Chapter 40

The clinic was too quiet. The kind of quiet that wrapped around you, thick and suffocating, like the air had been drained out of the room. Silver sat on the edge of the exam table, his back stiff, one leg bouncing unconsciously. His left arm rested in his lap while his right hand picked at the fraying hem of his sleeve. He was trying not to feel anything—but the pain throbbed beneath his skin like a second heartbeat.

Deaton entered without a sound, his presence calm but grounded, as if he knew he had to tread carefully. He stopped a few feet away, voice low and steady.

“Do you want me to take a look at the eye? See how much damage there is?”

Silver didn’t answer at first. He exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw clenched. Then, with a sharp, almost defiant nod, he croaked, “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

His voice was raw, hoarse from hours of trying not to scream. He tilted his head slightly to give Deaton access, but every movement sent a jolt of fire lancing through the side of his face. His fingers gripped the table like a lifeline.

Deaton moved with the care of someone who had seen too much but still respected pain. He gently began to peel back the bandages. As the gauze lifted, cool air hit the skin beneath, and Silver winced, sucking in a shallow breath. His eye stung—no, the hollow where it used to be stung—and the ache wasn’t just physical. It echoed.

Deaton didn’t flinch. But Silver saw it. The tiny flicker in his eyes. The brief shift of emotion before the calm mask returned.

Silver’s throat tightened.

“Is it… bad?” he asked. He tried to sound neutral, like it didn’t matter. But the tremor in his voice betrayed him.

Deaton stayed quiet for a second too long. Then, gently,

“There’s trauma to the socket. But the area’s healing. The swelling’s down. No infection.”

A pause.

“But it’s gone, Silver. The optic nerve’s been severed. It won’t heal.”

Silver’s stomach dropped, like the floor had given out under him. He turned his face away, eyes burning.

“I figured.”
His voice was low, hollow.

Deaton began wrapping the gauze again, but Silver spoke before he could finish.

“I’ve been avoiding mirrors.” He laughed, but it came out brittle. “I know it’s dumb, but… if I don’t see it, it’s like maybe it didn’t happen.”

Deaton’s hands slowed, then stilled completely.

“Healing isn’t just physical,” he said softly.

“Yeah. I know.” Silver swallowed hard, voice cracking. “But it’s like—every time someone walks up on my left, or I turn too fast and miss something, I feel it again. Like it’s new. Like it’s still happening.”

He blinked back the burn in his eye—his one eye.

“I hate that I survived it.” The words spilled out before he could stop them.

“When he did it—when he looked at me—I knew I wasn’t going to win. And I didn’t. I thought I was gonna die. And part of me wanted to.”

The confession hung heavy in the air.

Deaton didn’t flinch. His voice remained calm.

“That thought doesn’t make you weak.”

He sat down on the stool across from Silver, eyes level.

“It makes you human. You were pushed past your limits. And still—you’re here.”

Silver’s shoulders trembled as he looked down. He wiped at his cheek, embarrassed when his fingers came away wet.

“Everyone keeps telling me I’m strong,” he whispered. “But I don’t feel strong. I feel broken. Useless.”

Deaton leaned in slightly.

“Strength isn’t not breaking, Silver. It’s what you do afterward. You survived Deucalion. You’re standing. And standing, after everything, is strength.”

🌕

The storm outside clawed at the windows, wind shrieking like it was mourning something lost. Inside the exam room, the flickering fluorescent lights hummed above Silver as he stood before the mirror, unmoving. His reflection met his gaze with a hollow stare.

The left side of his face was swollen and raw, marred by a jagged scar that stitched its way from brow to cheekbone. Dried blood clung stubbornly around the stitches, and his left eye—once sharp, bright, always watching—was now a lifeless gray, clouded and still. It didn’t blink. It didn’t move.

He leaned in closer, studying the ruin. His breath fogged the glass, and for a long moment, he didn’t move. Then one trembling hand rose, fingertips grazing the edge of the wound, as if pressure alone could undo what had been done.

From down the hallway, voices broke through the stillness. Lydia’s voice cut first—sharp, accusing.

“What are you still doing here?”

Michael’s reply was dry, clipped. “My girlfriend is currently sacrificing herself to the Nemeton. Sorry—should I just leave and have you call me when she’s up?”

Silver didn’t flinch, but his hand fell away from the mirror. His eyes stayed fixed on the glass.

“Did you even try?” Lydia snapped.

“What?” Michael sounded genuinely confused.

“Why didn’t you stop him?” Her voice cracked with something deeper than anger—fear, maybe. “You shouldn’t have let Silver go out there.“

There was a beat of silence.

“Silver’s not some porcelain doll, Lydia,” Michael bit back. “You think I let him? He wanted to find Deucalion. No one was going to stop him.“

“But you’re supposed to try!” Her voice rose, teetering on the edge of desperation. “You and Allison—you’re supposed to keep him grounded. What exactly were you doing while he walked into a death trap?”

