Chapter 35

The warm glow of the kitchen lights cast a golden hue over the Argent apartment. The soft clatter of knives and cutting boards filled the air as Silver moved alongside his father and Rachel, the three of them working in easy rhythm as they prepped dinner. Across the kitchen island, Michael, Allison, and Isaac sat perched on stools, half-laughing through bits of conversation with Chris Argent.

The mood was unusually light for a change—real, unburdened laughter threading between the teens and their watchful guardians. For a brief moment, it felt like any other family dinner. Normal.

But normal never lasted long in Beacon Hills.

Rachel wiped her hands on a dishtowel and leaned against the counter, her smile fading as she watched the younger group.

“Okay,” she said, her voice firm but kind. “I know you all think you’re invincible, but we’re not doing this again.”

The room quieted. The shift was subtle—but immediate.

“There are four of you,” Rachel continued, nodding toward the teens, “and only two of us. We can’t keep up with your secrets and your midnight strategies. So if something is happening, you tell us. No more running into the fire and expecting us to clean up the ash.”

Michael looked away. Allison straightened in her seat. Isaac, who had been quietly tracing the rim of his glass, said nothing—suddenly feeling very much like an outsider to the family moment.

By the stove, Argent leaned closer to Silver, his voice quiet enough to not interrupt the silence that had fallen.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

Silver didn’t meet his eyes. He gave a shrug, a practiced one—the kind that said I’m tired of talking about it.

“It’s okay to talk about things,” Argent added, voice still low, still steady.

Silver gave a dry chuckle. “I’m fine.”

He turned away, grabbing the chef’s knife and a carrot from the counter. But his hands moved too fast. Too tight. His mind somewhere else.

You always play the victim.

Michael’s words echoed again, sharp and unforgiving in his head.

You want people to feel sorry for you.

You like being broken, don’t you?

His grip tightened on the handle, and then—

“Shit!”

The blade slipped. Silver jerked backward with a sharp gasp, dropping the knife as blood bloomed across his palm. Bright, fast, and frightening.

“Silver!” Argent was already at his side, catching his wrist and pressing a towel tightly to the wound. “Keep pressure on it. Sit down.”

Silver winced but obeyed, his other hand bracing against the counter. “It’s not that bad—”

“You’re bleeding through the towel, Silver,” Rachel said, her voice firm but worried.

“We should take him to the hospital,” Michael said from across the island, standing up quickly.

“I’m fine,” Silver insisted again, but his voice was thinner now. Pale.

“You can’t drive with that hand,” Argent said sharply.

“I’m not asking to,” Silver said with a bitter edge. “Isaac can take me.”

Isaac, surprised but already standing, gave a quick nod. “Yeah. Of course.”

“I’ll ride with you,” Allison offered gently.

“No,” Silver said before she could take another step toward him. “It’s fine. “

Allison hesitated, eyes flicking to Michael, then to her father, but she didn’t push.

🌕

The automatic doors slid open with a whoosh as Silver stepped into the hospital, his hoodie soaked through at the shoulder and his right hand clamped tightly over his arm. Blood had already begun to drip past his fingers, trailing faint dots on the linoleum floor. The ER lobby buzzed around him—nurses rushing past, phones ringing, a child crying from a nearby hallway—but Silver looked dazed, disoriented by the blur of movement.

He blinked, swaying slightly as he stepped forward, voice hoarse:

“I think I need stitches.”

A nurse glanced up from the desk, but before she could speak, Melissa McCall appeared, pushing open the double doors that led back toward triage.

“Silver?”

She rushed over, taking one look at his bloodied sleeve before grabbing his uninjured arm and guiding him toward an open exam bed. “What happened? Sit. Sit down.”

Silver allowed himself to be steered toward a nearby exam bed, jaw clenched as he eased down. “It’s nothing. Kitchen accident,” he muttered, avoiding her eyes. “I just… I wasn’t paying attention. Cut deeper than I meant to.”

Melissa didn’t buy it for a second, but she said nothing as she gently peeled his blood-soaked hand away from the gash. Blood immediately bubbled to the surface, and she grabbed gauze to press against it with quick, practiced movements.

“Yeah, well, this ‘nothing’ looks like it’s going to need eight stitches. Hold still.”

Scott came jogging up behind her, eyes going wide when he saw the state of his ex-boyfriend. “Silver, are you okay? What happened?”

