𝗦𝗜𝗕𝗬𝗟 𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗢𝗪
chapter twenty three

        The blinding light from above fades into a fluorescent hum as Erica's eyes adjust, squinting against the harsh brightness in the crowded ER. She blinks, disoriented, feeling the stiff hospital gown scratch against her skin, a reminder of the countless visits she's endured for her condition. Melissa McCall's voice breaks through the haze, warm and reassuring, as she checks Erica's pupils with a penlight, giving her a smile that feels like home in the cold, clinical space.

           Melissa's joke about her legs gets a smirk out of Erica, and for a moment, the tension melts away. As Melissa smooths Erica's hair, her touch is gentle, almost motherly, and Erica allows herself to relax. But as Melissa steps back, Erica closes her eyes, feeling a weight settle over her—another hospital trip, another round of medication, another reminder of her illness. She tries to block it out, to drift off into a space where her body doesn't betray her.

           Without warning, she feels the gurney begin to move, the air around her shifting as if someone is guiding her through the space. Her eyes flutter open to find the familiar ER bustling around her replaced by a corridor of stark white walls, sterile and silent. Panic flares, and she tries to turn her head, to see who's pushing her. But a firm hand comes down, pressing her back, keeping her still.

     The hallway morphs as she's wheeled through swinging doors, a chill creeping up her spine as she sees the metallic gleam of morgue drawers reflected back at her. With a surge of adrenaline, she sits up, turning to face a figure holding a small pill bottle, reading its label like he's casually browsing the ingredients of a snack. His dark eyes, flecked with unsettling red, finally meet hers.

       "Who are you?" she asks, her voice faltering between fear and curiosity.

        Derek's casual approach and his deep, unwavering gaze make her heart beat faster, an unspoken promise hanging heavy in the air. She watches him with bated breath as he moves in closer, the world narrowing down to his penetrating stare and the cold, sterile room fading away. She wants to look back, to escape, but his eyes—brilliant and red, impossibly dark and otherworldly—hold her captive.

          When he speaks, his words slice through her fear like a blade: "What if all this could go away?" His fingers brush her ankle, sparking a sensation that's unfamiliar, electric, and terrifyingly thrilling. She's never felt this kind of power, this pull, as he closes the space between them, leaning in with an intensity that takes her breath away.

        "What if everything got better?" His voice is low, a dangerous murmur that promises a life free from weakness, a future beyond this hospital bed and the pitying stares of others. Erica's voice is barely a whisper as she asks, "How?"

          Derek's eyes gleam with a fierce, supernatural light, and in the ominous red glow, she feels a rush—a tantalizing, dizzying offer of transformation, of power, of something beyond anything she's known. Her heartbeat thunders in her ears as his hands pull her closer, a whisper of what's to come hovering in the charged silence between them.

        Celeste spotted Stiles and Scott in the bustling school hallway, leaning against their lockers in a heated, whispered conversation. She walked up to them with an easy smile, masking the unease simmering beneath her calm exterior.

      "Hey!" she greeted, her voice bright but with a nervous edge that only Stiles might catch.

       Stiles looked up, caught off guard, stumbling over his words. "H-Hey," he replied, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. Scott waved casually, but Celeste's attention was fixed on Stiles. Her expression softened as she leaned in.

      "I need to show you something," she said, voice low but urgent.

        Stiles blinked, caught off guard. "Uh, yeah... okay," he managed, but Celeste was already reaching for his arm, pulling him through the crowded hallway. He threw a quick look at Scott, who shrugged, a bemused smile playing on his lips. They weaved through the groups of students, slipping into the hushed quiet of the library.

          In the dim light filtering through the library's tall windows, the ancient smell of old books and polished wood added to the gravity of Celeste's mood. She motioned for Stiles to sit at a corner table and pulled out a weathered, leather-bound notebook from her bag, the edges of its pages yellowed with age. Stiles leaned forward, curiosity glinting in his eyes.

        "Alright, you know how you told me to go to my granpa and find answers? I did that" she began, taking a breath as if to brace herself, "this goes way back... back to the Salem witch trials. There was this woman, a young woman, accused of witchcraft. She was feared for what people called 'sight beyond sight'—the ability to see into the future, to glimpse things people weren't supposed to know. Her name was Sybil Harrow."

     Stiles' brows furrowed as he glanced up at her, mouth slightly agape. "Wait—Harrow?"

       Celeste nodded, a faint smile touching her lips as she met his gaze. "Yes. Sybil was my great-grandmother, maybe eight or nine times back. She was a Harrow, like me. The story goes that when the people of Salem found out she could see the future, they turned on her. They accused her of being a witch and... well, they burned her." She took a shaky breath, struggling with the intensity of what her family had passed down to her.

