Chapter 68

Silver’s room still looked like a space caught between two lives. Half-unpacked boxes lined the walls, stacks of books leaned dangerously on the dresser, and a handful of framed photos rested against the floorboards, waiting for a place to belong. A single lamp glowed from the corner, soft and warm, throwing gentle shadows over everything it touched.

Lydia lay across Silver’s bed a magazine open in her hands though her eyes hardly moved across the pages. Ren sat cross-legged on the floor, swallowed by a circle of heavy books—old volumes from New York, pages marked with sticky notes, handwritten annotations crowding the margins.

And Silver, quieter than both of them, sat curled up on the window seat, running his thumb along the edge of the scar that wasn’t really a scar anymore.

They’d spent hours talking about it—the mark, the visions, the headaches—and getting nowhere.

“Are we sure it’s not Lydia?” Ren asked, flipping through yet another book with exaggerated frustration.

Silver didn’t even bother looking at him. “Yes, I’m sure these visions aren’t happening because of Lydia. I see them when I touch Malia. Or Scott.”

Ren lifted his head, brows raised. “We haven’t tried Kira yet.”

“Kira’s still with your parents,” Lydia said, not even glancing up from her magazine. “And she was gone all summer. Which—if we’re being honest—you were supposed to be too.”

Ren gasped in mock offense, hand to his chest. “Excuse me? My best friend finally has his own place. I’m not leaving my emotional-support safe space just because my parents want to spend three months dying in humidity.”

Silver smirked faintly. “My dad’s still here, you know.”

Ren shrugged. “And?”

Lydia snorted. “He’d make this about himself anyway.”

Ren grabbed a pillow from the floor and launched it across the room. It smacked Lydia right in the head. She fixed him with a glare, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she tossed it back.

“I’m the one who went to New York,” Ren said dramatically, “and came back with every book on supernatural eye connections known to man. Not my fault we’re still stuck.”

The laughter faded slowly. The room settled into a quieter kind of stillness, one that wrapped around Silver like a weight.

His gaze returned to his left hand.

The mark on his palm had changed. It had healed into something too deliberate—an intricate symbol burned into his skin, veins beneath it pulsing faintly red in unpredictable flashes. It felt alive sometimes. Watching. Waiting. Silver curled his fingers in tight, as if that might silence it.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” he said softly.

Ren looked up. “You keep saying that, but your head still hurts when it lights up, right?”

“Sometimes.”

“And the visions?” Lydia asked. “You’re still seeing things when you touch Scott? Malia? Even me?”

Silver nodded once, stiffly. “I didn’t tell Scott everything. He’s already got enough to deal with.”

“That’s not how this works,” Lydia said, sitting up fully now. “If it’s connected to him, he needs to know.”

Silver didn’t respond. The window reflected him back—a version of himself that looked older, more worn, like someone carrying a secret carved straight into his skin.

Ren watched him for a long moment, something heavier settling in his expression. “Maybe it’s not about who you touch,” he said. “Maybe it’s about what’s coming.”

Lydia met his eyes, uneasy. The air shifted—thicker, charged, as though the house itself understood something none of them did.

Silver swallowed hard, tucking his hand quickly into his sleeve.

Lydia finally clapped her hands, breaking the tension like it was glass.

“Alright,” she said. “Senior Night’s in a few hours, and if we want a decent spot for everyone, we need to leave soon.”

Ren stood with a groan, shoving books aside as he stretched. “Fine. But I call shotgun.”

“You’re not driving,” Lydia said immediately.

“I said shotgun, not grand theft steering wheel.”

Silver pushed himself up from the window seat, pulling on his jacket. He hesitated only a moment—one last glance at the place where the mark throbbed beneath fabric—before burying the hand deep in his pocket.

🎭

The emergency department crackled with its usual late-night electricity—overhead intercoms chiming, monitors beeping in erratic patterns, nurses cutting through narrow hallways with quick, purposeful strides. Fluorescent lights danced weakly above them, flickering every so often like they, too, were exhausted from the endless stream of stretchers pushed across the worn linoleum floors.

