"So! Lydia's party tonight!"
Stiles's voice cut through the cafeteria noise, excited and insistent as always.
It was Friday at lunchtime, and I was sitting with Stiles and Scott at our usual table near the windows. A week had passed since my first controlled transformation, and I'd been practicing every day. Amber eyes were now almost second nature—I could summon them and hold them for entire minutes.
The claws were still tricky. But progress was progress.
Scott was poking at his food without much interest, clearly distracted.
"I can't go," he said. "My mom wants me to stay home. She said something about quality time together."
"You ARE going," Stiles insisted. "Allison's going to be there."
Scott immediately looked up, sudden interest lighting his eyes.
"She is?"
"Obviously. It's Lydia's party. Everyone's going." Stiles grinned, knowing he'd hooked him. "Including the girl you stare at like a lovesick puppy every time she walks by."
"I don't—" Scott started to protest, then stopped, blushing. "Okay, maybe a little."
"A little?" Stiles laughed. "Dude, you almost walked straight into a pole yesterday."
While they argued, Stiles suddenly turned to me.
"And you, newbie? You coming?"
The question caught me off guard.
"A party? I don't know…"
"Oh, come on!" Stiles gestured dramatically. "You need to socialize, man! Meet people. Have fun. You know—things normal teenagers do?"
Normal. The word weighed heavily.
Scott joined in. "He has a point. You barely talk to anyone besides us."
"I talk—"
"Lacrosse doesn't count," Stiles cut in. "I mean actually hanging out. Relaxing. Not being so… tense all the time."
I hesitated. A party meant noise, crowds, sensory overload. But also… maybe Stiles was right. I needed some normalcy. And staying isolated all the time would only draw more attention.
"I'll think about it," I said finally.
"That's a yes." Stiles smiled triumphantly. "Lydia's house, eight o'clock. I'll text you the address. Don't disappoint me!"
That afternoon at home, I told my parents about the invitation.
We were in the living room. My dad was reading the newspaper, my mom organizing some papers she needed to grade. Marcus sat in the armchair as always—present but quiet.
"A party?" My mom looked up, an immediate smile on her face. "That's great, Daniel!"
My dad was more cautious, lowering the newspaper.
"A lot of people. Noise. Your senses will be on overdrive."
"I know," I admitted. "But—"
"He needs to learn how to deal with that," Marcus interrupted, looking at my dad. "He can't avoid social situations forever."
My mom nodded enthusiastically.
"Exactly! He can't live just training." She turned to me, eyes gentle but firm. "You need friends. Normalcy. Teenage moments."
"But the senses—" my dad began.
"He has control now," Marcus said. "We've tested it all week. He can keep his eyes amber for minutes. He can filter sounds when he needs to."
"A party isn't the same as controlled training," my dad argued.
"No. It's chaotic. Unpredictable." Marcus leaned forward. "Exactly the kind of situation he needs to learn to navigate. Better now, with low risk, than during a real emergency."
Silence as my dad considered it.
"Do you think you can handle it?" he finally asked me.
"I don't know," I answered honestly. "But I want to try."
He exchanged a look with my mom, then nodded slowly.
"Alright. But keep your phone charged. And if you feel like you're losing control—"
"I leave and call," I finished. "I know."
My mom was already standing, excited.
"Then we need to choose what you're going to wear!"
Ten minutes later, I was in my room with my mom sorting through clothes.
"This?" She held up a button-down shirt. "Or this?" A more casual T-shirt.
"Mom, I can choose—"
"No, you can't." She gave me that look—the one that allowed no arguments. "You'd show up wearing a shirt with holes in it."
"I wouldn't—"
"You would," my dad said from the doorway, clearly amused. "You have a shirt with holes that you insist on wearing."
"It's comfortable!"
Marcus appeared too, arms crossed, a rare smile on his face.
"Let your mother choose, Daniel. You have no sense of fashion."
"No one asked your opinion," I muttered, though I couldn't help smiling.
Eventually, after much debate (mostly between my mom and herself), we settled on something simple: dark jeans, a plain gray T-shirt, and a denim jacket. Clean sneakers—my mom insisted on those instead of my worn-out training shoes.
"Simple but put together," she said, satisfied. "Perfect."
At seven-thirty, I was ready to leave.
My dad stopped me at the door.
"Phone charged?"
"Yes."
"And you know where the house is?"
"Stiles sent me the address."
Marcus stepped closer, serious.
"If you feel like you're losing control—eyes changing, claws trying to come out, anything—you leave immediately. Call. Don't try to push through it."