Silver closed his eyes and eased away from the mirror, lowering himself onto the edge of the exam table. The argument in the hall weighed heavier than the ruined eye ever could.

“I was a little busy,” Michael said coldly, “fighting off your boy toy and his twin brother.”

Lydia scoffed. “Of course. Always someone else’s fault.”

“Excuse me?” he shot back. “You think I’m the problem here?”

“I think the problem is you show up for Silver when it’s convenient,” she hissed, “and disappear when it actually matters.”

“That’s not fair—”

“No,” Lydia cut him off, “what’s not fair is you being here, acting like you care. Why do you get to be happy, and Silver’s still the one paying for everything?”

Silence fell.

Then Michael’s voice dropped, quieter now, stripped of its bite. “You don’t get it.”

“Then enlighten me.”

He paused. When he spoke again, the venom was gone. “You weren’t there over the summer. I know I ruined everything for Silver. I live with it every day.”

His gaze drifted to the floor, then back up, softer now. “I’ll always love him, Lydia. I’ll always care for him. But he needs to take responsibility too. I’m not the only one to make mistakes.“

Down the hall, Silver stared at the floor, alone with the weight of all of it.

🌕

Silver eased back onto the edge of the exam table, his movements cautious and slow. His left eye was wrapped in fresh bandages—someone must have done it while he was out. The gauze was tight and clean, but the skin underneath still felt raw and stinging, even though he couldn’t see it.

He reached out toward the tray of instruments but missed on his first try. His fingers brushed cold metal, then curled into a fist and dropped to his lap. Frustration tightened his jaw.

As he turned, his shoulder bumped the corner of a cabinet. He didn’t react much—just let out a long, tired breath, like he’d been holding it in for hours.

Across the room, Lydia paced, arms crossed, her steps quick and sharp.

Everyone noticed, but nobody said anything.

Silver tried to sit more firmly in the chair, but it was awkward—far from the steady confidence he used to have. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking away like he was trying to will the dizziness and confusion away.

The silence was too loud.

“Lydia, please stop pacing.”

Michael’s voice cut through it, low and annoyed from where he slouched against the far wall. One knee drawn up, head tipped back.

“You’re giving me a headache.”

Lydia halted mid-step, spun toward him with fire in her eyes. “Seriously? That’s what you’re worried about right now?”

Michael didn’t even look at her. “I’m worried about a lot of things. One of them happens to be the sound of your boots click-clacking like a metronome of dread.”

“Is it supposed to be taking this long?” Lydia asked, worry etched into her voice as she turned to Deaton.

Before Deaton could answer, a violent splash echoed—Silver and Michael’s heads snapped toward the steel tubs just as the three surged up, gasping, soaked, their hands gripping the cold metal edges like lifelines.

Water sloshed onto the floor as Scott pulled himself upright. “I saw it—I know where it is.”

He scrambled out, followed quickly by Stiles and Allison, all of them drenched and wide-eyed.

“We passed it. There’s a stump, a huge tree—well, it was huge. It’s been cut down now, but it was big. Really big.”

Stiles blinked through the water dripping down his face. “It was the night we were looking for the body—”

“The night you were bit by Peter,” Allison added softly.

Michael, standing by Silver, suddenly stiffened.

“I was there too. In the car with my mom. We almost hit someone.”

Scott turned to her, something dawning. “It was me. You almost hit me.”

Silver stepped forward, grabbing two towels from Isaac as he passed by. He handed one to Scott without a word, eyes locked on his.
“You’re okay,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with something unspoken. “You’re okay.”
He kept repeating it, softer each time—like he wasn’t sure if he was saying it to Scott or to himself.

Michael moved toward Allison, “Hey,” he said quietly, searching her face, “you alright?”

Allison didn’t answer, just gave a small nod and looked away.

Scott’s voice broke the silence. “We can find it.”

Everyone turned to him. But instead of hope, the air in the room tightened.

Deaton stayed silent, and Isaac said,
“You guys were out a long time.”

Scott looked toward the window—it was still dark. But Stiles was the first to catch on. “How long is long?” he asked, tense.

Deaton hesitated before answering. But Silver spoke up first, the words dropping like a stone.
“Sixteen hours.”

Stiles turned to him, stunned. “We’ve been in the water for sixteen hours?”

Deaton nodded solemnly. “And the full moon rises in less than four.”

🌕

Stiles shook his head at Scott just as Silver started pacing, hands running through his hair, breath quick. Michael stepped forward, reaching out.

“Silver—”

But Silver pulled away, his voice tight.
“Don’t. Not right now.”

Stiles shook his head at Scott just as Silver began pacing in front of him. But Stiles reached out, pulling him aside and stopping him mid-step.

“No, dude. You’re not going back to them.”

Scott shook his head, resolute. “I made a deal with Deucalion.”

