𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗕𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗞𝗦 & 𝗙𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗡𝗗𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗣𝗦
chapter  twelve

            As night enveloped the school, casting shadows along the walls of the empty hallways, Mr. Harris finished cleaning up the chemistry lab with a weary sigh. His day had been particularly draining, and he was eager to escape the echoing silence of the school. He reached for his notebook, about to place it in his briefcase, when his eye fell on a crumpled piece of paper on his desk. Brow furrowing, he picked it up, eyes skimming over the names and addresses scrawled across it. Each name bore a familiar pattern—David M. Harris, Lionel B. Harris, Grant S. Harris—all crossed off. At the bottom, one name remained uncrossed: Adrian R. Harris.

         Mr. Harris stiffened, lowering the paper to stare at the nameplate on his desk. The dark emptiness of the hallway outside filled him with a sudden, chilling sense of vulnerability. His heartbeat quickened as he quickly folded the list, stuffing it deep into his briefcase. He turned to the door, but a strange feeling washed over him, a silent warning that he wasn't alone. Pausing, he drew a shallow breath and whispered, "Please, don't kill me."

      A shadow shifted in the darkness behind him, barely visible but unsettling in its presence. A whispery voice slithered from the shadows, its tone menacing and otherworldly. "Do you know who wrote that list?"

             Harris swallowed hard, frozen with fear as the figure took a step closer. He barely found his voice to reply. "Laura... Laura Hale."

           "Do you know why she was looking for you?" the voice asked, laced with malice. Harris shook his head, too terrified to speak. As the figure moved closer, its shape seemed to warp and change, growing larger and more monstrous. The strange voice cut through his fear, insistent. "Turn around, Adrian. Turn around and I'll show you."

         Harris couldn't move, paralyzed by terror. His mind raced, and his breaths came in shallow gasps. "No. Please," he begged, shutting his eyes tightly.

         "Look at me," the voice hissed. "Look at what you've done."

             Suddenly, a table flipped over beside him, crashing into the wall and jolting Harris with a rush of pure panic. He pressed himself against the wall, his only thought to escape. But then another voice broke through, urgent and familiar. "Get down!" Derek Hale's voice called out, and before he could react, Derek was in front of him, grabbing his jacket and yanking him down as another table flew across the room.

            They both turned in time to see the rear door clattering open, the dark shape slipping into the night, vanishing into the shadows beyond. Harris, half-collapsed on the floor, clutched Derek's arm, his mind reeling from what he'd just witnessed.

           Suddenly, bright, blinding lights flooded through the windows, and a commanding voice came through a bullhorn from outside. "Hands up! This is the Sheriff's Department. Do not move!"

              Derek pushed Harris away from him, his gaze shifting to the door. He knew he had to move—fast. Without a backward glance, he darted toward the exit, disappearing into the dark as the police stormed the building.

       Scott followed closely behind Stiles as they pushed through the double doors into the bustling high school hallway, his nerves tangled around the seemingly impossible task ahead. "This is going to be impossible, you know?" he muttered, keeping his voice low.

         Stiles didn't miss a beat. "Just ask her if you can borrow it."

           Scott frowned, confusion etched on his face. "How?"

              "Simple. You just ask." Stiles made it sound easy, but then his voice took on a mocking tone. "Hey, Allison, can I borrow your necklace to see if there's something on it or in it that will lead me to an Alpha werewolf I need to kill so I can get back together with you?"

           Scott shot him a frustrated look. "You're not helping."

         "Just talk to her," Stiles said, shrugging like it was the most obvious solution in the world.

          "She won't talk to me," Scott insisted, trying to imagine approaching Allison for something so weird. "And what if she only takes it off when she's, like, in the shower?"

          Stiles rolled his eyes, exasperated. "That's why you ease into it. Get back on her good side. Remind her of the good times. Then you ask for the necklace."