Scott stood stiffly at the nurse’s station, his posture too rigid, shoulders drawn up as though bracing for an impact that hadn’t arrived yet. The small black ring box balanced in his hands, turning in slow, anxious rotations between his fingers. He held it like he might shatter it if he squeezed too hard—or like it might shatter him if he opened it.

Stiles leaned beside him, arms folded tightly across his chest, one heel tapping an incessant beat against the floor. He looked like a tightly wound spring barely suppressing the urge to pace. He kept glancing at Scott, then the ring box, then Scott again, his eyebrows climbing higher each time.

Malia stood on Scott’s other side, her arms loosely crossed, expression vacant in that very Malia way that always managed to look both thoughtful and hopelessly oblivious. Her eyes drifted to passing stretchers, flickered to a nurse arguing with a doctor, then circled right back to Scott like none of this was her problem—but also maybe it was.

Stiles finally broke the heavy quiet. “Are you sure about this?”

Scott’s grip tightened on the box. “Yeah. I mean… that’s the plan.”

Stiles turned his head sharply, staring like Scott had just said he intended to propose during a drive-thru order. “The plan? Scott, proposing isn’t a plan. It’s a—” He waved his hands vaguely in front of him. “—moment. A whole thing. You can’t just wing it!”

“I’m not winging it,” Scott said, though his voice betrayed exactly that. “I just haven’t figured out what to say yet.”

Stiles blinked, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “You have fought actual monsters. You’ve faced down things with claws and fangs and murder habits. Yet this—” he pointed at the ring box “—this is what sends you spiraling?”

Scott let out a shaky exhale. “It’s different. This is Silver.”

“Yeah. The same Silver who lost an eye and is severely traumatized. He deserves the proposal of the century.” Stiles said.

Scott’s brief smile faded instantly. His gaze fell to the box again, as if it could hide the sudden ache in his chest. “I know,” he murmured. “I just… don’t want to freak him out. Things have been intense.”

Malia snorted—an inelegant, loud sound that earned her a glare from a passing nurse. “Intense? What, the headaches? Or the part where he keeps seeing—”

Stiles reacted instantly, slapping his hand over her mouth before she could continue. “Nope! Nope, nope, nope,” he blurted, leaning sideways to physically block Scott’s view of her. “She meant absolutely nothing. Zero things. In fact, negative things.”

Malia, despite the muffling, attempted to protest with a series of muffled noises and a glare.

Scott frowned. “Stiles.”

Stiles kept his hand firmly planted over Malia’s mouth, shaking his head like a dog shaking off water. “Scott. Buddy. Pal. This is not the time for—”

Malia violently peeled his hand away. “I was just going to say he’s been stressed,” she snapped, returning to her default annoyed monotone. “Headaches. The glowing hand thing. The visions—”

Stiles practically launched himself at her again, clamping a hand over her mouth so fast a passing nurse did a double take.

Scott’s heart plummeted. “Visions?”

Malia made a noise like you weren’t supposed to hear that, but Stiles’ palm muffled it beyond understanding.

Stiles forced out a strained laugh. “She didn’t say visions. She said—uh—visions… of the future! Like—like hopes and dreams and inspirational poster stuff. Totally normal.”

Scott’s stomach twisted, a cold rush of dread almost knocking the air out of him. “He didn’t tell me that. He only mentioned headaches.”

“Yeah, well,” Malia said, shoving the rest of the granola bar into her mouth, “he didn’t want you to worry. Or hover. Or—what’s the word—Scott-out.”

Stiles nodded solemnly. “It’s a very real verb.”

Scott dragged both hands down his face, exhaling long and quietly. The ring box now sat in his palm like a weight that pulled at everything inside him.

“It’s not that simple,” he said softly. “With everything going on… I don’t want him thinking I’m trying to distract him with this.”