Silver snapped, disbelief sharp in his voice. “You made a deal with the devil!”
His voice cracked as he stepped closer. “Tell me one time—just once—that works out. You’re gambling with your life. With ours.”

Michael moved beside him, quieter but urgent. “Silver’s right. There’s always another way—we just have to find it.”

“Why’s it matter anyway?” Isaac asked, sounding more tired than curious.

Scott looked between them all. “Because I still don’t think we can beat Jennifer without their help.”

Allison turned to Deaton, hopeful but firm. “He trusts you more than any of us. Tell him he’s wrong.”

Deaton’s gaze lingered on Silver, then Scott.

“I’m not so sure he is. Circumstances like this sometimes require you to align yourself with people you’d normally consider enemies.”

“We’re supposed to trust the guy who calls himself Death, Destroyer of Worlds?” Isaac scoffed.

Deaton gave a noncommittal shrug. “I wouldn’t trust him. But you could use him. Deucalion may be the enemy—but he could also be the bait.”

Michael glanced at Silver, lowering his voice. “We’ve seen what happens when people like him are given power. You saw what it did to your mother, Silver. To mine.”

Silver didn’t speak. His hands trembled slightly at his sides. He looked at Scott—not with anger now, but a haunted kind of fear.

“You don’t get it,” he whispered.

“I’ve watched too many people get torn apart by men like him. My father. Gerard. Thomas. Now Deucalion? I’m not losing anyone else.”

Silver’s hands shook as he stared at Scott, haunted fear replacing anger.
“You don’t get it. Too many people I love have been torn apart by men like him—my father, Gerard, Thomas. Now Deucalion. I can’t lose anyone else.”

He stepped closer, voice breaking with raw desperation.
“Look at me, Scott. See what he did. If you do this, swear it on us. Be absolutely sure.”

The door creaked open suddenly, cutting through the tension like a blade.

They turned to the sound—Ethan stood behind the gate, quiet but determined. “I’m looking for Lydia.”

Michael instinctively stepped closer to Silver, as Lydia moved forward.
“What do you want?” she asked.

Ethan exhaled, conflicted. “I need your help.”

Silver was in motion before she could take another step, sliding between her and the gate, posture tense and protective.

“With what?” he demanded, voice sharp, almost shaking.

Ethan’s answer came like a warning.
“Stopping my brother and Kali from killing Derek.”

🌕

Allison, Michael, Silver, Isaac, and Scott all headed for the Argent apartment. The tension was thick—unspoken grief, suspicion, and desperation clinging to them like smoke.

As they moved down the hallway, Scott had Stiles on the phone.

“Just grab anything?” Scott repeated, brow furrowed. “Stiles, I’m not smelling your dad’s boxers.” There was a beat of silence before Scott sighed.

“Socks? Okay, I’ll smell the socks.”

The absurdity didn’t lighten the air.

“What about me?” Isaac asked as they stepped inside.

Allison turned to him, her voice steady but distant. “See what you can find in my dad’s closet. Whatever has the strongest scent.”

Silver didn’t say a word. He moved ahead of them, his steps slower now as he approached the door to his father’s office. His hand hesitated on the knob, the sudden movement shocking his body. Then he pushed it open.

The room was dim. All the weapons his family owned were laid out on the table like relics from a past that refused to stay buried. Silver’s breath caught in his throat.

Then—

“Quite an arrangement your father’s got here,” came a voice, sharp and authoritative.

Agent McCall leaned back in a chair, eyes tired but alert, surrounded by deputies. His gaze shifted—and when it landed on Silver, something in his face changed. But that quickly changed as Rafael McCall spotted his son walking around the corner.

“Scott,” he said, rising slowly to his feet.

“Are you okay?” Scott ignored his father, gently checking in on his ex. Silver appreciated Scott standing on his right side. Scott turned to his father, confused. “What are you doing here?”

Agent McCall’s eyes didn’t leave Silver. “Following one of the only leads I have. Now, since I don’t know where you’ve been, why don’t you have a seat and we can talk?”

He paused. “You too, Isaac. Michael. Allison.”

Michael stepped forward, jaw tight, protective as his eyes flicked to Silver.

Isaac narrowed his gaze. “How do you know our names?”

Agent McCall folded his arms, tone almost weary. “Your name’s one of the few things I know. To be honest, the rest of what’s going on around here has me stumbling in the dark—even over the smallest clue.”

Scott let out a bitter laugh and stepped into the room, not bothering to hide the resentment in his voice.

“If you’re trying to tell me you don’t have a clue… I learned that a long time ago.”

Agent McCall’s expression flickered—hurt, maybe, or something like regret—but he didn’t argue.

“I’m really hoping to avoid the embarrassment of dragging my own son into an interrogation room,” he said quietly, “Really hoping.”