Silver gave him a weak shrug, still keeping his eyes down. “I said it’s nothing. I was just—thinking too hard, not watching what I was doing.”

“Sil-”

“I’m okay.” Silver cut off Scott. Silver glanced behind Scott to see Ethan and Danny leaving the ER.

“What is Ethan and Danny doing here?”

🌕

Deputy cars surrounded the parking lot of the hospital, red and blue lights casting flashes across the pavement. Sheriff Stilinski stood near Melissa and Scott, trying to get a clear statement, while Stiles and Silver lingered nearby, tense.

“Hang on, hang on,” Stilinski said, holding up a hand as he tried to follow the story. “They were both in the car?”

Stiles shook his head. “No, Dad, they’re trying to tell you it was two separate kidnappings, okay? Two doctors, both gone.”

Stilinski furrowed his brow, processing. “So whose car is this?” he asked, nodding toward the vehicle parked near the entrance.

“That’s Dr. Hilyard’s,” Melissa answered. “She was the ER attending. She’s the one that never made it back in.”

“Let me just focus on getting your story first, all right?” Stilinski said gently, and Melissa nodded.

Turning to the group of teens, he added, “Kids, give us a second.”

Scott, Stiles, and Silver stepped a few feet away, huddling in a low, urgent whisper.

“I hate to even ask,” Silver murmured, glancing back at the deputies, “but these are sacrifices, right?”

Stiles nodded grimly. “Yeah. It’s the one Deaton mentioned—Healers.”

Scott rubbed the back of his neck. “What about Danny? He threw up mistletoe. That’s not a coincidence. And if he hadn’t been with Ethan, he probably would’ve died.”

“But Danny’s not a healer,” Silver said slowly. “So what was he?”

“I—” Scott started, but the shrill ring of Stilinski’s phone cut him off.

All three of them looked toward him as he answered.

“Can you hear that?” Stiles asked, already dreading the answer.

Stilinski’s expression darkened.

“They found a body.”

🌕

Silver kicked the front door shut behind him with the heel of his boot, muttering under his breath as he walked into the quiet house. The gauze wrapped tightly around his palm itched like hell, but he didn’t dare scratch it. His whole arm ached. His pride hurt worse.

Argent was already in the kitchen, setting down a fresh cup of coffee. “How’s the hand?”

“Stitched and annoying,” Silver muttered, walking past him.

“You’re staying home for the rest of the week.”

Silver froze in the hallway, shoulders stiffening. “What?”

“You heard me,” Argent said calmly, sipping his coffee. “You and Allison. I called the school. You’re both excused.”

Silver turned, narrowing his eyes. “So you’re grounding me?”

“I’m protecting you.”

“From what, Dad? Vegetables?” Silver snapped, holding up his bandaged hand. “I slipped with a knife. I didn’t get mauled.”

Argent’s tone sharpened. “Don’t make light of it. You were distracted, you were upset, and it was more than just a slip. You needed stitches.”

Silver scoffed and leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms. “So that’s it? I screw up once and you bench me?”

“It’s not about punishment,” Argent said. “It’s about recovery. You’re not in the right headspace, and I’m not letting you jump back in just because you’re too stubborn to admit you’re hurting.”

“I said I’m fine,” Silver growled. “Why does no one believe me when I say that?”

“Because you say it like it’s supposed to shut us up,” Argent snapped back. “Not because it’s true.”

There was a pause. Silver’s jaw tightened.

“You never used to talk like this,” Argent added more quietly. “You used to trust me.”

Silver laughed bitterly. “You used to never lie to me!”

The silence that followed was heavy.

“I’m not trying to control you, Silver,” Argent said softly. “I just want my son to be okay.”

Silver didn’t answer. He just turned and walked toward his room, his voice low as he muttered, “Yeah, well… good luck with that.”

And then he was gone leaving Argent alone in the kitchen, coffee cooling untouched on the counter.

🌕

“Good morning!” Ms. Blake chirped at the front of the room, her smile just a little too chipper for a Monday. “As you all know, Mr. Harris is still missing—uh, I mean sick—so I’ll be filling in until we all pray for a more qualified substitute to take over. Okay, let’s get started, shall we?”

From the back of the classroom, Stiles tapped his fingers against the desk, catching Michael’s attention. Michael arched a brow but leaned back slightly as Stiles shifted toward Scott, voice low.

“Hey,” Stiles whispered, “my dad said the ER attending wasn’t strangled. He did die from asphyxiation… but they still don’t know how.”