Stiles scoffed. “Distraction is your best bet! You propose—boom. He’s happy. He gets a break from whatever creepy magic-vision-nightmare thing he’s dealing with.”

“That’s not how it works,” Scott murmured.

“Scott,” Stiles said, softer now, “look at me.”

Scott lifted his eyes.

“You’re doing this because you love him. That’s the part that matters.”

Scott swallowed hard, glancing back to the small box. He ran his thumb over the velvet again—slow, hesitant, afraid.

“He doesn’t even know I bought it,” he whispered. “I was going to wait. Maybe after Senior Night. I keep imagining it going wrong.”

Stiles frowned. “Going wrong how?”

Scott’s throat tightened. “Like… I ask and he panics. Or he says he doesn’t want this right now. Or… worse.”

🎭

Rain hammered the grounds of Beacon Hills High School in relentless sheets, turning the parking lot into a shimmering field of moving reflections. The tall floodlights buzzed faintly above, their beams cutting through the downpour and refracting across the puddles like fractured mirrors. Thunder grumbled lazily in the distance—less a threat and more a warning breathing somewhere in the sky.

Under the covered walkway, Silver and Ren stood shoulder to shoulder, wrapped in the only dry patch they could claim. The chill from the storm rolled inward, brushing past them in damp gusts.

Ren nudged Silver lightly with his elbow, his expression bright even in the dim light—too bright, considering the storm. His foot tapped restlessly against the concrete, betraying nerves he rarely admitted to.

“Okay,” Ren said, straightening, “so… don’t laugh at me.”

Silver turned his head, brows raised. “That’s never a good opener.”

“I’m serious!” Ren insisted, voice jumping an octave as he ran a hand through his already messy hair. “This year… I think I might actually want to try being in a relationship.”

Silver blinked. Hard. It wasn’t the sort of confession he’d been expecting while the world drowned around them.

“Wait—like actually dating someone?”

Ren shrugged, trying for nonchalance but failing spectacularly. He lifted his arms in a grand, theatrical gesture toward himself. “Yeah. I mean… if someone out there likes me enough to deal with all this.”

Silver snorted, crossing his arms as he leaned against the brick wall. “Ren, you’re basically the human equivalent of a golden retriever. People love that.”

“Exactly!” Ren said, pointing at him triumphantly. “I’ve got charm. I’ve got dimples. I have—”

He looked down at his soaked sneakers, winced, then motioned to them without shame.

“—a questionable fashion sense, but that’s fixable.”

Silver laughed, the sound warm even against the cold night. For a moment, the rain felt like background noise, softened by the familiarity between them.

Ren exhaled, the nerves creeping back in around the edges. “I just… want this year to be different. Good different. And maybe… romantic?”

“You deserve that,” Silver said quietly.

He reached out and clapped Ren’s shoulder, a reassuring pat. Ren held still, waiting, hopeful even—just to see if anything strange would happen. When nothing flickered under Silver’s palm, no visions, no pulse of light, Ren sighed dramatically.

“Still nothing,” Silver muttered.

“Unbelievable,” Ren groaned, as if the universe personally offended him.

His phone buzzed in his hand. He glanced at the screen and lit up. “Kira’s on her way. She said the traffic was hell but she should make it on time.”

Silver nodded, glancing out into the rain. Three familiar shapes were approaching through the downpour—Scott leading, Malia following with her usual stiff posture, and Stiles waving his arms overhead in some attempt to shield himself.

Silver felt his chest warm, just a little, at the sight of Scott’s smile—small, tired, but real. Scott stepped up under the awning and reached out, brushing his fingers lightly along Silver’s arm.

“Can we talk?” Scott asked, voice gentle but weighted. “Just us?”

Silver’s stomach dropped—not painfully, but with the quiet dread of knowing something important was about to happen.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Okay.”

He turned back to Ren.

“Find us when Kira gets here?”