🌕

Tension hung thick in the air of the Argent apartment’s office. The polished wood desk between them felt more like a barricade than a piece of furniture. His eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses, but his body betrayed the truth—shoulders drawn tight, breath held like he was bracing for impact.

And then Silver saw it.

Michael stepped toward Allison and wrapped his arms around her waist, slow, like it wasn’t even a question. She leaned into him with ease, letting herself be held, her arms coming up to rest gently on his.

Silver’s stomach twisted.

It was nothing, really. He had been standing just inches away from Scott, close enough to reach out but he couldn’t.

The left side of his skull pulsed with an ache that felt like it went bone-deep, a reminder of fists and fear. His hands curled into the fabric of his sleeves, digging his nails into his palms.His throat was tight, and each breath hurt.

“Run Argent!”

His legs locked, suddenly afraid to move. The heat in his eyes threatened tears, but he blinked them away fast, jaw clenched so hard it ached.

He wanted to reach for Scott. God, he wanted to. Just to feel something steady. Something safe. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Agent McCall stood behind the desk, his voice cold as he spoke.

“I’m not gonna lie. I’m more than a little disturbed—not just by the number of missing parents, but the fact that it’s Stiles’ father, your father, and your mother.”

Isaac, slouched nearby with that deadpan stillness he wore like armor, didn’t flinch.
“Mine are both dead.”

Rafael glared. “Save the cliched teenage apathy for your high school teachers.”

He stepped forward, voice sharp and unwavering. “The five of you know more than you’re saying. And I am fully willing to keep you here all night if that’s what it takes.”

“You can’t keep us here,” Scott said, voice calm but clipped.

Silver added evenly, “Not without some kind of warrant.”

Agent McCall didn’t flinch. “I’ve got a desk full of probable cause,” he replied, gesturing to a pile of folders and photographs behind him.

As they spoke, Silver’s hand slipped into the side drawer of the antique weapons cabinet behind him. His fingers brushed the hilt of a combat knife, smooth and cold like a familiar secret. Across the room, Allison crouched just slightly, quietly unlatching a black case beneath the display shelf. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to.

Silver straightened, his voice tight. “My father is a highly respected private security consultant and a federally licensed firearms dealer. That means he has to own a few weapons.”

Allison pulled something out and held it casually at her side, disguised by the fall of her jacket. “Like this one-hundred-seventy-five-pound-draw tactical crossbow…”

Michael, leaning against the doorframe, finally spoke up, his tone edged with dry amusement. “Or this carbon-steel marine combat knife…”

Silver’s fingers tightened around the Desert Eagle now holstered at his back. He glanced sideways at Allison. “Fifty A.E. Desert Eagle…”

Allison flicked her thumb across a small cylinder in her hand. “Hmm… smoke grenade with pull-ring igniter…”

Scott caught the movement. He barely had time to react before Silver gave the nod.

“Go!” Allison shouted, yanking the ring free.

The room erupted in a burst of gray smoke. Papers flew.Michael grabbed Scott by the collar and pulled him through the door. Silver grabbed Isaac’s arm while Allison took the lead, clearing the path.

“Wait!” Agent McCall’s voice cut through the chaos. “Scott, wait!”

But it was too late. The door slammed behind them as they vanished into the thick, choking haze—leaving only the smoke, the scattered weapons, and Rafael’s stunned silence behind.

🌕

The woods held a heavy silence, the kind that pressed in on them like a weight. Moonlight filtered softly through the branches, casting pale shadows over Scott and Silver as they stood side by side, a fragile quiet settling between them.

Scott’s breath still came uneven, his head bowed as if trying to shrink away from the memories of the confrontation with his father. Silver’s voice broke through gently, cautious but caring.
“You okay?”

Scott hesitated, then muttered, “I didn’t know what to say to him. My own dad. I just froze… like I was twelve again.”

Silver’s eyes softened with unspoken understanding.
“You don’t owe him anything.”

Scott let out a dry, humorless breath.
“Maybe not. But… what you and Allison did back there? That was incredible.”

Silver shifted, his voice quieter, heavier.
“It wasn’t smooth. We nearly didn’t make it out.”

Scott’s gaze lifted, locking with Silver’s.
“But you did. Because of you.”

For a moment, the world seemed to narrow down to just the two of them, the rest of the group fading into shadows. Silver took a hesitant step closer. Their eyes held a tension, a pull neither wanted to fully admit. Scott’s hand lifted, tentative, fingers brushing the edge of the bandage still wrapped gently over Silver’s healing eye.

Silver flinched—just barely—as the pressure nudged the sore skin beneath.
“It still hurts a little.”

Scott’s hand froze, guilty.
“I’m sorry—”

“No. No, it’s okay.” Silver leans in slightly to Scott’s touch. “I just… didn’t expect to feel anything.”

Scott’s thumb gently stroked Silver’s cheek. A moment passed.