      Stiles leaned forward, enthralled. "But... if they burned her, how...?"

            Celeste placed a finger on the notebook, tracing the barely legible script as if it might help her speak. "Before she died, Sybil warned her daughter, Cassandra. She told her to leave Salem, to run as far as she could to escape the same fate. So, Cassandra fled and eventually found a home here, in Beacon Hills. But Sybil left behind a prophecy before she died—a warning, I guess. She said that every few generations, one woman born in a year ending in five would carry her sight, her curse... and her gift."

    Her words hung in the air between them, almost dreamlike.

       Stiles' gaze drifted down to her wrist, where the faint mark from the most recent word was still visible. "So, the words... they're like... visions?" he murmured, piecing it together slowly.

             Celeste hesitated, looking down at her wrist, where faint shadows of past words seemed to linger in her mind. "I guess," she said softly, almost as if confessing a secret she'd kept hidden for too long. "The words... they don't just show up randomly. They're like foreshadowing. A warning." She glanced up, searching Stiles' face. "When I was nine, a word appeared on my wrist. It just said 'fire.' I didn't know what it meant, and I didn't tell anyone because I thought it was just... weird. But a week later, the Hale house burned down." Her voice cracked as she remembered the confusion and fear of that night, how she'd tried to piece together her own connection to the tragedy.

          Stiles stared at her, his eyes widening as he tried to process everything. "Wait... so you're telling me the words are like... a warning system? Some kind of supernatural heads-up?" He looked at her wrist, almost as if expecting another word to appear right then.

     He swallowed hard, his usual playful energy replaced by something somber, almost reverent. "Celeste, this isn't just... I mean, you could literally change things before they happen. You could save people. Or stop something awful."

      She paused, letting out a slow breath. "But it's terrifying. I mean, knowing that something might happen and just waiting around, hoping I understand it in time... It makes me feel like I'm supposed to do something, and I don't even know where to start."

      She looked away for a moment, feeling the weight of her own words. "I was born in 1995, Stiles."

    The realization hit him, and his face softened. "So... that means you really can—" He hesitated, glancing around the quiet library before lowering his voice to a whisper. "You can actually see the future."

     She looked down at her hands, her fingers trembling slightly. "I think it means I have Sybil's gift," she murmured, almost as if saying it out loud made it real in a way she wasn't sure she could handle.

         Stiles tried to keep his own composure, his mind racing. "So... wait," he said slowly, trying to make sense of it. "Your ancestor, the woman who could see the future—she knew she'd die, and she sent her daughter here, knowing someday you'd be the one who inherited this?"

           Celeste's voice grew even softer, an odd mix of reverence and fear in her tone. "Yes. And it doesn't stop there. My family kept records, pieced together all the fragments that survived, stories passed down through generations." She bit her lip, trying to gauge his reaction, her voice a little steadier. "I'm not the first to have this... gift. But every other woman with it has died young. My grandmother, she died of an heart attack when she was twenty four- it was stress related- because she saw the future"

     Stiles' face paled. "But... there has to be some way to break it, right?"

       Celeste met his gaze, holding it steady for a long moment. "I don't know," she whispered. "But... maybe that's why the words come to me. Maybe they're the key to figuring this out, or maybe..." She trailed off, voice wavering.

     A long silence passed before Stiles reached over, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. "If this is real," he said softly, "you're not alone in this. We'll figure it out together."

        Celeste's smile was faint, but for the first time, it felt like hope. "Thank you, Stiles," she whispered, her voice steadier now.

        In the dim classroom, the monotone voice of the video narrator drifts across rows of students slouched in their seats, each lost in their own world. The words blend with the flickering images on the screen: Petri dishes, lab coats, close-ups of bacterial growth. Jackson leans back in his chair, half-listening, his focus more on the ticking clock than on the lecture.

Beside him, Matt nudges Jackson with a whisper that cuts through his daze. "Dude. What the hell did you do to my camera?" Jackson's eyes flicker toward him, vaguely annoyed but uninterested. "Huh?" he mutters, his voice detached.

      Matt looks more intense, though, eyebrows knitted in frustration as he holds out the cracked lens. "The lens is cracked," he whispers sharply, irritation seeping into his words. "Did you drop it? You know how expensive this thing is?" Matt's whisper turns almost pleading, as if trying to keep Jackson's attention on him instead of drifting back into his own world.