Ren nodded once, though worry flickered briefly across his expression. “Yeah. Go.”

As Silver and Scott walked a few steps away into the dimness beneath the overhang, Stiles leaned in toward Ren, his voice low despite the pounding rain.

“Scott knows about the visions,” Stiles whispered, eyes wide with meaning.

Ren’s jaw dropped. “You told him?!”

“I didn’t!” Stiles hissed. “Malia almost did—I just… look-.”

Ren turned toward Silver and Scott disappearing into the shadows at the far edge of the walkway, dread curling in his gut.

The lacrosse field was empty, drenched by rain that turned the grass into a slick, muddy mess. Thunder rumbled lazily overhead, but neither of them noticed, caught up entirely in the moment—and the tension—between them.

Scott’s voice cut through the rain, low and heavy. “I know about the visions.”

Silver flinched, shoulders tensing like he’d been struck. “Scott—”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Scott pressed, stepping closer. There was no anger in his voice, just hurt, threaded with something heavier: fear.

Silver’s fingers twisted his jacket sleeves, his voice stumbling over itself. “Because… I didn’t want to make things worse! You already worry about me all the time, and—and these visions—they’re not constant. They’re just flashes, just little… things. And I didn’t want you thinking I was… falling apart. Every single time. Because it’s not like I am… well, I don’t know, strong? Or not breaking? I—” He stopped, shook his head. “I just… I didn’t want to put that on you.”

Scott’s jaw tightened. “Silver… you can’t just hide things that scare you because you think you’re protecting me. That’s not how this works.”

Silver shook his head, rain plastering hair across his forehead. “You don’t get it, Scott. If I told you everything—the flashes, the visions, the mark, the headaches—you’d look at me like I’m fragile. Like I’m… I don’t know… a project you have to fix. Or… worse, like I can’t handle it, and you’d be disappointed. And I don’t… I don’t want that.”

“I don’t look at you like that!” Scott said quickly, stepping closer, voice softening. “I look at you like… someone I care about. Someone I want to help. Someone I want to be there for. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Silver exhaled sharply, shoulders rising and falling in quick, tense breaths. “I know, I know. I get that, okay? But I can manage. I can take care of myself. I didn’t hide it because I don’t trust you—I trust you. I just… I don’t want you dragging yourself into this with me, or feeling helpless, or thinking you have to fix me. I’m not broken. I can do this.”

Scott stepped closer, trying again. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. I just want to help, not fix.”

Silver shook his head, stubborn, almost rambling over himself. “I don’t need help! I’ve got this. I’ve survived worse than a few visions and a burning hand. I can do it! You don’t need to worry. I just… I need to handle it my way. My way, Scott. Not yours, not anyone else’s. I can deal with it. I always do.”

There was a pause, the rain dripping down their sleeves. Scott studied him carefully, realizing Silver wasn’t trying to shut him out because he didn’t care—he just believed he had to carry this himself.

Silver’s eyes flicked down to his palm, the faint glow pulsing beneath his skin. “But… fine. You know now. I’m telling you everything, but don’t get the wrong idea—I’m not… I’m not expecting you to jump in or fix it. I just… don’t want to lie anymore. That’s all.”

Scott reached out, fingers brushing Silver’s palm where the faint glow sometimes sparked. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

Silver exhales, tension easing from his shoulders.

All of the sudden there was a low growl making them slowly pull away and look at each other before looking over to see some man with talons standing in the rain. He growled before running at them, he swiped at Scott making Scott fall to the ground before the man turned to Silver and growled at him.

The man lunged at Silver with terrifying speed, his talons glinting like knives under the flickering lights. Silver tried to dodge, but the strike caught his shoulder, sending him stumbling backward. Rain plastered his hair to his forehead as he struggled to steady himself, heart hammering.

“A True Alpha? Where’s your power, Scott?” the man taunted, his voice carrying over the storm.

