Chapter 39

The emergency lights pulsed dimly, washing everything in waves of red. Smoke hung thick in the air, coiling around overturned gurneys and shattered equipment. Somewhere, water dripped—a hollow, rhythmic sound echoing through the ruined corridor.

Silver lay sprawled on the cold concrete, soaked through with blood and rain. His body was curled inward, trembling. Blood matted his hair, streaked down his temple, and pooled beneath his cheek. His left eye was swollen shut, his lips cracked and pale.

A weak, broken whisper slipped from him. “Scott…?”

The name was almost silent, carried only by breath. His fingers twitched, scraping across the floor, nails catching on a shard of glass. He winced. Still, he moved. Slowly—painfully—he pushed himself up, his body shaking with the effort. Blood smeared the floor beneath him.

His breath hitched. It felt like knives in his ribs.

Every nerve screamed. Still, he stood. Or tried to.

One hand clutched the wall, the other wrapped around his ribs as he dragged himself forward, one dragging step at a time. His vision blurred—split, doubled, stuttering with each flicker of the emergency lights.

Then he saw it.

At the end of the hallway, through the haze of smoke, a silhouette moved. Scott.

Silver’s heart seized with relief—until he saw the figure beside him.

Deucalion.

“No…” Silver croaked.

He took a step—just one. Then his legs buckled, and he collapsed hard to the ground with a cry of pain.

Footsteps thundered behind him—fast, urgent. A blur of movement. Then strong arms caught him before he could hit the floor again.

“Hey—whoa, whoa! Easy!” a deep voice said, steady and grounding. “I got you.”

Silver blinked up at the man, vision swimming. A dark jacket, a gleam of metal—FBI.

“You’re bleeding bad,” the agent muttered, one arm slipping behind Silver’s shoulders to hold him upright. “Stay with me, kid. I’ve got you.”

Silver’s lips parted. He tried to speak, but the words got stuck in his throat.

The agent pressed his radio. “This is Agent McCall. I need a medic in the lower corridor. Now.”

Silver gripped the man’s sleeve weakly, trembling. His fingers twitched once. Then he slumped, head falling forward as the world tilted and dimmed.

“Hey—hey! Stay with me!” the agent said urgently, shaking him slightly.

But Silver had already slipped under.

🌕

Allison’s breath hitched, panic creeping into her voice. “What’s happening? Where are they?”

Argent’s jaw clenched, every muscle rigid as he answered, voice tight. “They’re retreating.” His face darkened, but he pressed on, urgency sharpening his tone. “Where are the others?”

Isaac shook his head, frustration evident in the set of his shoulders. “I don’t know. Scott and Stiles went back for Derek and Jennifer. I had to get Cora out.”

Allison’s voice grew urgent, desperation thickening every word. “So where exactly are Scott and Stiles now?”

Derek’s grim expression spoke volumes before he even spoke. “Stiles is still holding the cops off at the hospital. But we don’t have much time. We need to move. Now.”

Argent’s eyes searched Derek’s face, hope mingling with dread. “What about Scott and Melissa?”

Derek’s voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Jennifer took Melissa.”

Argent’s face tightened, his voice urgent and cracking under the weight of fear. “And Silver? Has anyone seen him?”

Allison’s panic was raw, trembling in her words. “He was the last one going after Deucalion.”

Isaac shook his head, the weight of uncertainty heavy in his tone. “No one knows where he is. He’s just… gone.”

Argent’s voice broke, desperation spilling through the cracks of his resolve. “We need to find him. Now.”

🌕

The machines beeped softly in the dim room, each sound echoing against the sterile silence. Moonlight spilled through the blinds, casting slanted shadows across the floor. Silver lay motionless on the bed, barely conscious—his face pale, one eye bandaged, blood dried across his temple and throat. His breathing came unevenly, shallow and fragile.

The door creaked open.

Chris Argent stood in the doorway. For a long moment, he didn’t move. Seeing Silver like this—so battered, so broken—ripped the breath straight from his lungs. His face, always steeled and unreadable, cracked.

He stepped inside slowly, each step hesitant, as if afraid that if he got too close, Silver might vanish. He sat down beside the bed, trembling, and stared at his son in silence.

“Oh God,” Argent whispered, barely a breath. “What did he do to you…”

He reached out with a shaking hand. It hovered over Silver’s bloodied knuckles, then gently rested there.

“I should’ve been there,” he said, voice breaking. “I should’ve—”

A tear slipped down his cheek and landed on Silver’s hand. Argent wiped it away quickly, almost ashamed of it.

“Dad…” Silver’s voice was barely there, raw and thin.

Argent jolted upright. “Hey—hey, I’m here.” He tightened his grip on Silver’s hand. “You’re okay now. I’ve got you.”

“I saw Scott,” Silver breathed, the effort it took to speak visible in his face. “He was walking away… with him. With Deucalion…”

Argent’s eyes filled with pain. “I know. We’ll handle it. But right now, you need to rest. You lost so much blood…”

“No,” Silver’s voice sharpened with urgency, eyes flickering wider. “No hospitals. Please, Dad. Don’t leave me here. I don’t feel safe here.”

“You’re safe now, I swear,” Argent said, guilt washing over him. “I won’t let anyone touch you again.”

Silver reached for his father’s jacket with a trembling hand, tugging at it weakly. “Please… take me home. I don’t care what the doctors say. Just take me home…”

Argent went still. Then he spoke, voice low and broken. “Silver… maybe you should stay here. I—I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep finding you like this, covered in blood.”