       Jackson shrugs, barely glancing at the camera. "Just send me a bill," he replies flatly, brushing it off, his mind already returning to the droning voice of the narrator.

          "Meaning the subject is now immune." The phrase reverberates from the video, sinking into Jackson with unexpected weight. He turns his gaze back to the screen as the word "immune" lingers, an almost haunting echo in his mind. It brings with it a strange, unwelcome clarity, nudging memories of restless nights and hidden wounds he's yet to understand. Immune. He turns, a thought surfacing from some deep corner of his mind.

     His gaze finds Lydia across the room. She's fully absorbed in the video, her expression calm and attentive, oblivious to his stare. 

         The bell rings sharply, its sound signaling the end of class and the rush of students streaming out into the hallways. Jackson, however, doesn't follow the crowd. He stalks through the throngs of students, his eyes locked on Lydia. His pace quickens, his jaw tight with tension, until he reaches her and grabs her arm, yanking her to a stop.

        "What the hell's wrong with you?" he demands, his voice low but edged with a dangerous intensity.

       Lydia looks up at him, confused and startled by the sudden aggression. "What?" she asks, her voice shaky as she tries to pull her arm free from his grasp.

     Without warning, Jackson jerks at the side of her shirt, attempting to lift it, his eyes scanning for any signs of the wound that should be healing. His rage is palpable, a storm brewing behind his eyes. Lydia, in a panic, slaps his hand away.

     "Show it to me," Jackson presses, his anger rising.

      Lydia recoils, her face flushed with both fear and confusion. "Are you out of your mind?" she snaps back, the words barely registering before she's backing into a locker, desperate to put some space between them.

       Jackson doesn't relent. "Nothing happened to you. It's like... like you're immune," he spits out, his words coated in frustration and a sense of betrayal. "You're not like the rest of us. You didn't change—nothing happened to you."

      Lydia stares at him, completely bewildered. "I don't have a clue what you're talking about," she says, her voice a mixture of confusion and fear. She doesn't know what he's talking about—how could she?

     Jackson's eyes flare with rage, and he takes a step closer, voice low but cutting. "It's you. Whatever it is—blood, saliva, whatever soul-killing substance is running through your veins—you did this to me. You ruined it for me." He spits out the words like venom, his fists clenching at his sides.

      Lydia stares at him, the shock settling over her. She can't understand why he's blaming her, what she's done to make him hate her so much. "You ruin everything," he finishes with a sharp breath, his words punctuated by the seething anger in his voice. He storms off, leaving her standing there, breathless and frightened, the harsh words still echoing in her head.

    Lydia can't understand it. Nothing makes sense. She stumbles into the girls' bathroom, desperate to regain her composure, but the tears have already started to flow. She forces them back, blotting her eyes with a wad of toilet paper as she tries to push the hurt away. But then, she freezes. Her eyes widen as she notices something strange.

             A pair of bare feet. Just outside the stall. The feet are dirty, as though they've been walking in mud or dust. Lydia's heart skips a beat. "Hello? This is the Girl's Room," she calls out, her voice shaky as she peers toward the bottom of the stall door, trying to make sense of the situation.

       There's no response. Just the strange stillness of the room. She hesitates, then slowly reaches for the lock on the stall door, but before she can even fully open it, she finds herself frozen in place. The feet are still there, standing motionless. As if they're waiting for her to make the first move.

       In a panic, Lydia yanks the door open, but there's no one there. The bathroom is empty. Her pulse quickens, and she feels a chill run down her spine. How could they have disappeared so quickly?

        Lydia steps into the hallway, her breath shallow as she glances down the empty corridor. But then, out of the corner of her eye, she sees him—the figure. The shape of someone rounding a corner at the end of the hall. He's barely visible for a moment, but she spots something odd—bare feet, just like the ones from the bathroom.

        Curiosity outweighs her fear, and she follows, keeping a careful distance. She turns the corner, trying to catch a glimpse of who it is, and when she does, her heart skips a beat. For a brief second, she's sure the man looks like Peter Hale, his figure dark and mysterious, his face obscured by the shadows.

        Lydia watches as he moves down the hall, then into the lobby. She hesitates, but her curiosity pushes her to follow, staying hidden around corners. She stops short as she sees the man standing in front of a trophy case, his hand pressed against the glass.

       Lydia lingers, waiting, watching the strange figure. After a moment, the figure slowly peels his hand away from the glass and walks off, disappearing down the hallway. Lydia hesitates, then moves toward the case, her eyes locked on the fading handprint left behind on the glass. She reaches out, her fingers brushing against the cool surface, and she gasps.