Michael turned around in his seat, eyes narrowing. “You think the on-call doctor could still be alive?”

Scott glanced between them, frowning. “I mean… it’s possible, right?”

Michael let out a slow breath. “Scott, there’s like—what, twenty doctors in that hospital? More? If something’s targeting healers, any one of them could be next.”

Before Scott could respond, his phone buzzed against the desk. He picked it up quickly, showing them the screen: Deaton’s name lit up.

Michael raised a brow. “That’s your boss, right?”

Scott ducked lower in his seat and pressed the phone to his ear. “Hey Doc—sorry, I’m in class right now. Can I call you back later?”

Deaton’s voice came through, calm but strained. “Unfortunately, no. I honestly hoped I’d never have to burden you like this… but right now, you’re my only hope. I’m going to be taken. I need you to find me.”

Scott sat up straighter, panic rising in his throat. “Doc? Doc, wait—what’s happening?”

The line went dead.

Stiles’ eyes widened. Michael turned in his seat, face pale. The three of them locked eyes in silence for a beat.

🌕

Michael pushed open the back door of the Argent apartment, quietly stepping inside. The place was unusually quiet—no TV, no clatter from the kitchen—just a low hum of voices from down the hall. He followed the sound, already guessing where it would lead.

He found them in Argent’s office.

Silver was crouched by the filing cabinet, flipping through folders with a furrowed brow, while Allison stood over her father’s desk, scanning the clutter of maps, photographs, and weapon schematics. The light from the window painted both of them in pale morning gold, their faces tense with concentration.

Michael leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I thought you were supposed to be resting.”

Allison jumped slightly, then sighed. “Michael. What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” he said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “What are you doing?”

Michael walked over to the desk and glanced down at the papers. “You find anything in here that proves he’s hiding something?”

Silver muttered, “Only a lifetime’s worth of secrets.” He picked up a faded photograph, studying the man next to Gerard. “Do you think he’s part of this?”

“Your dad?” Michael asked. “I don’t know. “I came because Deaton called Scott. Said it was urgent.”

Silver stood up sharply. “Is he okay?”

Michael shook his head. “He didn’t say. Just told Scott to come to the animal clinic.”

Silver rifled through folders labeled in his dad’s sharp handwriting—training logs, old hunter maps, supply lists. Then something caught his eye: a folded, worn piece of paper hidden behind a fake divider at the back of the drawer.

He pulled it out slowly, then unfolded it on the table.

“Allison…”

“What is it?” She moved closer, eyes scanning the map.

Pins. Red ones. Blue ones. A few black.

“It’s the sacrifices,” Silver said quietly. “Every single one. He’s been tracking them. And there—” he pointed to a cluster of blue pins— “those haven’t happened yet.”

🌕

Silver opened the door, stepping aside as Scott walked in. His eyes were a little tired, but he moved with urgency, still shaken from everything going on.

“Thanks for coming so quickly,” Silver said, shutting the door behind him. “I sent Michael and Allison to look through some of his dad’s stuff. Maybe we’ll find something—notes, symbols, whatever.”

Scott nodded. “Anything that tells us what the hell is going on.”

Silver led him toward the back of the apartment, into Argent’s home office. The space was dim, sun filtering through half-closed blinds. Silver gestured to the large wooden desk at the center of the room, cluttered with papers, old books, and neatly stacked files.

“I was going through one of his drawers,” Silver explained, pulling it open, “and I found this—”

He started to pull out a folded map, but the sharp click of the front door opening made both boys freeze.

“…He wasn’t supposed to be back yet,” Silver muttered, eyes darting to the hallway.

Silver tugged Scott quickly into the dim storage closet, closing the door softly behind them.

“What are you doing?” Silver asked, narrowing his eyes.

Scott shrugged, avoiding Silver’s gaze. “Nothing…”

“Part of you is doing something,” Silver pressed, folding his arms.

Scott shifted uncomfortably. “Oh, sorry…”

“Stop,” Silver said firmly.

Scott gave a sheepish smile. “I kind of don’t have control over that.”

Silver raised an eyebrow. “Okay, well, I’ll just turn around then.”

Scott’s voice dropped lower, “Yeah, totally…”

“Silver?”

“What?” Silver replied, already annoyed.

“That’s worse,” Scott said, smirking.

Silver couldn’t help but chuckle, and soon Scott was laughing too.