His head dropped. Shoulders shook. He cried quietly, for the first time in years.

“Please, Dad,” Silver whispered, tears of his own slipping down his cheek. “Please, don’t do this to me. I—I can’t just sit here. Please don’t leave me here alone. I can’t do this again…”

That was what shattered him.

Argent stood up, wiping his face with the back of his hand. He bent over Silver carefully, voice steady but soft.

“Alright. We’re going home.”

He gently pulled Silver’s arm around his shoulders, lifting him with practiced care. Silver winced, but didn’t say a word.

“Easy,” Argent murmured. “I’ve got you.”

And he did.

Together, they moved through the quiet, dimly lit corridor—father and son.

🌕

Argent stepped into the room with Silver crumpled against his side, barely upright. His face was hard, carved from stone, but his hands trembled where they gripped his son. Silver looked like a ghost—his skin pale, streaks of dried blood along his temple, and one eye completely hidden beneath a bandage soaked through with red. Every step looked like it might be his last.

The entire room froze.

Stiles stiffened mid-sentence, his mouth still open in shock.

Allison gasped, one hand flying to the back of the couch as if it could hold her steady.

“Oh my God… Silver…”

Michael spun at the sound of her voice. He had been pacing near the window, restless, irritated—but the second he saw Silver, he went utterly still. The color drained from his face like someone had pulled the plug.

“What the hell—” Michael’s voice cracked. “What happened to your eye?”

Silver didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at Michael. His jaw was tight, his shoulders braced like he was holding back screams. There was so much blood. So much bruising. He looked like he’d crawled out of a war zone and left pieces of himself behind.

Rachel Heart was already moving, her voice sharp with urgency.

“Silver, sweetheart. Sit. Come here—now.”

Silver shook his head faintly, hoarse.

“I’m fine…”

Argent’s voice broke as he cut in, low and shaking.

“You’re not fine.”

He lowered Silver gently into the nearest chair, like setting down something fragile that might shatter if he moved too fast. But he didn’t let go. His hands stayed on Silver’s arms, grounding him. Holding him there.

“Michael,” Rachel snapped. “Get my first aid kit. Top drawer in the bathroom—hurry.”

Michael nodded, already sprinting down the hallway.

Argent stayed kneeling in front of Silver. His eyes flicked toward the bloodied bandage and then back to his son’s face.

“Let me see…” he said quietly.

His fingers were gentle but hesitant as he peeled the soaked gauze away.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Silver’s eye—what was left of it—was a mess of red and gray. The sclera was shot through with broken vessels, the iris cloudy and wrong. A jagged wound cut beneath it, raw and angry.

Silver blinked slowly, pain flickering through his features.

“Is it bad?” he asked, barely audible.

Argent opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His throat worked around the grief like it physically hurt to swallow.

Michael returned with the kit, skidding to a stop, but Argent didn’t move. He just stared.

Rachel took the supplies from him, her voice quieter now.

“Here, Chris. Let me.”

She knelt beside them and pressed fresh gauze gently to Silver’s eye. Her hands were practiced, calm—but even she couldn’t hide the truth. There was no fixing this. Not completely.

“That’s better,” she whispered. “Just breathe, okay? You’re safe now.”

But Silver didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. He just sat there, shoulders trembling, lips barely parted, eyes unfocused—like he was still trapped wherever this had happened.

“What…” His voice cracked, broken and confused. “What happened?”

🌕

“The word is guardian. And more than anyone… you all know that’s a role I haven’t exactly lived up to lately.” Argent leads them down the hallway and into the office. The group enters with a heavy silence, tension thick.

“But she took Scott’s mom. And Stiles’ dad. That’s not a coincidence.”

Silver is already moving toward the desk, his fingers brushing over the five-fold symbol etched into the wood. Michael stands just behind him, arms crossed.

“She’s making it personal. That symbol? That’s a signature.”

“Yeah. I’d also consider the fact that someone put your name up in large block letters on the elevator door. That kind of felt like a warning to me…” Stiles says grimly.

“It could’ve been Morrell. She knows more than she’s saying. And if she’s helping us—she needs to do more than cryptic advice and disappearances.” Rachel said quietly but firmly.

“Well, she needs to get on that a lot faster, okay?” Seeing as how the lunar eclipse is less than two freaking nights away.” Stiles stressed and they watched him fall into the chair, trying to keep it together. “Stiles, don’t give up hope.” Argent said and Stiles sighed. “They could already be dead.” Stiles said and Argent shook his head, “I don’t think so. There’s something about Jennifer’s tactics. It’s like she’s still positioning. Still moving pieces into place.” He said.

“And you’re one of them.” Allison said and Argent nodded slightly, looking down at his desk. “Let’s not wait around to see the next move.” Argent says and drags the map over the desk, covering the symbol. “Everything she’s done has been on a telluric current, so Melissa and the Sheriff have to be somewhere on one of those currents, right?” Argent says, looking up at all of them, noticing that Stiles was barely paying attention.

“Stiles, if we’re gonna find them, we need your help.” Argent says and Stiles sighs, “You seriously want to go after her? I mean, what if she just takes you like the others, huh? No offense, but what’s the difference between you and them?” Stiles asks and Argent raises his eyebrows and pulls open a drawer, reaching for an unseen object.