          As the handprint begins to fade, she sees what was hidden beneath it—a basketball trophy, its plaque tarnished with age. The name on the plate sends a jolt of recognition through her: Peter Hale.

         The cafeteria buzzes with the usual noise of clattering trays and chatter, but Stiles is on a mission. He darts through the crowd, navigating the tables with practiced ease, until he reaches the one large table that's typically reserved for Boyd. Boyd, the giant of a student, sits there, alone as usual, looking almost comically out of place with his sheer size dominating the bench.

       Stiles slides into the seat across from him, pulling out a twenty-dollar bill and sliding it across the table. Boyd, with a slow and deliberate motion, pulls out a set of keys and holds them up. Just as Stiles reaches for them, Boyd closes his fist around the keys, a smirk crossing his face.

     "Got the keys?" Stiles asks, barely able to mask his impatience.

      Boyd stares at the twenty, then looks up at Stiles with an almost bored expression. "This isn't a favor. It's a transaction."

      "Right, absolutely," Stiles responds, straightening up and trying to keep the mood light. He slides the twenty further across the table, but Boyd simply looks at it with a flat expression.

     "I said fifty."

        "Really? I could have sworn you said twenty," Stiles protests, with a sheepish grin. "I have a really good verbal memory. There was a distinctive 'twuh' sound, you know? As in twenty."

     Boyd doesn't blink. "I said fifty. Which has a 'fuh' sound. Hear the difference? If you can't, I could demonstrate some other words with a 'fuh' sound."

      Stiles frowns, leaning in. "I think I'm recalling it now. Maybe I got it confused with forty?"

     He places another twenty on the table. Boyd's eyes stay unmoved.

      "Come on, dude," Stiles adds, his tone edging toward desperation. "Have you seen the piece of crap Jeep I drive?"

        Boyd shrugs. "You seen the piece of crap bus I take?"

     With a resigned sigh, Stiles finally drops a ten-dollar bill onto the table. Boyd turns his hand, and with a slow motion, the keys are handed over. Stiles snatches them up quickly, muttering something under his breath about never negotiating with Boyd again.

      As he walks away, heading toward Scott's table, Stiles is feeling the slight burn in his wallet but also the relief of getting what he needed. Scott, however, is distracted, his eyes scanning the room, focused on something only he can hear. Stiles, confused, follows Scott's gaze, looking toward the doors just as they begin to open.

       The noise in the cafeteria seems to fade into the background, and for a moment, everything feels like it slows down. People begin turning their heads toward the door. Stiles can feel the shift in the room, the collective energy drawing everyone's attention to the figure stepping through the entrance.

         Long, toned legs appear first, then a striking figure walks into the room, catching every eye in her path. A flash of a bare midriff sends jaws dropping, both guys and girls alike. The person, though, is unmistakably Erica—though she doesn't look anything like the girl who had climbed that wall just hours ago. Her hair flows perfectly, and her skin radiates flawless confidence as she makes her way toward the cafeteria counter. She picks up a red apple with slow deliberation and pays with a dollar, even making the cashier look at her in awe.

         At a table nearby, Lydia, who had been leaning over and talking to Celeste, freezes. Her eyes widen as she watches Erica's transformation unfold before her. With a loud thud, Lydia slams her hands on Scott and Stiles's table. "What. The holy hell. Is that?"

      Scott rises without thinking, drawn to the figure who has completely changed. His eyes narrow as he watches Erica, and in that instant, he recognizes the change—not just physical, but something deeper.

       "That's Erica," Scott says, his voice almost in disbelief.

        Celeste leans back in her chair, her eyes following Erica's every step. She lifts an eyebrow, glancing at Lydia before speaking with a smirk, "She looks good."

        Lydia shoots her a look ''She looks...perfect''

       Celeste just shrugs casually ''Maybe it's the lightning?'' . Her gaze flicks back to Erica, who walks confidently toward the door, a slight smile playing on her lips as she takes a delicate bite of her apple.

         As Erica exits, the entire cafeteria stares after her, caught up in the aura of change that surrounds her. But one person doesn't seem as stunned—Jackson. He stands in the back, his teeth clenched, eyes fixed on Erica with a seething intensity. His rage is palpable, and there's no doubt in his mind how this transformation happened. He knows the power that can change someone. And he's not happy about it.

           Scott, without thinking, stands up, his eyes still locked on Erica. He moves toward the door to follow her, with Stiles right on his heels, both of them trying to make sense of what they've just witnessed. The room hums with whispered questions and theories, but all Stiles can focus on is the unease that's growing in the pit of his stomach. Something's changing, and he's not sure he's ready for it.