           Scott stared at Stiles, an awkward silence stretching between them as the mental image of Allison in the shower lingered. Stiles smirked, raising an eyebrow. "You're thinking about her in the shower, aren't you?"

        Scott's face flushed. "Yes."

          "Stay focused," Stiles ordered. "Get the necklace, get the Alpha, get cured, get Allison back. In that order. Got it?"

        Scott nodded, repeating it back to himself like a mantra. "Get the necklace."

              As they moved under the buzzing fluorescent lights, the tension between Scott's mission and his heart tightened. But before he could dwell on it, Jackson appeared, striding straight toward him with an unnerving sense of purpose. Scott turned to his locker, pretending not to notice, but Jackson stopped beside him, his voice a casual menace.

         "I know what you are, McCall."

       Scott's fingers froze over the combination lock, his heart skipping a beat. "Wh—what?"

            Jackson leaned closer, lowering his voice but still dripping with confidence. "I know what you are. And here's the thing. However you came to be what you are? You're going to get it for me too."

       Scott forced himself to meet Jackson's gaze, masking his unease. "Get what for you?"

         "Whatever it is. A bite? Scratch? Sniffing magic fairy dust under the moonlight? I don't care." Jackson pointed down the hallway to where Allison was at her locker. "Or she's going to find out, too."

         Moments later, Scott and Stiles burst into a quieter hallway, their words tumbling out, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

          Stiles's eyes were wide with worry. "How the hell did he find out?"

         Scott shook his head, his thoughts racing. "I have no idea."

          Stiles leaned in, almost whispering. "Did he say it out loud? The word."

         Scott blinked, still rattled. "What word?"

     Stiles lowered his voice even further. "Werewolf. Did he say, 'I know you're a werewolf?'"

       "No," Scott replied, glancing nervously around. "But he implied it pretty freaking clearly."

          Stiles tried to sound optimistic. "Okay, maybe it's not as bad as it seems. He has no proof, right? And if he wanted to tell someone, who's going to believe him anyway?"

        Scott shook his head. "How about Allison's father?"

         Stiles paled, taking a deep breath. "Okay, it's bad. Very bad. Four-alarm fire bad. Def Con 1 bad."

         Scott clenched his fists, his frustration bubbling over. "I need a cure. Right now."

         Stiles leaned back, deep in thought. "He doesn't know about Allison's dad, does he?"

       "No," Scott said, though it felt like a thin thread of hope.

       Stiles's eyes lit up. "Where's Derek?"

        "Hiding. Like we told him to. Why?"

          "I have another idea," Stiles replied, glancing at Scott. "But it might take a little time and finesse."

          Scott's shoulders tensed. "Remember we have the game tonight. Quarterfinals. And it's your first game."

          Stiles groaned, realizing the stakes. "I know, I know. You have a plan for Allison?"

        Scott took a breath, the weight of everything sinking in. "She's in my next class."

         Stiles patted him on the back. "Then get the necklace."

       Scott nodded, grounding himself in his goal. "Get the necklace."

            The bell rings sharply, signaling the start of class. Students shuffle to their seats, and Scott spots an empty one directly behind Allison. He moves quickly, determined, but just as he's about to sit, a leg swings up to block him. Lydia's cool gaze lands on him, her lips curving into a smirk.

              "Try another row, sweetheart," she says, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. Celeste, sitting beside Lydia with a knowing smile, adds with a soft chuckle, "Not your seat today, Scott. Better luck next time."

           Scott hesitates, glancing at Allison, who shifts uncomfortably but doesn't interject. Reluctantly, he moves a few rows back, finding a seat further behind her. He keeps his eyes fixed on her, willing her to notice him. Finally, Allison turns to her friends, her voice soft but firm.

         "You didn't have to do that," she mutters to Lydia and Celeste.

       Lydia tilts her head, raising an eyebrow. "You need an ex-boyfriend buffer for a little while."

         "Definitely," Celeste adds, her expression sympathetic but unwavering. "It's for the best, trust me."