“I’m carrying a forty-five.” Gun in his hand, he slams in the new clip with a metallic clang, “Maybe she can heal from a shot to the leg and a few slashes to the face, but personally, I’d like to see how she holds up with half her skull blown off.”

There’s a heavy silence.

Rachel’s voice cut through the tense silence, calm but firm. “Right now, we’ve got one priority. We find Melissa. And your dad.”

She glanced down at the map spread across the table, then back up at the group, her eyes steady and clear.

Silver stepped forward, his tone softer now, almost coaxing. “Come on, Stiles. We need to finish this.”

Michael nodded, urgency threading through his voice. “We’ve got the clues. We’ve got the pattern. But we need you, Stiles.”

Stiles lowered his eyes, the weight of it pressing down on him. The room was quiet except for the steady hum of determination.

He took a slow breath and finally whispered, “…Where do we start?”

🌕

Argent held the blacklight steady in one hand, the soft glow illuminating the marks spread across the map on the table. His voice was low, focused.

“The places where the sacrifices have been committed are usually different from where the bodies are found,” he said, tapping at a glowing dot. “I think the placement has to do with the strength of the current. So there’s the school, the animal clinic, the bank—”

Stiles leaned in suddenly, cutting him off. “Wait a second. She wouldn’t use the same place twice, would she?”

Argent paused. His gaze darkened as a new realization clicked into place. “Only if she didn’t succeed the first time.”

Silver’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “Deaton,” he said softly.

Argent nodded, already shifting his finger to the location on the map. “Deaton. It was her only failure. That could mean something.”

His finger hovered near the symbol just beneath Beacon Hills First National Bank.

“That’s just one place,” Stiles muttered. “We’re gonna need way more help.”

Silver stood back, brows furrowed, mind clearly racing. “What about Lydia?” he asked suddenly.

Everyone turned to look at him.

“Lydia?” Argent echoed, skeptical. “What can she do?”

“Lydia’s… she’s got this thing,” Stiles said. “She found a couple of the bodies—without even looking for them. It’s like she just… knew.”

Argent narrowed his eyes. “What is she? Psychic?”

“She’s something,” Stiles muttered under his breath.

Argent and Rachel moved to the weapon cases on the floor, popping the latches with mechanical precision. Inside was a full arsenal—crossbows, compound bows, firearms, knives. All neatly laid out. All deadly.

“I thought you guys were retired,” Stiles said, blinking at the collection.

Argent gave him a dry look. “Retired, yes. Defenseless? No.”

He snapped a bow into place with a practiced flick of his wrist and passed Rachel a knife with a quiet nod. Then he turned to the others.

“Make sure your phones are on. If you hear from Scott, let me know immediately.”

Silver scoffed and folded his arms, the motion pulling slightly at the healing bruises on his side. “Yeah… I’m thinking that’s gonna be kind of unlikely.”

His voice was bitter—sharp around the edges. The other teens looked at him uneasily. There was something dangerous simmering under his skin.

Argent stepped closer to his son, lowering his voice but not the weight behind it. “Try to remember—Scott’s just doing what he thinks is right.”

Before Silver could respond, the door creaked open. Isaac stepped into the room, hesitant but clearly ready.

“I can’t shoot a gun,” Isaac said, eyes scanning the weapon table. “Or use a crossbow. But…” He lifted one hand, and with a swift motion, unsheathed his claws. “I’m getting pretty good with these.”

The moment of levity barely lasted. As the room shifted into motion—Rachel testing weapons, Stiles flipping through papers—Rachel’s gaze drifted back to Silver.

“You sure you’re up for this?” she asked gently.

Silver’s jaw clenched. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” she said. “You’re still healing.”

His voice cracked at the edges—too forceful, too certain. Everyone stilled.

Stiles stepped forward, voice low and laced with concern.
“You can barely stand.”

Silver didn’t flinch. He just stared ahead, breathing hard through gritted teeth.
“I’m still breathing, aren’t I?”

Argent’s tone was measured, cautious—but firm.
“That doesn’t mean you’re ready.”

Silver snapped his head toward them, rage flashing in his one visible eye.
“Just because I don’t have an eye doesn’t mean I’m broken!” he shouted. The words came out cracked, brittle with fury—but beneath it was something deeper. Raw. Aching. Something that sounded like it might fall apart if anyone touched it too hard.

Argent took a careful step closer, his voice softening as he spoke again.
“Just because you can fight doesn’t mean you should.”

Silver couldn’t meet his gaze. His jaw clenched, his shoulders tight, and he turned away. With the back of his sleeve, he wiped at his face—too fast, like he didn’t want them to see the tears that hadn’t even fallen yet.

“I just…” His voice broke. “I need to do something. I need to matter out there too.”

🌕

The morning light filtered through the blinds in thin, pale stripes, stretching across the worn wood floors of the Argent apartment. The scent of coffee clung to the air, bitter and grounding. Chris was slumped in the armchair in the corner, fast asleep, his head tilted at an uncomfortable angle—he hadn’t moved from Silver’s side all night.

Silver sat curled on the edge of the couch, buried in one of his dad’s old flannel blankets. The sleeves of a faded sweatshirt swallowed his hands, the collar stretched from age. He was pale, lips dry, skin too thin and taut. A thick white bandage covered one eye, the skin around it puffy and bruised. His fingers twitched against his thigh.