Without words, Silver leaned into the touch, the guarded walls around him softening. Then, as if pulled by some quiet force, Scott closed the space between them. Their lips met in a kiss—tender, raw, filled with everything neither dared say aloud.

When they finally pulled apart,  Scott swallowed hard, searching Silver’s eyes, a fierce vulnerability in his own.
“You’re still perfect to me, Silver. All of you.”

Silver’s breath hitched. Tears slipped down his cheek—silent, uncontrolled.
“I don’t deserve that. Not anymore.”

Scott reached up again, thumb brushing a tear away.
“I don’t care what you think you deserve. I still love you.”

“I still haven’t heard from Stiles,” Isaac interrupted, tapping furiously at his phone. “You?”

“No,” Scott replied, frowning. “Nothing.”

“We can’t keep waiting for him,” Isaac said, stepping forward. “We’re running out of time.”

Then a cold voice cut through the clearing.

“Cutting it a little close, aren’t we, Scott?”

They all turned. Deucalion emerged from the shadows like a whisper, calm and sharp as ever.

Scott’s body tensed immediately. “We got a little delayed,” he said. His tone was careful—controlled.

Silver instinctively moved slightly closer to Scott, like he was anchoring him there. His face angled towards the ground, avoiding any look at Deuaclion.

“Where are the others?” Scott asked, gaze fixed on Deucalion.

“They’re occupying themselves with… other pursuits,” Deucalion said smoothly, almost enjoying their discomfort.

Michael stood silently near Allison, eyes narrowing. Silver didn’t acknowledge him, but he could feel Michael’s gaze flick toward him—concern, guilt, something unspoken.

“So it’s just you and me against her?” Scott asked.

“I think you’ll be surprised what a good team we make,” Deucalion replied with a thin smile.

Scott’s jaw tensed. He turned to the others—Isaac, Allison, Michael—and finally to Silver, who was watching him closely.

Silver took a step closer and whispered, “It’s okay. Go. Do what you have to do.”

“You need to get to Stiles,” Scott said. “Find the root cellar. We’ll hold Jennifer off long enough for you to get them out.”

Isaac furrowed his brows. “How are you going to do that?”

Scott didn’t answer right away. His eyes met Silver’s again.

“Because I have a plan,” he said.

Silver’s expression didn’t change, but his voice was barely a whisper. “Please don’t die trying to be the hero.”

Silver wanted to say more, but Allison was already pulling him by the arm, Isaac calling for backup, Michael moving into formation beside them.

But Scott hesitated just one more second… eyes flicking back to Silver’s face, to that damaged eye, and the strength behind it.

And without another word, they all scattered into the dark.

🌕

The wind howled through the Beacon Hills Preserve, whipping through trees and sending leaves skittering across the forest floor. The group moved cautiously—eyes sharp, every step deliberate.

Isaac squinted into the dark. “Are you sure we’re going in the right direction?”

Allison scanned the treeline, adjusting the grip on her crossbow. “You think you can pick up a scent?”

“I’m trying,” Isaac muttered. “But I c—”

He stopped mid-sentence, going still. His head tilted slightly, nostrils flaring, brows furrowing. “…I hear something. It’s an emitter. It’s one of your dad’s.”

“Are you sure?” Allison stepped closer, eyes locked on Isaac’s. Her fingers tightened around her weapon, ready for anything.

Michael glanced at Silver. “You really think your dad left that emitter on purpose?”

Silver nodded slowly. “He wants us to find him. It’s the only way he can reach us.”

🌕

The damp, musty air of the Nemeton root cellar pressed down on them like a heavy blanket. Shadows stretched along the cracked stone walls, and the faint echo of dripping water filled the silence. Isaac’s voice broke through, urgent and relieved.

“Silver! Michael!”

Silver’s eyes, swollen and bruised but still sharp, lifted toward the sound. A flicker of hope sparked in him. “Oh God, thank—thank you.”

Argent stood tall despite the tension clawing at his voice. “You found us.”

Stilinski’s breath hitched, his eyes darting around anxiously. “Where’s Stiles? Where’s my son?”

Melissa’s hands trembled as she stepped forward, her voice cracking under the weight of fear. “And Scott? Are they okay?”

Isaac exchanged a quick look with Silver before answering steadily. “They’re coming. They’re on their way to help.”

Melissa let out a shaky breath, clinging to that small reassurance. “Okay… okay.”

Their eyes scanned the wreckage. The ground beneath them was unstable, sunken in places, cracked and crumbling. Argent crouched down, peering toward the blockage, voice taut.

“It’s blocked. What do you see?”

Silver shook his head slowly, his throat too tight to speak. The air was thick with tension, his pulse pounding like a war drum. Across from him, Argent’s jaw clenched — a hard, frustrated twitch that barely concealed the fear simmering beneath the surface.

“Look out!” Argent shouted.

Before anyone could move, the ground trembled violently. The floor rolled beneath their feet, and a high-pitched scream cut through the chaos like glass shattering.