         Scott leans forward, almost falling out of his seat in a desperate attempt to reach Allison's ear. "Allison..."

        Lydia, watching the scene with a half-amused, half-annoyed look, nudges Celeste. "See what I mean?"

          Allison finally turns back, meeting Scott's hopeful gaze, though her expression is guarded. "Hey. Class is beginning."

          Scott nods, his tone low and gentle. "I know, and I'll be quick. I'm sending you something I had on my phone. Thought you might want it."

      She gives a small, reluctant nod, glancing away as Mrs. Ramsey, the English teacher, begins the lesson with her usual air of authority.

        "All right," Mrs. Ramsey's voice cuts through the room, "today we'll dive deeper into Iago's manipulation and the way he preys upon Othello's insecurities."

              Allison's phone buzzes softly on her desk. She glances down, unlocking it to find Scott's message: a picture from better days. It's a snapshot of them together, her hands wrapped around him as he holds her close. Another photo follows: their fingers intertwined, faces close, smiling. There's a final image—a candid one of Scott kissing her cheek, his eyes half-closed, while Allison captures it with her outstretched arm.

          Scott watches, hopeful, as she scrolls through each photo, a small smile flitting across her face. But the happiness fades just as quickly, her expression turning pained. She swallows, blinking back sudden tears, her eyes flashing with barely-contained frustration as she looks up to meet his gaze.

         Before he can process her reaction, Allison abruptly gathers her things. Her movements are quick, jerking as she shoves her books into her bag, pushing her chair back with a loud scrape that draws the attention of the entire class.

         Mrs. Ramsey stops mid-sentence, eyebrows raised in disapproval. "Allison, is there a problem?"

             Ignoring the stares, Allison hoists her bag over her shoulder, shooting Scott one last, tear-filled glance. Without another word, she turns and walks out, her footsteps echoing down the hall.

          Celeste stood in the empty girls' bathroom, applying a fresh coat of lipstick, humming softly to herself as she perfected the color. The space was calm, quiet, the kind of quiet that made her feel momentarily at ease. But just as she capped her lipstick, the bathroom door flew open, and Lydia burst in, her face streaked with fresh tears. Celeste's eyes widened in surprise, and she froze as Lydia made a beeline for the nearest stall, slamming the door shut behind her.

            "Lyds?" Celeste called out softly, concern filling her voice. "You okay?"

          Silence. She waited a beat, then slipped her lipstick into her bag, frowning. When Lydia didn't respond, Celeste walked closer to the stall door. She tapped on it three times—a code they'd used since childhood to let the other know who was there, a quiet reminder that she was safe.

        After a long pause, Lydia's voice came back, trembling. "Come in."

              Celeste gently opened the stall door to find Lydia perched on the closed toilet seat, her face buried in her hands. She knelt down in front of her friend, her heart breaking a little at the sight. "What happened?" she asked softly.

          Lydia lifted her head, her eyes red and swollen. "He b-broke up with me. Jackson actually broke up with me," she stammered, her voice cracking.

             Celeste sighed, pulling some tissues from her bag and reaching out to pat Lydia's tear-streaked cheeks. "Oh, honey," she murmured, dabbing gently. "Only a guy with a two-sizes-too-small ego would break up with the best girl in the entire school. Seriously, what did he do, finally realize he's dating someone way out of his league?"

              That got a little laugh out of Lydia, who sniffled, her lips turning up at the corners despite herself. Celeste grinned, encouraged, and kept going. "I mean, come on, Lyds. He probably looked in the mirror, saw his own reflection, and realized there was no way he could compete with you. Trust me, I've known this guy for years, and I promise, he's only half as great as he thinks he is."

       Lydia let out a shaky laugh, reaching for another tissue. "You're right. He's... he's kind of an idiot, isn't he?"