Allison sat nearby at the kitchen table, silent, watching him with a quiet sort of ache. She gripped a chipped mug with both hands, her thumb rubbing circles against the ceramic. Michael leaned against the counter, jaw tight, his gaze flicking back and forth between the twins.

Silver swallowed and shifted slightly, his voice barely audible.

“Is it… still there?”

Michael straightened, pushing off the counter, and crossed the room slowly. He crouched down in front of Silver, his eyes soft.

“Your eye?”

Silver gave a weak nod, his lips trembling.

Michael’s reply was careful. “Yeah. It’s there. The doctors aren’t sure yet how much damage there is, but it’s there.”

Silver’s head dropped. His hands clenched the blanket like it was the only thing anchoring him.

“I can’t see. Just black. Like there’s a hole where my face used to be.” His voice cracked. “Like I’m missing something. Like I’m—” He cut himself off.

Michael looked at him for a beat, then gently reached out and guided Silver up, helping him shuffle toward the table. Allison stood and silently pulled out a chair. Silver collapsed into it, staring down at the wood grain like it might split open and swallow him whole.

Allison’s voice was soft but certain.

“You’re not gone.”

Silver gave a dry, broken laugh. “Right. Just a little more broken now.”

The words echoed off the walls like a slap. Chris stirred in his sleep but didn’t wake.

Allison’s eyes welled with tears. Michael stepped back like the anger physically hit him.

Silver’s breath hitched, chest trembling with the force of holding everything in. He pressed a hand to his bandaged face.

“It just—it hurts. Not just the pain, it’s—everything. I close my eyes and it’s still happening. I see those bullies. I see Thomas. I see Gerard.” His voice cracked into a whisper. “And I see Deucalion coming straight at me.”

“I just want it to stop,” Silver whispered. “All of it. The fighting. The lying. The hurting.”

Michael looked down at the floor.

“So do I.”

Allison reached for Silver, hesitating—and then he leaned forward and let her hug him. She held him close, tight, grounding him with nothing but her breath and the press of her arms. He buried his face in her shoulder, trying not to sob.

The silence that followed was heavy.Eventually, Silver pulled back just enough to whisper,  “Is Dad really next?”

Allison nodded, brushing his hair out of his face.

“If he’s not,” she murmured, “then Jennifer knows something we don’t.”

Silver let out a shaky breath, dragging his fingers through his hair.

“Maybe I should stay. Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

Michael stepped forward, voice calm but deliberate.

“I think… sticking with Stiles might be better. He’s not gonna get into a fight. And Lydia’ll be with you, too.”

Silver stared at the table. He didn’t answer right away. He knew Michael was right, but it didn’t make it feel any better.

Allison leaned in, trying to meet Silver’s eye.

“Hey,” she said gently. “I’ll be there, okay?”

🌕

Silver glanced over at Stiles as the Jeep rolled to a stop in front of Lydia’s house. “Hey, you think I can just go in? Just for a few minutes?” he asked, voice hesitant. He motioned awkwardly toward his injured eye. “I’d rather talk to her about…” He let the sentence trail off.

Stiles leaned back in his seat, offering a quick nod. “Yeah. Yeah, yeah. Just hurry up. But, like, no rush.”

Lydia sat cross-legged on her bed, flipping through her notebook, red pen tapping nervously against the page. The window was open, letting in the low hum of summer air and the distant sounds of Beacon Hills at night.

The door creaked open.

She looked up.

And froze.

“Silver?”

He stood in the doorway, framed by the dim hallway light, his posture stiff. His hoodie was zipped halfway, sleeves pushed up. But her eyes went straight to the left side of his face—his eye. The skin around it was raw, swollen, and dark red where fresh scarring had begun to form. A streak of dried blood trailed just beneath it, and the eye itself was cloudy, the iris pale and damaged, like shattered glass behind his lashes.

Lydia’s breath caught in her throat.

“Oh my God…”

She was off the bed in a heartbeat.

Silver flinched slightly as she approached. She slowed, lifting a hand but stopping just short of touching his face.

“Who did this to you?” Her voice trembled.

He didn’t answer right away. He just looked down, the fringe of his hair falling over the edge of the injury.

“I went looking for Deucalion,” he murmured. “He found me first.”

Lydia covered her mouth with her hand, horror and heartbreak written all over her face. “You should be in a hospital.”

“I was.” Silver forced a weak smile, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Didn’t really feel like staying.”

She looked at him, searching for something to say—anything that could make this better. “Silver, your eye…”

“I know.” His voice cracked. “Don’t lie to me. It’s bad.”

Tears welled in Lydia’s eyes. “It’s not—You’re still—God, you’re still you.”

He finally looked her in the eye—his one good eye.

“I’m not sure I am,” he whispered.

Lydia stepped closer and wrapped her arms around him carefully, like she was afraid he might break apart in her hands. He didn’t hug back right away—but after a moment, his fingers gripped the back of her shirt like a lifeline.

She moved to her desk, rummaging through one of the drawers until she pulled out a sleek pair of designer sunglasses. They were oversized and tinted dark—a perfect shield.

“I know you hate looking weak,” she said, her voice gentle. She held them out carefully. “Here. Wear these. No one has to see if you’re not ready.”

Silver looked at her, something flickering in his good eye—gratitude, maybe, or relief. He took the sunglasses and slipped them on, hiding the worst of the damage.

“Thanks,” he murmured, voice hoarse.