Scott spun around instinctively, teeth bared and senses flaring. Fully shifted, his red eyes glowed faintly in the dark. “Who are you?” he demanded, voice low and dangerous.

“A devoted fan,” the man sneered. “Show me the Alpha who took down Deucalion and broke the Argents and the Hearts—I came for that Alpha. Come on!” His growl rumbled through the empty field.

Scott’s claws flexed. With a low, guttural growl of his own, he lunged. He swiped at the man, forcing him back, then spun and delivered a sharp kick to his face. The attacker staggered but didn’t fall, his movements eerily fluid. Scott punched again, aiming to subdue him, then prepared to kick—but the man caught his leg, yanking him off balance before grabbing his throat. Scott gasped, slammed against the wall, and groaned as pain shot through him.

Silver sprang forward, kicking the man square in the back. He stumbled, turned, and grabbed Silver, throwing him down hard onto the wet ground. The man snarled, spinning back toward Scott. His talons now glowed a chilling blue in the stormlight.

“And I didn’t come just to claim your status,” he hissed, stepping toward Scott with predatory intent.

Suddenly, a shadow dropped from the tunnel above. A figure, fully shifted, landed with a growl and charged, launching himself off the wall in a powerful leap to strike the man. The newcomer blocked a punch, slashing at the attacker’s stomach. The man countered, grabbing the intruder’s arm and driving his knee into the gut, shoving him to the wet ground.

The attacker turned back to Scott, swiping twice, but Scott ducked both times. The man’s patience snapped; he grabbed Scott by the throat, smirking as he stabbed his talons into Scott’s torso. Scott gasped, blood burning at the edges of the wound, and his red eyes flickered and dimmed. Pain shot through him as he fell to his knees, struggling to keep upright.

From the stairs above, Stiles, Malia, Ren, and Liam poured onto the field. Liam started to rush forward, but Scott’s hand shot out, gripping the man’s wrist. Slowly, painfully, Scott forced himself upright, red eyes blazing again. The attacker faltered, eyes widening in surprise as Scott’s strength returned.

With a powerful twist, Scott snapped the man’s arm, sending a sharp groan of pain through him. The man collapsed to his knees, stunned.

“I don’t know who you are,” Scott said, voice low and steady, “or what you thought you were going to do. But I’ll give you one choice. Stay, and I’ll break something else. Or run.”

The man’s gaze flicked to the others, sizing them up. Stiles’ voice cut through the tension. “I’d run.”

Almost instantly, the attacker scrambled to his feet and bolted into the tunnel, vanishing into the shadows.

Scott wrapped a protective arm around Silver’s shoulders as they both exhaled shakily. Silver’s chest rose and fell rapidly, rain dripping from his hair.

A figure stepped out from the shadows where the newcomer had leapt from. “You guys don’t remember me, do you?” he asked, smirking slightly, looking at Scott and Stiles with faint amusement. “I guess I look a little different since the fourth grade.”

Scott blinked, recognition dawning. “Theo?” he said, eyebrows rising.

Theo raised one in reply, his expression smug. “You know him?” Silver asked, glancing between them, voice cautious.

“They used to,” Theo said, glancing at Scott with a flicker of nostalgia. “Honestly, I never thought I’d see you guys again. A couple months ago, I heard there was an Alpha in Beacon Hills. Scott McCall. I couldn’t believe it. Not just an Alpha… a True Alpha.”

Scott narrowed his eyes. “What do you want, Theo?”

Theo smiled, stepping closer but keeping his hands visible. “I came back to Beacon Hills… back home, to my family. And I want to be a part of your pack.”

Stiles blinked, suspicion written all over his face, while Silver crossed his arms, eyes narrowed as he studied Theo.

Theo’s gaze flicked to Silver for just a moment before returning to Scott. Then, with a casual smirk, he winked at the group of friends lingering nearby before turning and walking away, his presence lingering like a ripple in the rain.

