

“Allison—” Argent started, but she cut him off, pulling out her phone.

“Hey Grandpa, it’s me. We got our two runaways. Call us back.” She ended the call and glanced between the men, flat. “What?”

Argent muttered quietly, almost to himself,
“It’s the first time I’ve heard you call him that…”

A long, heavy silence fell. Thomas looked at Allison with a hint of pride, but Argent seemed like a stranger to her now.

Michael finally stepped forward, voice soft and unsteady. “That’s not why we came here.”

Allison’s eyes flashed cold. “You saw what they did. You saw what Derek did. We’re just finishing what they started.”

Michael’s voice rose, tinged with desperation.
“By becoming them?”

She didn’t answer. Her face hardened.

Thomas snapped at Michael, cold as ice.
“If you’re not going to stand with us, then step back. You’re either part of the solution—or just another liability.”

Michael stared at his father, the words hitting him harder than they should. “You’d burn the whole world down just to stay in control.”

Thomas said nothing—not denying it.

Argent reached out, placing a tentative hand on Allison’s arm. “I know grief. I know what it does. But if this is how you’re grieving your mother—Allison, I don’t think she’d recognize you right now.”

Allison pulled away sharply. “Then maybe she never really knew me.”

Michael turned away, heart pounding. He fumbled for his phone and stepped out of earshot. Quietly into the receiver, he whispered,
“Mom… I need your help.”

🦎

Over the noise, and the crowd buzzed with rising confusion and excitement. Amid it all, the head coach’s voice boomed above the din.

“McCall! Where’s McCall?!” he bellowed, scanning the field.

From somewhere on the field, Stiles stumbled forward, panic all over his face.

“Oh, oh, oh! AHHHH!” he shouted, flailing with the lacrosse stick in his hands, completely overwhelmed.

From the bleachers, Sheriff Stilinski watched, jaw slack.

“Oh, crap,” he muttered under his breath.

The coach, clearly done with the hesitation, turned his fury on Stiles.

“Stilinski! Shoot it! Shoot the ball! Shoot it, you idiot!” he barked.

Up in the stands, Lydia jumped to her feet, her voice cutting across the stadium.

“Shoot it!!” she screamed, willing him into action.

Then, silence — followed by the unmistakable thunk of the ball hitting the net.

For a split second, Stiles looked stunned. His mouth opened, words coming slowly, then all at once.

“I… I scored a goal? I scored a goal! I scored a goal!!” he shouted, elated.

On the sidelines, Scott McCall wasn’t celebrating. He was scanning the crowd, his face tense.

“Where is he?” Scott murmured, his voice low, anxious.

From the stands, Stilinski finally stood up, fist in the air, yelling with genuine shock and pride.

“Yeah!!!” he called.

Down on the field, Coach was nearly speechless, breath caught in his chest.

“We did it! We won!” he finally managed, looking just as surprised as everyone else.

Lydia screamed with uncontainable joy.

“YES!!”

Stiles spun around, still in disbelief, grinning like a maniac.

“Yeah!” he echoed.

But Scott stood still at the edge of the field, his smile fading as unease crept back in. He looked around again, eyes narrowing.

“Nothing happened…” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone.

Suddenly, the stadium lights flicker out, plunging the field into pitch blackness. A scream slices through the dark.

A scream ripped through the dark.

The lights slammed back on.

Melissa’s voice trembled, terrified. “Scott! Scott, where are you?! Scott!”

Scott rushed toward her. “Mom! Mom, Mom, are you okay?”

She nodded quickly but her voice was tight. “Yeah, I’m fine— but somebody’s hurt. Somebody’s down on the field.”

Scott spun, eyes wild, scanning the chaos.

“Silver…” he whispered, barely audible.

He ran, pushing through the crowd, heart hammering.

“Get out of the way! Move! Back off!” the coach shouted.

Near the sideline, Lydia shrieked, “Jackson? What’s happened to Jackson?! Jackson! Jackson!”

“Can we get a medic over here? We’re gonna need a medic!” the coach ordered.

Melissa knelt beside Jackson, her voice grim. “He’s not breathing. No pulse.”

The coach’s voice dropped, scared. “Nothing?”

Melissa shook her head. “Nothing.”

Lydia gasped, horrified. “Oh my God. There’s blood. There’s blood!”

Scott’s jaw clenched tight as he looked down.

“Look,” Isaac said, shocked. “He did it to himself?”

Melissa directed firmly, “Get down here. Hold his head—tilt it up.”

Scott’s eyes scanned frantically through the panic.

“Where is he…” he murmured.

Then, across the field, something caught his eye—something slipping behind the bleachers.

“Silver?!” Scott shouted.

He pushed through the crowd, heart pounding.

But when he reached the spot, all that remained was Silver’s discarded jacket, a few drops of blood staining the dirt, and a scuff mark like a struggle had taken place.

Scott’s hands trembled.

“No. No no no…” he whispered desperately.

Behind him, the crowd was still focused on Jackson, oblivious to Silver’s disappearance.