🌕

Silver, Lydia, and Stiles sat scattered around Lydia’s room, the atmosphere tense as they caught her up on everything that had happened. Lydia shook her head, disbelief tightening her features.

“I don’t believe it. Scott can’t really be with them. He just… he can’t be,” she said.

Stiles let out a sigh, dragging a hand through his hair. “You didn’t see the look on his face, though. It was…” He trailed off, struggling to find the right words. “It was like he believed in her. Like he’d already made up his mind.”

Lydia turned away for a moment, staring at the floor. “What can I even do? I mean, yeah, I’m some kind of human Geiger counter for death—but I don’t know how to turn it on and off yet. All I know is she tried to kill me because of…” Her voice drifted, and she went quiet.

Silver, who had been sitting on the edge of Lydia’s bed, leaned in closer, concern flashing in his mismatched eyes. “Because of what?” he asked gently.

“When she called me a banshee… she was surprised by it. Like, genuinely surprised.” Lydia’s voice lowered. “What if that’s not why she tried to kill me?”

The room went still. Stiles looked at her, puzzled. “Then why did she?”

“That’s what we need to find out,” Silver said firmly, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder.

🌕

Silver didn’t go inside the school right away.

The idea of walking through those halls, of pretending to focus in class while his ribs still ached and the bandage under his sunglasses throbbed—he couldn’t do it. Not yet. So he sat on the edge of the steps by the side entrance, hood up, earbuds in but no music playing.

It was the only place no one would question the sunglasses.

Not when the sun was out.

Not when they couldn’t see the bruises underneath.

His eye hurt—sharp, shooting pain one moment, nothing the next. He couldn’t tell if it was real or phantom, if it was healing or if it was something deeper, something that didn’t just fade.

The bell rang, and he ran inside trying to blend in.

He found them by the lockers—Lydia standing with her phone in her hand, Stiles pacing a little. Lydia glanced up first and her expression softened immediately.

“Hey,” she said gently. “How are you feeling?”

Silver gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Still have a face. So that’s something.”

Stiles turned around and did a double take. “You came back?”

Silver smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Well, I didn’t exactly want to wait outside until June. Figured someone would ask why I’m in sunglasses like a washed-up movie star.”

“Aiden’s still not texting me back,” Lydia muttered, checking her phone again. “Okay, well, maybe we could just—we could go over there and—”

She stopped talking as Stiles’ phone buzzed.

He yanked it out, thumb sliding across the screen.

And then his face changed completely.

“Stiles?” Lydia’s voice was careful. Silver stepped closer instinctively.

“What is it?”

Stiles looked up, voice low and shaking. “It’s from Isaac. Jennifer… she took Allison’s father. She has Argent.”

Silver’s blood turned cold.

All the air seemed to leave his chest at once.

“She’s got all three now,” Stiles added, almost in disbelief.

Lydia’s voice was tight with panic. “There’s still time. We still have time, right?”

Silver didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

His mind was already racing.

He glanced over and saw Stiles beginning to tremble, fingers twitching as he tried to keep breathing.

“Stiles?” Lydia stepped in front of him. “Hey, hey—what’s wrong?”

“I think I’m—I think I’m having a panic attack,” Stiles choked out, voice thin and fast.

Lydia immediately dropped her bag, guiding him down to sit on the ground, whispering softly to calm him.

Silver stood frozen. For a moment, he couldn’t move.

Not until Lydia looked up at him—really looked—and her expression shifted.

She was worried. For both of them.

But Silver shook his head and took a step back. “Stay with him,” he said hoarsely, eyes flicking toward Stiles. “He needs you.”

“Silver—”

“Go.” His voice was firmer this time.

He turned before either of them could stop him and bolted out the door, sprinting across the parking lot like he could somehow outrun the feeling rising in his chest.

🌕

The house was too quiet.

Silver stepped inside, fingers still trembling. His chest felt hollow. Every step down the hallway toward the kitchen felt like wading through concrete.

The lights were dim, the walls washed in a dull orange glow. But the silence wasn’t peaceful—it was the kind that settled after a bomb had gone off.

Then he heard her voice.

“No, Michael… I broke another promise to my brother.“

Silver froze mid-step, body going still like prey catching scent. Her voice sounded wrecked.

“How can I do that? How can I look him in the eye?”

There was a pause, then the shuffle of movement. Michael’s voice came next, low and tight like he was holding back everything he didn’t want to say.

“This wasn’t your fault, Allison.” He sounded raw. “Your dad tricked all of us. He knocked Isaac out in one hit. He left before we could stop him.”

Another beat. Then her breath hitched—and cracked open something deeper.

“But this is worse,” she said, almost choking on the words. “Our dad is gone. Jennifer has him. And Silver—God, Silver—how much more is he supposed to take?”

Michael exhaled hard, like he didn’t have the strength to argue anymore.

“Liss—”

“No,” she cut in, voice sharp with guilt. “I did this to him again. I let him down again. I couldn’t stop Dad. I couldn’t fix this. And after everything I’ve already done to him—he trusted me with this.” Her voice faltered, splintered. “I just want him to be happy. I just wanted him to feel safe again. And maybe… maybe I deserve to feel his pain.”

Silver stepped into the doorway before his body could catch up with his brain.

“Allison.” His voice was soft but steady. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Allison turned sharply, her eyes wide and bloodshot. Michael straightened like he’d been caught in a lie.