"Understood."
My mom pulled me into a tight hug.
"Have fun, sweetheart. You deserve it."
"I'll try."
She held my face in both hands, looking straight into my eyes.
"You're going to be fine. I know you are."
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
Lydia Martin's house was impossible to miss.
Huge. Modern. The kind of neighborhood where every house looked like it came straight out of an architecture magazine. And tonight, it was completely transformed.
Colored lights flashing through the windows. Music—loud, pounding—leaking through the walls. Cars parked everywhere, teenagers arriving in small groups, laughing and shouting.
I stopped on the sidewalk, just staring.
You can do this, I told myself. It's just a party. Normal people. Normal situation.
I took a deep breath and walked up to the front door.
The moment I stepped inside, it hit me like a wave.
NOISE.
Deafening music—heavy bass that made the floor vibrate. Overlapping conversations from dozens—no, hundreds—of voices. Sharp laughter. Excited shouting.
And the smells.
Perfume. So much perfume. Different kinds, all mixed together. Alcohol—beer, something stronger. Sweat from moving bodies. Food—pizza, snacks. All assaulting my nose at once.
And the heartbeats.
I could hear them. All of them. Dozens of hearts beating at different rhythms, creating a cacophony that made my head throb.
I closed my eyes for a second, breathing.
Control it. Filter. Like Marcus taught you.
Consciously, I lowered my hearing. Not turning it off—impossible—but dialing it down. Like adjusting the volume.
The noise was still loud, but manageable.
I opened my eyes.
"DANIEL!"
Stiles appeared out of nowhere, holding a red plastic cup, a huge grin on his face.
"You came!" He was shouting to be heard over the music. "I thought you were gonna bail!"
"Almost did," I admitted.
He laughed, slapping my shoulder.
"Come on! I'll introduce you to people!"
The next hour was a blur of faces and names I couldn't retain.
Stiles dragged me through the house, introducing me to lacrosse players, girls from chemistry class, a group of guys who apparently had a band.
"Daniel, this is Tyler. Tyler, Daniel. Daniel plays lacrosse now!"
"Cool, man. You like Green Day?"
"Uh… yeah?"
"Perfect! We're starting a cover band. We need an audience. You coming to our first show?"
"Sure…?"
And on it went. Surface-level interactions, polite smiles, trying to look relaxed while every sense stayed on high alert.
Eventually, I drifted away, looking for a quieter corner. Or at least something less chaotic.
The kitchen was a bit better. Fewer people. I grabbed a soda from the table full of drinks.
"Hey!"
I turned and saw Allison Argent smiling at me, Scott beside her.
"Hey," I replied, aware of the automatic tension that always came with seeing her.
Allison Argent. Hunter-in-training who doesn't know it yet.
But here and now, she was just a sixteen-year-old girl at a party, wearing jeans and a simple top, smiling genuinely.
"Are you having fun?" she asked.
"It's… busy," I said, not wanting to lie outright.
She laughed. "Lydia's parties always are. But it's fun. You just have to relax a bit."
Scott was clearly hoping for some privacy—his body language screamed please go away even if he was too polite to say it.
I took the hint.
"I'm going to look for Stiles. See you later."
"Bye, Daniel!" Allison waved.
I left the kitchen, breathing a little easier.
She seems so normal. So kind.
Hard to imagine that in a few months she'll know the truth. She'll be hunting people like Scott.
Like me.
In the living room, Lydia was the center of attention, as expected.
She moved between groups, laughing, joking—the perfect queen of her party. When she saw me leaning against the wall alone, she came straight over.
"Daniel Moreno!" Her smile was teasing but friendly. "You came! I thought you'd be too shy."
"Hey, Lydia."
"You need to relax." She studied my face. "It's a party, not a funeral."
Before I could respond, she pulled me into a nearby group.
"Guys, this is Daniel. New, but cool. Daniel, this is… well, it doesn't matter, you won't remember the names anyway."
Laughter from the group. Quick introductions lost in the noise.
"So, Daniel," Lydia said, keeping me included, "you play lacrosse, right?"
"Yeah. Still learning."
"Jackson says you're terrible." She said it with a smile, clearly mocking Jackson, not me.
"Jackson says a lot of things," I replied.
Lydia laughed loudly.
"True! I like you. You've got a spine."
She was called away and left me with the group. I chatted for a few minutes—safe, shallow—before excusing myself.
That's when the music got even louder.
Someone cranked the volume, and the sound hit me like a physical wave.
I closed my eyes involuntarily, sharp pain cutting through my head. The sound reverberated inside my skull, amplified by my heightened senses.