Ren shifted on his feet, cheeks turning pink. “Well… that was weird,” he muttered, voice barely above the rain.

“Weird, right?” Silver murmured, a small, amused smile tugging at his lips. He reached out, gently taking Scott’s arm. “Come on. Let’s get inside before someone else decides to join the party.”

“We haven’t seen this kid in years—you don’t find that highly suspicious?” Stiles asked as they stepped into the school, the sound of their wet shoes squeaking against the polished floor.

Scott huffed, brushing rain from his hair. “I’m kind of more concerned about the guy who just tried to kill me.”

Silver shot Scott a sideways glance, anxiety threading through his voice despite how steady he tried to sound. “You can be curious about both things, Scott.”

Before anyone could respond, Malia’s phone buzzed, making them all turn to her.

“I’m in! I passed!” she said, a grin splitting her face.

Stiles laughed and pulled her into a quick hug. “Yes! Officially a senior!”

“I’ve been telling you all summer that you’d pass,” Silver said with a small smile, making Malia beam at him.

“Thank God!” a voice called, and they all turned to see Lydia and Kira striding toward them. “Where have you guys been? The whole senior class is here! Are we doing this or not?” Lydia asked, eyes bright with excitement.

Everyone exchanged quick smiles and nods.

Ren groaned, catching up to Kira. “Wait a second… you didn’t text me? You’re my sister. I should be the one in the loop!”

Kira rolled her eyes, grabbing his arm to steer him forward. “Relax, Ren. I got this. Don’t worry.”

Ren huffed, cheeks pink, trailing behind her while muttering about sibling injustices.

Stiles was the first to grab the marker and scribble his initials onto the shelf before handing it over to Lydia.

“This isn’t technically vandalism, right?” Kira asked with a smirk, taking the pen from Lydia.

“Not technically,” Lydia replied, striding off with her initials completed.

Kira quickly wrote hers and passed the pen to Ren, who grumbled under his breath before scrawling his. He then handed the pen to Malia.

Malia paused, pen hovering over the wood. She wrote a neat “M” and then hesitated before adding a “T.” Her gaze flicked at Scott; she smiled softly and passed the pen to him. He wrote his initials carefully and handed the pen to Silver.

Silver stood before the shelf, pen hovering in his hand. Around him, names and initials were etched into the wood—Stiles, Lydia, Scott, Malia, even Ren and Kira. Each set of letters carried stories, memories, moments they had shared. He felt the weight of it pressing gently against his chest, a reminder that every mark mattered.

For a moment, he thought of writing just SA, his own initials. It was simple, safe, and reflected who he was. But it didn’t feel enough. Not tonight. This was about more than him.

His gaze lingered on the empty space beside Scott’s initials. Allison’s face flashed through his mind—her strength, her guidance, the quiet way she had shaped him even after she was gone. If he was going to leave a mark, it wouldn’t just be about him.

He pressed the pen down carefully, first writing AA—Allison Argent’s initials, a tribute to the person who had left such an indelible mark on his life. Then, right beside it, he wrote SA, his own initials.

“She would have been with us,” Stiles murmured softly.

“She is,” Silver said, voice quiet but certain. He glanced at Scott, whose arm slipped around his shoulders, grounding him.

A small smile passed through the group as they drifted toward the stairs, the storm outside now only a faint rumble. Scott kept his arm around Silver’s shoulders, guiding him down the steps. Kira walked just behind Silver, Lydia behind Scott, while Stiles and Malia followed with the marker still in Stiles’ hand. Ren slouched beside Kira, still muttering about sibling etiquette.

Halfway down, Silver’s hand brushed Scott’s—soft, lingering. A faint warmth pulsed through his mark, a quick red flicker that he hoped no one else noticed. Scott squeezed his hand gently in return.

As the group reached the bottom of the stairs, Scott slipped his free hand into his pocket, fingers brushing over a small ring box hidden there. He hesitated, thumb pressing lightly against the edge—then quietly let it go.