Silver stood beneath the soft wash of moonlight, the bandage still tight across one eye, his expression unreadable—but exhausted. He looked like someone who hadn’t been allowed to grieve yet. Someone still bleeding from too many places to count.

Allison stared at him, stunned into silence.

Then Silver stepped forward and pulled her into a hug—hard and fast like he couldn’t bear the distance between them another second. She collapsed into him without resistance, her sobs muffled against his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his waist.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I should’ve done more. I should’ve fought harder—”

“You did what you could,” Silver said quietly, holding her tighter. “He made his choice, Allison. He did what he thought he had to.”

She shook her head against him, voice thick. “But he’s all we had left. And now she has him. What if we don’t get him back?”

Silver’s jaw clenched. “Then we try harder. We don’t stop until we do.”

Across the kitchen, Michael still hadn’t moved. He looked like he wanted to say something—but for once, he didn’t speak. He just stood there, watching the two people he’d hurt the most hold each other together.

Silver didn’t let go of Allison, but he glanced over her shoulder at Michael—his gaze heavy, unreadable, but not cruel.

“We’re getting him back,” Silver said firmly. “Together.”

Allison nodded slowly against him.

🌕

Stilinski glanced over at Argent, watching him carefully. “You okay over there?” he asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

Melissa stepped forward, searching his face. “Chris? It’s Chris, right?”

Argent’s reply was quiet, tense. “Yeah…”

Then, almost bitterly, he added, “Ohhhh…”

Stilinski smirked, breaking the heavy silence. “Is it just me, or has somebody been here before?”

Argent’s expression darkened. “Years ago.”

Stilinski shook his head with a hint of disbelief. “Hate to disappoint you, but we saw her take your ankle knife.”

Melissa continued, voice low but sharp. “…And the knife in your sleeve.”

Stilinski added, “…And the switchblade in your other sleeve.”

Jennifer stepped forward, her tone sly and mocking. “And don’t forget the taser in your jacket pocket.” She addressed them all as she descended the steps, her eyes locked on Argent.

“Argent… The French word for ‘silver,'” she said with a teasing edge.

Argent kept his face impassive as Jennifer circled him. She knelt beside him, holding a cloth, attempting to clean the blood from his wound, but he jerked away. Undeterred, Jennifer grabbed his face, wiping the blood off roughly.

“Funny, isn’t it? Your son’s name. Silver. The boy you saved when he nearly died as a newborn—yet somehow, you never saved him from the truth,” she said, her smile darkening.

“That legend you built? The story you told him to keep him safe? More like a cage of lies.”

Jennifer’s voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Truth gets twisted into legend, Chris. It’s not the metal silver that kills werewolves—it’s the bloodline.”

She paused, then asked pointedly, “So, what’s the Argent Code again? ‘We hunt those who hunt us?'”

With a cruel smile, she added, “Hope you don’t mind if I borrow that for a while—I’ve been the hunted lately.”

Argent’s voice cut cold and defensive. “Don’t act like we’re on the same side. I don’t kill innocents.”

Jennifer’s frustration bubbled to the surface, bitter and raw. “That’s why it’s called a sacrifice. Wish it worked any other way. But think about what you’re doing—you’re making this town… this world… safer for your children.”

Her smile turned half-dark, half-smirking. “Well… most of them.”

🌕

Under the fluorescent buzz of the examining room lights, Deaton spoke calmly but with weight. Gathered around him were Stiles, Lydia, Isaac, Allison, Michael—and Silver, hovering near the door like he was halfway out already.

“It has to be on a telluric current,” Stiles said, pacing, hands flying. “Or maybe where they intersect. But I know it’s where Derek took Paige to die.”

Allison’s voice came next, quiet but sharp. “My dad and Gerard were there once. Gerard said he doesn’t remember where it was. And my dad…” She stopped, lips pressed together. “My dad isn’t here to tell us now.”

“Yeah. Mine either,” Stiles added under his breath.

Isaac leaned forward. “Then how do we find it?”

Deaton stepped back, contemplative. Silver stiffened when he saw the hesitation.

“Deaton?” he asked, voice soft, almost scared to know the answer.

Deaton looked at them all, then finally said, “There might be a way. But it’s risky.”

Michael raised a brow. “Risky how?”

Deaton glanced toward Silver. “We need Scott.”

Everything in Silver froze.

The room seemed to tilt for a second. His breathing hitched. “No. No, we can’t.”

Everyone turned to him.

“I can’t—he can’t see me like this,” Silver stammered, backing away a step. “My face—I don’t even know what it looks like under this anymore.”

He pulled his hoodie tighter around himself, sunglasses staying firmly in place despite the indoor light.

“I haven’t even looked at myself,” he added, his voice cracking. “And now you want Scott to see me? Right now?”

“Silver…” Lydia started gently, but he cut her off.

“He’ll look at me and flinch. Or worse—he won’t. He’ll pretend everything’s fine. Like I’m fine.” Silver let out a shaky breath. “And I’ll know it’s a lie.”

Michael moved closer, placing a hand on Silver’s shoulder. “He loves you. It won’t matter.”

Silver didn’t look at him. “It matters to me.”

The room was silent for a long beat.

“I’m scared,” Silver admitted, quieter now. “Not of her. Not of dying. I’m scared of the look on his face when he sees me and doesn’t know what to say.”

Deaton nodded slowly. “Then we let you decide how this happens. But we still need him.”