“Michael!” Allison’s voice was raw, terrified.

Argent lunged, instinct kicking in as he grabbed both Allison and Silver, dragging them down just as a section of the ceiling gave way. Chunks of plaster and stone crashed to the floor behind them. Melissa was already moving, shielding Scott with her arms as Stilinski reached for Isaac, yanking the boy clear of falling debris.

Dust clouded the room. Michael stumbled, coughing, his eyes wide. “Is it just me… or is this place… getting smaller?”

Argent’s eyes flicked up to the trembling ceiling, and his face paled. “The eclipse,” he said hoarsely. “It’s started.”

The ceiling groaned above them, the weight pressing down like a slow, crushing hand. Everyone scrambled — pushing back, holding up what they could — but it was clear something had shifted. Something was failing.

Isaac’s hands shook as he braced against the support beam, veins straining in his arms. “I can’t… hold it,” he gasped, voice cracking.

“We’re not going to make it,” Allison cried out, her voice rising in desperation. “It’s too much. It’s too heavy!”

Then came a loud crack — not from the ceiling, but from the side.

Stiles burst into the room, swinging a silver aluminum baseball bat overhead like he was storming a battlefield. With a wild yell, he jammed it beneath a crumbling support, using all his weight to wedge it into place.

“I told you aluminum was better than wood!” Stilinki said as the baseball bat held up the ground.

Stilinski’s face softened with relief as he wrapped an arm protectively around Stiles. For a moment, the danger receded just enough for a brief flicker of hope.

The tense silence was shattered by the sudden ringing of Stiles’s phone.

“Scott?” Stiles answered, voice trembling with urgency.

“Hey… are you okay?”

“We’re okay. All of us. For now. How about you? You holding up?”

“Sort of.”

“Can you come get us?”

“Yeah. Of course. Just… bring a ladder.”

Stiles’s words hung in the air as a small, fragile laugh escaped the group, the humor a balm against the fear. It was a fleeting moment of connection amid the darkness—a promise that help was coming, that they weren’t alone.

Silver leaned against Argent, wincing but steady.

🌕

The fluorescent lights above buzzed like distant thunder, cold and cruel in their steadiness. The hospital room was too quiet—too sterile to contain the chaos clawing its way through Silver’s chest. He sat on the edge of the bed, still as stone, one trembling hand pressed over the bandages at his temple. His fingers were tacky with blood.

Across the room, Argent paced like a man possessed. His coat, once pristine, was now soaked in streaks of drying red. Silver’s blood. His jaw was clenched so hard it looked like it might snap. His fists were curled and shaking, like he wanted to punch through the walls or maybe through time itself.

Silver didn’t lift his head. Didn’t look at him.

“Deaton already said it’s gone,” he murmured, voice barely above a breath.

Argent stopped dead in his tracks. Whipped around.

“I don’t give a damn what Deaton said,” he snapped. “I want someone else. A real surgeon. An ophthalmologist. A specialist. Something.”

Silver exhaled a shaky, humorless laugh that died before it even left his throat.

“Because someone’s going to stitch an eye back in?” he asked, eyes still fixed on the floor.

“I don’t know!” Argent shouted, louder than he meant to. He ran both hands down his face and let out a growl of frustration. “But I’m not just going to stand here and watch you bleed and do nothing!”

Silence crashed into the room like a wave.

Slowly, Silver turned his head. His one good eye met his father’s, full of quiet devastation. A single tear slid down the edge of his face, carving a silent path through the grime and dried sweat like a memory that refused to fade.

“It’s done,” Silver said. “You can’t fix it.”

His voice was a whisper—but it hit like a scream.

“I’m not asking to be fixed.”

Argent froze.

He stared at his son like he couldn’t recognize him—this boy in front of him, broken and bruised and yet somehow still speaking like none of it mattered.

“You think this is normal?” Argent finally said, softer now, but still shaking. “You think you’re just gonna walk out of here and keep fighting like nothing’s changed?”

Silver looked at him, and for the first time, let the hollowness show.

“No,” he said. “I just don’t think I get a choice.”

Argent’s breath caught. His pacing stopped.

“You could’ve died,” he whispered.

Silver’s jaw clenched. His lips parted like he might say something—then stopped. His shoulders caved in. And when he spoke, his voice broke clean in half.

“And part of me wishes I had.”

Argent staggered back like he’d been shot. His eyes widened. His mouth opened, then closed.

“Don’t…” His voice cracked. “Don’t say that. Please, don’t say that.”

Silver turned away. His good eye filled with tears he couldn’t blink away fast enough.

“You don’t get it,” he choked out. “I don’t want people looking at me and feeling sorry. I don’t want to be the reminder of what we lost, of what went wrong.”

His hands were shaking now.

“I don’t want to be the freak in every room. I don’t want the stares, the pity, the whispers.”

Silver’s voice dropped to a haunted whisper.