I struggled to filter it, to push the volume back down.
Breathe. Control. It's not real danger. It's just sound.
"You okay?"
Stiles was beside me, concern on his face.
I opened my eyes, forcing a smile.
"Loud music."
"Welcome to Lydia's parties!" he shouted, laughing, having no idea how literal I meant it.
I needed air.
I moved toward the backyard, where there were fewer people. The pool was lit, blue lights rippling across the water, a few couples talking on lounge chairs.
But even here, the smells lingered. Chlorine. Perfume. Alcohol.
And the sounds.
I couldn't shut them out completely. Even with conscious control, there was a limit to how much I could filter.
I caught fragments of private conversations I shouldn't have heard:
A girl crying in the upstairs bathroom, sobbing about her boyfriend.
Two guys near the garage planning to steal an expensive bottle from the bar.
Stiles arguing with another guy about which Zelda game was the best.
Jackson and Lydia having a tense conversation inside the house—"We're done, Jackson." "Lydia, please." "There's nothing left to say."
Overload. That was the only word for it.
Too much information. Too much stimulation. Too much.
I retreated to a darker corner of the yard, leaning against the side of the house, closing my eyes.
Breathe. Focus on ONE thing. Just one.
I chose the sound of the pool water. Gently rippling. A steady rhythm.
Focus on that. Block out the rest.
Slowly, the chaos dropped to a manageable level.
I opened my eyes, exhausted but steadier.
It was… draining. But I was handling it. No loss of control. No eyes changing.
Progress, I reminded myself. You're handling this.
It was around ten-thirty when the atmosphere shifted.
Not visibly. The party continued as usual—music, laughter, teenage chaos.
But I felt something.
A chill at the back of my neck. Familiar. Predatory.
Presence.
My body tensed automatically, every sense sharpening.
I looked toward the front entrance.
And there he was.
Derek Hale.
Black leather jacket, serious, intense expression, dark eyes scanning the room with calculated precision.
He was looking for someone. Scott, probably.
A few people glanced at him oddly—he was clearly too old to be at a high school party—but no one stopped him.
Then his eyes met mine.
Instant recognition.
Three seconds of direct eye contact across the crowded room.
My heart spiked.
It's him. Derek Hale.
He saw me. In the forest. And now here.
I felt my eyes trying to change—that familiar warmth starting.
NO.
I shoved it back with everything I had, breathing steadily.
Derek kept looking at me, something passing over his face. Surprise? Recognition? Calculation?
I quickly looked away, turning and pretending to search for someone in the crowd.
When I glanced back seconds later, Derek had moved. He was crossing the room toward the stairs.
Going after Scott.
I stayed where I was, trying to look casual, but watching.
Derek went upstairs. A few minutes later—an eternity—he came back down with Scott beside him.
Scott looked confused, slightly resistant. Derek was practically guiding him—not forcefully, but with firm insistence.
They stopped near the door, talking. The distance and noise meant no one else could hear.
But I could.
I focused my hearing, filtering out everything except their voices.
"…it's not safe here," Derek was saying, low but intense. "The full moon is coming. You can't be around this many people."
"Leave me alone," Scott replied, trying to pull his arm free. "I'm not like you."
"You don't understand the danger." Frustration edged Derek's voice. "When the full moon comes—"
"I'm staying," Scott cut in firmly. "I'm not letting you ruin this."
Derek released him, expression hard.
"You idiot," he muttered, more to himself than to Scott.
He turned and left, the door slamming behind him.
Scott stood there for a moment, clearly processing, then went back inside, disappearing into the crowd.
I exhaled slowly, heart still racing.
Derek was here. He saw me. But he didn't do anything.
He didn't confront me. Didn't question me.
He just… watched. And left.
Why?
I didn't have much time to think.
Minutes later, I heard something that made everything else stop too.
Sirens.
Distant, but approaching. And I heard them before everyone else—several seconds earlier.
Shit. Cops.
Seconds later, others started to notice.
"POLICE!"
Someone shouted near the front window.
Instant chaos.
"RUN!"
Suddenly everyone was moving. Doors, windows, backyard—teenagers fleeing in every direction.
The music cut abruptly. Screams replaced laughter.
"DANIEL!"
Stiles appeared out of nowhere, grabbing my arm.
"RUN!"
I didn't argue. We ran through the house, through the kitchen, out the back door.
The yard was chaos—people jumping fences, tripping over patio furniture, shouting.
Stiles and I jumped the back fence, landing in a neighbor's yard, still running.