Silver took another breath—deep, trembling.

“Okay,” he whispered. “But not here. Not like this. Let me… let me see him first. Alone.”

Michael gave his shoulder a squeeze. Lydia stepped beside him too, reassuring, quiet.

🌕

Michael, Stiles, and Deaton waited in the darkness by the Jeep’s headlights, their faces tense under the pale glow. When Scott finally approached, his expression was drawn, worn down by the weight of too many decisions.

“How’d you guys find out?” Scott asked, coming to a stop in front of them.

“Lydia,” Stiles answered. “You?”

“Morell,” Scott said. “None of the other Alphas know where it is, either.”

Stiles let out a quiet sigh, glancing at Scott from the corner of his eye. “So, if this works… are you gonna tell them?”

Scott hesitated, looking down at the ground before lifting his gaze again. “I can’t stop Jennifer without them.”

Michael and Stiles exchanged a look, one filled with mutual understanding and unease. After a moment, they both nodded, silently accepting what needed to be done. An awkward silence settled between them, heavy with what hadn’t been said.

“How about we concentrate on finding your parents first?” Deaton said, breaking the tension.

They nodded. Scott shifted, his jaw set. “What’s the plan?”

Deaton turned to Michael, giving him a slight nod. Michael exhaled slowly, like the words tasted bitter in his mouth.

“Essentially, the three of you need to be surrogate sacrifices for your parents.”

Scott blinked. “We die for them?”

“But he can bring us back,” Stiles said quickly, turning toward Deaton with a hopeful look. “You can bring us back, right?”

Deaton paused, then sighed. “You remember the part where I said it was dangerous?”

All three teens nodded silently.

“If it goes right,” Deaton continued, “the three of you will be dead for a few seconds. But there’s something else you need to think about.”

Michael ran a hand down his face. “What is it this time?”

“This is dangerous for a lot of reasons,” Deaton explained. “You’ll be giving power back to the Nemeton, a place that hasn’t had power in a long time. This kind of power acts like a magnet—it attracts the supernatural. The kind of things a family like the Argents can fill entire bestiaries with.”

“So… it’ll draw them here?” Stiles asked.

Deaton nodded solemnly.

“Doesn’t sound worse than anything we’ve already seen,” Stiles muttered.

“You’d be surprised at what you haven’t seen yet,” Deaton replied, his tone grim.

The weight of that landed hard. All three of them stood a little straighter, quieter.

“Is that it?” Scott asked, though he already knew it wasn’t.

“No,” Deaton said. “It’ll also affect the three of you—and only the three of you. You won’t be able to see it, but you’ll feel it. Every day. For the rest of your lives. A kind of darkness around your heart. Permanent. Like a scar.”

Scott’s voice was low. “Like a tattoo.”

Michael pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly struggling with something he didn’t want to say. The silence stretched between them before he finally spoke, his voice quiet.

“Before we do this,” he said, not meeting their eyes, “there’s something you should see.”

Scott narrowed his gaze. “What is it?”

Michael hesitated, then said in a low voice, “It’s Silver.”

The name hit like a punch. Scott froze. Stiles shifted uneasily. Even Deaton paused.

“He’s back,” Michael went on. “Argent found him at the hospital—barely breathing. His eye…” Michael shook his head and swallowed hard. “It’s bad.”

“I thought he went to find Deucalion,” Scott said, his voice tight with confusion.

“He did,” Michael replied. “Or someone got to him before he could. Either way… he’s not okay.”

Nobody said anything after that. The air felt heavy, grief and fear thick in it.

Finally, Michael looked up, his expression unreadable.

“Come on,” he said. “You need to see for yourself.”

🌕

The hallway was cold and dim, shadows pooling at their feet. Michael stood rigid against the wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched tight like he was holding back more than just words. Scott approached slowly, eyes cautious but locked on Michael, ready for whatever was coming.

Michael didn’t hesitate. “Scott, I’m not gonna lie to you. Seeing Silver like this… it’s going to shake you. Hard.”

Scott met him squarely, folding his arms with quiet defiance. “How hard? Tell me.”

Michael’s eyes darted away for a moment, then back with a heavy sigh. “He’s scared. Broken in ways you probably can’t even imagine. And knowing him, he’s convinced you’ll see him as damaged… less than whole.”

Scott’s gaze hardened, unwavering. “I don’t care if he’s angry, scared, or broken. He’s still Silver. The same Silver I love. That hasn’t changed.”

Michael’s fists clenched at his sides as he began to pace, his voice low and rough. “You think you know him? You have no idea the hell he’s been through. The things he’s had to survive.”

Scott stepped forward, closing the gap between them until their faces were inches apart. His eyes blazed with frustration, pain, and fierce determination. “Why do you always have to act like you know what’s best for him? You think because you’re tough, because you fought your own battles, that you get to decide what’s right for Silver? You don’t. None of us do. Only he does.”

Michael blinked, caught off guard by the fire in Scott’s voice. His usual confidence faltered for a moment. “I’m just trying to protect him. You think it’s easy watching him fall apart again? Seeing him like this?”

Scott held his gaze, steady and unwavering. “Silver’s not some broken thing to fix. He’s a person. And no matter how much he’s been hurt, he’s still the guy I love. I’m not walking away. Not now. Not ever.”