“Shh, shh, shh!” Silver hushed him, glancing nervously toward the office.

They both froze when Argent’s footsteps echoed down the hall, followed by the sound of a door opening and closing, then a shower turning on.

Silver quietly cracked the closet door and peered out. Once the coast seemed clear, he and Scott slipped out and moved silently toward Argent’s desk.

He laid the map out on the desk. “See this? Last time we were in here talking, my dad put a book over it like he was trying to hide it. Not just cover—it was deliberate.”

Scott moved closer, squinting. “I don’t see anything.”

Silver smirked faintly. “Yeah, you can’t… not until you use this.” He held up a blacklight and turned it on, revealing glowing marks across the map. “He’s been tracking everything—Cora and Boyd at the bank, that office above the penthouse, and every dead body we’ve found.”

He pointed to symbols. “There’s one symbol for where someone was taken. Another for where their body was found. Now count them.”

Scott leaned in. “There’ve been six sacrifices.”

“Exactly. But there are twelve markings.”

Scott’s eyes widened. “What does that mean? Did your dad find more bodies and not say anything?”

“No… I don’t think so,” Silver said, his voice tightening. “I think he knows where the next bodies will turn up. Which means one of these six locations—” he tapped them in quick succession, “—could be where Deaton ends up. It doesn’t tell us where he is now, but…”

Scott finished for him, “but it’s close to figuring it out..”

They stood there for a moment, breathing in the silence. The water from the shower stopped.

Scott reached for the blacklight, flipping it off. “I should go before your dad catches me.”

Silver gave a reluctant nod, but as Scott turned, Silver gently grabbed his wrist.

“Hey,” Silver whispered, his eyes catching Scott’s. “Be safe, okay?”

Scott hesitated, then leaned down and pressed a quick, soft kiss to Silver’s temple.

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, Silver’s smile dropped like a mask. He bolted down the hallway and slammed his bedroom door behind him, the sound echoing through the apartment. Without bothering to turn on the light, he collapsed face-first onto his bed, burying his face into the blanket like it could smother the storm building inside him.

A few seconds passed before there was a soft knock.

“Silver?” Argent’s voice came through the wood, calm but cautious. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Silver didn’t move. He stared up at the ceiling, jaw clenched. “I’ll announce myself next time,” he muttered, the sarcasm laced with bitterness.

There was a pause. He could picture his father standing there, hesitant, trying to find the right words—like he always did when he knew Silver was unraveling.

“Can you go?” Silver asked, voice sharp now. “I just want to be alone.”

Another pause. The silence on the other side of the door stretched, heavy.

“Alright,” Argent said quietly. The footsteps retreated.

Silver let out a breath that trembled at the end.

🌕

The room smells like antiseptic and stale air. Argent stands at the foot of Gerard’s hospital bed, arms folded tightly over his chest. His eyes are locked on his father’s, cold and unwavering. Beside the bed, an oxygen machine hisses softly, the only sound in the silence.

“You know something about what’s going on,” Argent says, voice low but sharp. “And if you’re reluctant to tell me, try remembering—it’s a long road to redemption, and you’re still buried under years of lies. You’re gonna tell me the story, and you’re gonna tell me the truth.”

Gerard leans back with a faint smirk curling at his lips.

“And when are you going to tell him the truth, Christopher?” he replies smoothly.

Argent’s jaw clenches—just a flicker of something in his expression, something wounded—but he doesn’t rise to the bait. He simply turns and walks out, the door shutting behind him with a quiet but final click.

A few seconds pass.

The door opens again.

Michael, Allison, and Silver step into the room. They don’t look like kids—anger sharpens them, steels them. Allison leads the charge, arms tense at her sides. Silver hangs back slightly, arms crossed, every line of his posture defensive. Michael lingers just behind Allison, jaw tight.

Gerard lifts an eyebrow. “Surprised to see us?” he drawls.

“Only surprised it’s taken you this long,” he adds, a smug glint in his eyes.

“Save it,” Michael says, stepping forward. “We’re not here for your theatrics.”

Gerard turns his attention on Michael, his grin widening. “Still playing the Argents’ pet dog, are you? I always thought you belonged in the shadows.”

Gerard narrows his eyes, the oxygen tube shifting as he leans in just slightly. “I don’t owe you children a thing.”

“No,” Silver says, eyes dark. “But if you ever want to leave this room again, maybe start acting like you do.”