Out onto the street, other teenagers scattering in every direction.
We stopped a few blocks away, hands on our knees, panting.
Stiles was laughing nervously.
"Welcome to Lydia's parties!"
I couldn't help laughing too, adrenaline still pumping.
"Does it always end like this?"
"Most of the time, yeah."
Scott came running up from another direction, also out of breath.
"You guys okay?"
"Yeah," Stiles said. "You?"
"Yeah. Allison too. She left with her friends."
"Where were you, man?" Stiles asked. "I lost you after that weird guy pulled you aside."
"Later," Scott said quickly. "Let's get out of here before the cops start combing the neighborhood."
Stiles offered me a ride, but I declined politely.
"I need to walk. Clear my head."
"You sure?" Stiles asked. "It's late."
"I live close. I'll be fine."
They drove off in Stiles's noisy Jeep, and I started walking home.
The streets were dark and quiet now, the chaos of the party feeling distant and surreal.
My mind replayed everything.
The sensory overload. The control I'd maintained—hard, exhausting, but maintained.
And Derek.
Derek saw me. And he knows.
He knows I'm supernatural. Probably suspects what we are.
But he didn't act. Why?
I unconsciously touched my chest, where the Lupaztlán medallion rested beneath my shirt.
At least I didn't lose control. Music, smells, crowds, Derek… and I held it.
Progress.
I got home around eleven. The living room lights were still on.
Marcus was sitting on the couch, reading a thick book. He looked up when I entered.
"How was it?"
I dropped my jacket over a chair.
"…Complicated."
We sat, and I told him about the night. The party, the sensory overload, how I'd managed to keep control.
Marcus listened in silence, only nodding occasionally.
"And Derek Hale was there," I finished.
That immediately put him on alert.
"Derek? At the party?"
"Looking for Scott." I took a breath. "But… he saw me. We locked eyes."
"Did he react?"
"He recognized me. I know he did. But he didn't do anything. Just… left. After talking to Scott."
Marcus went quiet for a moment, thinking.
"He's investigating," he said finally. "But he doesn't want a direct confrontation. Not yet."
"And now?"
"Now… we wait." Marcus looked straight at me. "If Derek wanted trouble, he would've caused it tonight. He's being cautious. Smart."
A pause.
"But eventually, he'll want answers."
[POV: Derek Hale]
Derek entered the loft an hour after leaving the party, turning on only a single lamp.
He went straight to a corner where he kept an old box—one of the few things he'd managed to salvage from the ruins of the Hale house after the fire.
He opened it. Burned papers, smoke-stained photos, documents that had survived by sheer luck.
He searched until he found what he wanted: a yellowed, worn folder.
"Supernatural Species – Hale Family Records"
His father had kept meticulous records. Knowledge passed down through generations of Hale Alphas about every supernatural creature that existed—or had existed.
Derek flipped through the stained pages.
Wendigos. Kanimas. Banshees. Kitsune.
He stopped on a specific page, the paper especially yellowed and fragile.
"Lupaztlán – Bone Wolves"
There was a drawing—crude but detailed. A humanoid creature covered in bone plates, glowing eyes, extended claws.
He read aloud softly, tracing the faded words with his finger:
"Hybrids of werewolf and berserker. Created centuries ago through druidic rituals and Aztec magic. Combined the ferocity of the wolf with the endurance of the berserker. Guardians of sacred territories."
He turned the page.
"Extremely powerful. Reactive bone armor. Superior regeneration. Senses sharper than common werewolves."
Then, at the bottom, partially blurred:
"Exterminated by druids in the 17th century. Considered too dangerous. Hunted to extinction. Last sightings…"
The rest was illegible, destroyed by fire.
Derek stared at the drawing again.
A mental flash—the wave of energy in the forest. The Moreno family. The boy at the party, eyes almost changing when they locked gazes.
"Lupaztlán," he whispered to the empty loft.
He closed the folder slowly, his mind racing.
But they're extinct. Hunted down. Eradicated.
Unless…
He looked out the loft window at the sleeping town below.
…unless they aren't.
The moon shone through the glass. Huge. Almost full.
Five days, Derek thought. Five days until the full moon. Until Scott completely loses control.
And now a family from a supposedly extinct species in Beacon Hills.
What are you doing here?
He glanced back at the folder, fingers tracing the Lupaztlán drawing.
And what do you want with Scott?
He put the folder back in the box, but his thoughts kept racing.
He needed more information. He needed to confirm his suspicions before acting.
But one thing was certain:
Everything had changed.