“And when they stop being scared for me… they’ll start being scared of me.”

Argent didn’t hesitate this time. He crossed the room in three steps, fell to his knees in front of his son, and took his face in both hands—careful, so careful of the bandages.

He pressed a trembling kiss to Silver’s forehead, just above the wound.

His voice was low, raw, and full of unshakable conviction.

“Then I’ll remind them who you are,” he said, eyes shining. “Every damn day. I swear to you, Silver, I will.”

And finally, finally, Silver let go.

The tears fell. Hot, silent, unrelenting. He didn’t wipe them away. He didn’t hide them. He didn’t have to.

Not here. Not with him.

For the first time since it happened, Silver didn’t feel like a monster.

He just felt like someone’s son.

🌕

The apartment was still, dimly lit with the low hum of the fridge in the background. A sliver of moonlight slipped in through the window blinds, casting pale silver lines across the hallway floor.

Silver moved slowly down the hall, the sleeves of his hoodie pulled over his hands. His steps were uneven, almost dragging. Exhaustion clung to him like fog. A pair of oversized sunglasses sat awkwardly on his face—crooked, clearly too big. A poor disguise, but it let him hide.

He stopped outside Allison’s door. His knuckles hovered just above the wood for a long, uncertain beat. Then he knocked—soft, twice.

“Yeah?” came Allison’s voice from inside.

Silver pushed the door open just a crack and peeked in. His voice was quiet, hesitant.

“Hey… um. Sorry—can I ask you something kinda weird?”

Allison sat cross-legged on her bed, a journal in her lap. She looked up, surprise flickering in her expression—but it softened instantly when she saw him.

“Yeah. Of course.”

He stepped inside fully, one hand tucked deep in his hoodie pocket, the other gently grazing the edge of the sunglasses.

“I, uh… I usually rewrap my eye before bed,” he said. “And… Dad’s asleep. My hands are still kinda shaky, so…” He trailed off, voice catching a little. “Could you help?”

Allison didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Of course, Silver. Sit down.”

He lowered himself into the desk chair with a quiet grunt, like it hurt just to sit. Then, slowly, he pulled the sunglasses off—like he didn’t want to, but knew he had to. When he looked up, Allison’s breath caught.

His face was a mess of healing and hurt. The skin around his eye was swollen and bruised, a vivid scar ran from brow to cheekbone, and the eye itself—clouded, unseeing—looked almost otherworldly in the low light.

Allison flinched. Not from revulsion—never that—but from heartbreak.

“God… Silver,” she whispered.

He gave a shrug, the barest twitch of his shoulders. One corner of his mouth lifted, like he wanted to joke about it but couldn’t summon the energy.

“I know. It’s gross.”

“No. It’s not,” Allison said, firm but gentle. “I just—” She swallowed hard. “I hate that it happened to you.”

She knelt in front of him, pulling out the first-aid kit from her nightstand drawer. As she carefully peeled back the old bandage, her hands trembled slightly.

“Does it hurt?” she asked softly.

Silver sat still on the edge of the bed, the room dim and quiet except for the soft rustle of gauze and the occasional shift of Allison’s movements. She was crouched in front of him, gently wiping away the last of the dried blood clinging to his cheek. Her fingers were careful, steady—but warm. The silence between them wasn’t awkward, but it was heavy, thick with everything they hadn’t said and didn’t know how to.

After a moment, Silver broke it, his voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s weird, seeing out of just one eye,” he said. “The right one works fine, but… everything feels off. Like the world’s tilted, or half of it’s missing.”

He gave a soft, bitter laugh that faded almost as soon as it left him. His eyes stayed on the floor, unfocused.

“I keep turning my head like I’ll catch something on the left, and it’s just—blank space. It’s like trying to walk through a dream that keeps skipping frames.”

Allison looked up at him, her hands frozen mid-wrap. Her eyes shimmered slightly, but she said nothing, waiting—giving him room.

Silver’s voice was low and raw when he continued.

“And when I close the right one? It’s nothing. Just black. No shapes, no light, not even shadows. It’s like that part of the world doesn’t exist anymore. Like I don’t.”

His throat worked as he swallowed hard, jaw tightening as he blinked back the burn behind his eye.

“I didn’t think losing part of my sight would make me feel… less like a person. But it does. And I hate that it does.”

Allison was quiet for a moment longer. Then, without a word, she resumed wrapping the fresh gauze around his temple, her hands just as gentle as before—but now trembling ever so slightly.

Silver dropped his gaze again, watching her movements. When he spoke next, his voice was quieter, stripped of its usual edge—tired more than anything.

“I hate how I feel all the time,” Silver whispered, his voice barely audible. “I hate waking up and being angry before I even know why. I hate how loud my brain gets when it’s quiet. I hate how I’ve been pushing everyone away just to see if anyone would fight to stay.”