Michael’s jaw tightened, his breath coming faster now as the weight of Scott’s words sank in. The anger that had fueled him began to crack, revealing something raw underneath—something vulnerable he rarely let surface.

He looked away, voice rough and quieter. “You don’t know what it’s like. To watch someone you care about fall apart right in front of you… and feel powerless to stop it. I’ve seen him broken in ways that cut deeper than any wound.”

He swallowed hard, eyes glistening just slightly in the dim light. “I did love him. More than I could admit.”

Michael’s voice cracked, barely audible now. “I can’t watch him get hurt again. That’s all.”

He turned sharply and walked away, the weight of everything he’d just said hanging heavy in the silence he left behind.

🌕

The clinic was dim, shadows pooling in the corners as Silver sat on the edge of the exam table. His left eye was hidden beneath thick, blood-soaked bandages, his hoodie stained and knuckles cracked raw. His breathing was shallow, uneven, like each breath cost him everything.

The door creaked open behind him.

Scott stepped inside, his breath catching the moment he saw Silver. His voice was hoarse when he spoke.
“Oh my God… Silver—”

But Silver didn’t look up. His gaze stayed fixed on the floor, his leg twitching nervously. Scott crossed the room slowly, hands trembling slightly as he reached out.
“Can I…?”

Silver gave a barely perceptible nod.

Scott’s hand brushed Silver’s knee, then carefully cupped the side of his face—the side that wasn’t bandaged. His thumb moved gently over bruised skin.
“Who did this to you?”

Silver shrugged weakly, exhaustion heavy in his voice.
“Doesn’t matter right now.”

Scott’s eyes softened, full of fierce, quiet presence.
“You’re here. That’s what matters.”

Scott’s voice was low and steady as he pressed on.
“What happened?”

Silver’s gaze dropped. After a moment, he rasped, “I tried to find Deucalion… but he found me first. I thought this pain would stop – I thought this would be the end but-”

Scott’s words came soft but certain.
“I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not ever.”

Something inside Silver cracked—his breath hitched, his shoulders slumped just a little. It was enough.

Without hesitation, Scott wrapped his arms around him, pulling Silver close. Silver leaned into him, resting his forehead against Scott’s collarbone. They breathed together in silence, letting the moment stretch between them.

“I’m so tired, Scott,” Silver whispered, his voice cracked and muffled.

Scott held him tighter, voice barely above a whisper.
“I know. You don’t have to be strong. Just be. Just be here with me.”

Silver’s fingers weakly clutched Scott’s hoodie.

🌕

Deaton, Lydia, Isaac, and Michael worked in tense silence, pouring heavy scoops of ice into the three steel tubs, each already filled with water laced with crushed mistletoe. Across the room, Scott, Stiles, and Allison stood, each clutching an object in their hands.

Deaton turned to them, voice steady but somber.

“All right. What did you bring?”

They moved closer to the tubs. Stiles stepped forward first, holding up his father’s cracked sheriff badge, its surface dented and worn.

“Um, I got my dad’s badge,” Stiles said, his voice tinged with quiet regret. “Jennifer kind of crushed it in her hand, so I tried hammering it out a little. Still doesn’t look right.”

Deaton looked at him, not with judgment but understanding.

“It doesn’t have to look good, Stiles. It just has to mean something.”

Next to him, Allison raised a single bullet between her fingers. It gleamed under the fluorescent light.

“Is that… an actual silver bullet?” Isaac asked softly.

Allison nodded. “My dad made it. It’s kind of a ceremonial thing. When one of us finishes learning all the hunter skills, we forge a silver bullet—as a testament to the code.”

Michael stood at the edge of the room, arms crossed, but his eyes were locked on Silver like they always were—haunted, worried, and filled with something he wouldn’t name.

Deaton turned to Scott. “Scott?”

Scott lifted a watch in his hand, old and well-loved. “My dad got this for my mom when she first started working at the hospital. She always said… it was the only thing in their marriage that ever worked.”

Deaton gave a solemn nod.

Deaton’s voice was steady but carried the weight of what was coming. “Okay. The three of you will go under. Each of us will hold you down until you’re—well, essentially dead. But coming back… that’s the hard part. You need someone who can pull you back. Someone with a strong emotional connection. A tether.”

He looked around the room, eyes landing on Lydia. “Lydia, you go with Stiles.”

Lydia nodded, swallowing the tight knot in her throat.

Deaton then turned toward Silver and Scott. “Silver, you hold Scott.”

Scott’s eyes flickered to Silver, who gave a small, reassuring nod despite the dark circles beneath his bandaged eye. The room seemed to shrink between them—old pain and unresolved love tangled in that glance.

Deaton’s gaze then shifted to Allison and Michael. “Allison, Michael, you’re together.”

In silence, Scott, Stiles, and Allison moved to their places. The cold rose to meet them like a wall. Each one climbed into the tubs, breath catching as the ice water bit into their skin.

Stiles was already shivering. He turned to Scott, trying for a crooked grin but failing.

“By the way… if I don’t make it back and you do, you should probably know something.”

Scott frowned. “What?”

“Your dad’s in town.”

Scott’s eyes widened, but before he could respond, the moment passed—one final breath shared between them. The three of them looked at each other. Silver’s one good eye flicked briefly to Michael, then away. Scott gave a single nod.

Then, in perfect unison, Silver, Lydia, and Michael pressed down on their shoulders. And one by one, Scott, Allison, and Stiles vanished beneath the ice.