            "The biggest." Celeste nodded, squeezing Lydia's hand. "And listen, you're way too amazing to cry over a guy who can't see that. Anyone who would walk away from you is clearly missing a few brain cells. Or maybe he's just so jealous that he can't handle being seen next to someone who shines brighter than him."

         Lydia's laugh came stronger this time, the color returning to her cheeks. "You know, you always know what to say."

        Celeste shrugged with a smirk. "Well, someone's gotta keep you from ugly-crying. I mean, Lyds, no offense, but mascara rivers aren't a great look on you."

          Lydia rolled her eyes, nudging Celeste's shoulder. "Thanks," she whispered, a little embarrassed but visibly comforted. "You're the best."

           "Always." Celeste winked, standing up and offering her hand to help Lydia to her feet. "Now come on. Let's fix that makeup, walk out of here, and make sure everyone knows that Jackson just lost the best thing that ever happened to him."

          With a fresh smile, Lydia took her hand, standing a little taller.

           Later that night, Lydia and Celeste found themselves sprawled out on the floor of Celeste's bedroom, the dim light casting a warm glow over the posters and photos taped to the walls. A bottle of soda, a bag of chips, and an assortment of makeup they'd half-heartedly tried on between fits of laughter lay scattered around them. The remnants of a full-blown girls' night.

          Celeste grabbed her phone, scrolling through her playlists, and stopped when she spotted a familiar song. She looked over at Lydia with a mischievous smile. "You know what we need right now?" she asked, already knowing her friend's answer.

         Lydia's eyes lit up as she caught the first few guitar notes of "Mr. Brightside." She gasped, her sadness from earlier forgotten. "Yes!" She scrambled to her feet, reaching out for Celeste's hand.

         Celeste laughed and took it, pulling Lydia up as they both started belting out the lyrics, off-key and unapologetically loud. Lydia spun around, laughing so hard she nearly lost her balance, and Celeste caught her, the two of them now a tangled mess of limbs and laughter.

           Celeste struck a dramatic pose, flipping her hair, singing, "Jealousy, turning saints into the sea!" and Lydia followed her lead, pretending to swoon before breaking into uncontrollable giggles. They jumped on Celeste's bed, bouncing and spinning, arms linked, as the chorus blasted through the speakers.

           Lydia, catching her breath, leaned in close, shouting over the music. "Thank you for this. I needed it so much."

          Celeste gave her a knowing smile and squeezed her hand. "Always, Lyds. Who else would I dance like a maniac with?"

           They twirled around again, the music filling every corner of the room, their laughter echoing through the house. For a moment, nothing else mattered—no boys, no heartbreaks, no drama—just the two of them, wrapped up in their friendship and the joy of a night that was theirs alone.

        As the song faded out, Lydia plopped down on the bed, breathless but beaming. Celeste fell beside her, lying side by side as they stared up at the ceiling.

          "You're like my person, you know?" Lydia murmured, still catching her breath. "No matter what happens, I feel like I'm good as long as I have you."

           Celeste looked over, her face softening as she nudged Lydia's shoulder with her own. "Right back at you. We're stuck with each other, forever."

                They both lay there in a comfortable silence, a promise of unbreakable friendship between them, both knowing that no matter what the world threw at them, they'd always have each other's backs

                     As Celeste and Lydia lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling and basking in the warmth of their friendship, Celeste absentmindedly brushed her fingers across her wrist, feeling the cool skin beneath her touch. In that moment of blissful laughter and connection, she didn't notice the faint, jagged letters etched into her skin, the word "ATTACKED" now a permanent reminder of a night that had taken a turn she could hardly fathom. 

               The engraving pulsed subtly, a chilling contrast to the warmth of their shared laughter, a mark of the darkness lurking beneath the surface of their seemingly perfect evening. Oblivious to the significance of the inscription, Celeste smiled at Lydia, lost in the comfort of their bond, while the weight of what lay ahead began to loom silently in the shadows, waiting for its moment to strike.