He kept his gaze low, fixed on the floor, his hands curled in the sleeves of his hoodie. But then, just barely, his head tilted up—enough for her to see the rawness in his one good eye.

“I miss feeling normal,” he said. “I miss… being someone who didn’t flinch when people touched him.”

Allison froze, fingers hovering near the edge of the bandage. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed back emotion, then met his eyes.

“You’re still you, Silver,” she said gently. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it right now. And you don’t have to carry all this alone.”

Silver blinked slowly, and a tear slipped free, tracing a path down his ruined cheek.

“Why did you do it, Allison?” he asked, his voice cracking under the weight of months of silence. “Why him?”

She sat back slightly, guilt flooding her face like something physical. Her voice trembled.

“I did regret it… as soon as it happened. The first time we kissed—Michael and I—I was so angry at myself. I told myself it was a mistake. But he pulled me back in, and I fell for him.”

She exhaled shakily, twisting her fingers together. “When Mom found out… she told me it was okay. She said it was okay for all of us to be happy.”

Silver let out a short, hollow laugh and leaned away, not in cruelty—but in grief.

“I wasn’t happy,” he said. “You went behind my back with someone I trusted. You both made that choice. I lost you and Michael the same day.”

Allison’s eyes brimmed, but she didn’t defend herself.

“I didn’t think it would break everything,” she said, her voice cracking. “I thought we could find our way back.”

Silver looked at her, the pain etched into every part of his face—bruised, bloodied, and honest.

“You didn’t just break us,” he whispered. “You broke me.”

A long silence settled between them, full of everything they couldn’t undo.

Then—quietly—Allison reached out. Her hand hovered before resting gently over his.

“I’m still your sister,” she said. “I’ll fight to earn that back… even if it takes the rest of my life.”

Silver didn’t answer. But he didn’t pull away.

🌕

Silver stood in the doorway of Scott’s bedroom, barely a silhouette in the moonlight that trickled through the drawn curtains. He wore a hoodie that swallowed his frame, and the dark sunglasses still clung to his face despite the late hour. His fingers twitched at his sides.

Scott looked up from his phone, startled but soft. “Silver?”

There was a long pause before Silver stepped in and shut the door quietly behind him. His shoulders were hunched, like the weight of just standing there might crush him.

“I didn’t want to be alone tonight,” he said quietly.

Scott stood, moving toward him with concern etched into every movement, but he didn’t reach out. “What happened?”

Silver’s breath caught. He didn’t take off the sunglasses. “Sometimes I wake up screaming. Sometimes I wake up and I can’t breathe or move. And sometimes… I just lie there. Wide awake. For hours. Like if I blink, he’s going to be standing over me again.”

Scott stayed silent. He let him talk.

“I don’t know how to sleep anymore,” Silver admitted. “I thought maybe if I was here… I wouldn’t feel like I’m still there.”

“You’re not,” Scott said softly. “You’re safe here. You can stay as long as you want.”

Silver nodded and moved to the bed, sinking onto the edge like he didn’t quite trust it to hold him. He tugged off the hoodie, set his sunglasses on the nightstand with shaking fingers. His T-shirt hung off his shoulders, collar stretched and frayed from restless hands. His eyes stayed low, avoiding Scott’s.

“I still love you,” Silver said, his voice barely a whisper.

Scott inhaled, slow and careful.

“I tried to make myself hate you,” Silver went on. “After everything. After she died. I wanted to make my mom proud, even if it meant pretending I didn’t miss you every damn day. But then I saw them—Allison and Michael—and it was just so easy for them. Like nothing ever broke.”

He laughed bitterly, wiping under his eye. “He never loved me. Not really. Not the way he loves her.”

Scott sat beside him, still giving him space.

“I wanted that,” Silver said. “That thing I had with you. That was real. That was the only reason I came back to Beacon Hills.”

Scott’s voice cracked with softness. “I still love you too, Silver.”

Silver squeezed his eyes shut, letting the truth settle between them like a fragile thing. “But I don’t know how to do this. I can’t be someone’s boyfriend when I can’t even sit in a dark room without shaking. I flinch when people touch me, Scott. I don’t know if I’m ever going to be okay.”

Scott turned toward him. “We don’t have to label anything. You’re here. I’m here. That’s enough.”

Silver looked at him, eyes glossy. “What if I never get better?”

Scott didn’t hesitate this time. He reached for Silver’s hand and laced their fingers together. “Then I’ll still love you exactly as you are. No timeline. No pressure.”

Silver stared at their joined hands. Then, with something like a sob, he moved into Scott’s arms. His body trembled as he buried his face against Scott’s chest, his breath uneven and hot against his shirt.

“Just stay with me,” he whispered.

“I will,” Scott said.

They stayed like that—no more words, no more fears—just two boys trying to breathe in the same space again. And when they finally slipped beneath the covers, Scott kept his arm around Silver, steady and quiet, holding him through the nightmares that never came.