Derek stood shirtless near the bookshelf in Malik's dimly lit apartment. The distant buzz of Beacon Hills nightlife filtered through a cracked window, the scents of pine and concrete lingering in the air.
His yellow-green eyes scanned the weathered spines of old books until one caught his attention—thick, leather-bound, the title etched in faded gold script:
"Bestiarum Veritas: Codex of Beasts and Kin."
He pulled it from the shelf, a soft puff of dust rising from the binding. Flipping through, he saw careful sketches of beasts both familiar and foreign. Some looked like werewolves—but older, different. Others had serpentine features, avian wings, eyes like glass, claws like obsidian.
"You've got an eye for history," Malik said, stepping in with two cold beers in hand.
Derek looked up. "Where'd you get this?"
Malik handed him one of the bottles and sat on the couch. "Passed down from my great-great-grandfather. My family's been dealing with creatures like us for a long time. Back before words like werewolf or hunter even meant what they do now."
Derek studied the book, still standing. "Some of these aren't even in the Hale archives."
"That's because hunters and the like hunted them out of existence," Malik said, half-joking, half-serious.
Derek arched a brow but said nothing.
He finally joined Malik on the couch, sipping his beer with one hand, the other holding the book.
"We need to go back to that roof," Derek said after a moment. "Where the Alpha vanished."
"You think it left something behind?" Malik asked.
Derek nodded. "Maybe. Clue, scent, hell—even a footprint."
Malik leaned forward, elbows on knees. "You know... the more bodies this Alpha leaves behind, the more I'm thinking we're looking at this the wrong way."
Derek turned his head slightly, intrigued.
Malik continued. "What if instead of asking how it's killing, we ask why it's picking these people? There's gotta be something that connects them."
Derek considered that. "The bus driver. My sister. The video clerk. That guy in the woods."
Malik smirked. "Exactly. Every hunt has a pattern. Even the wildest predators don't just kill at random. We find the pattern, we find the Alpha."
They clinked bottles in a brief toast, the hunt renewed.
Night fell fast over Beacon Hills.
In the dull glow of neon, Jackson and Lydia stood outside the town's aging video rental store, its windows plastered with faded posters and "2-for-1 Thursday" signs.
"I'm telling you," Jackson groaned, "we've watched The Notebook like six times."
Lydia rolled her eyes. "Because it's an actual movie with emotion, depth, and—"
"—a guy who builds a house and cries in the rain. Great."
She crossed her arms. "Fine. You pick something. But if it's about aliens or fast cars, I'm leaving."
Jackson smirked and stepped inside, bell chiming above him.
The store was quiet.
Too quiet.
Rows of shelves stood like tombstones in a forgotten cemetery. The air was cold and heavy. As Jackson wandered toward the romance section, he called out, "Hey! You guys open?"
No answer.
Then he turned a corner—and stopped.
Behind the register counter, the clerk slumped forward, his throat torn out, crimson dripping from the counter and pooling on the floor.
"What the hell—"
CRASH!
A metal shelf toppled over and slammed into Jackson, pinning him beneath. He gasped in pain, the weight crushing down on his chest.
From the shadows, it emerged—massive, monstrous, and silent.
The Alpha.
It loomed above Jackson, red eyes burning.
Then… it leaned closer, sniffing. Its snout hovered near the back of Jackson's neck, where faint claw marks still lingered—Derek's from earlier that week.
The Alpha paused.
It did not kill.
It only looked.
And then it vanished—crashing through the window and into the night just as Lydia screamed from the car.
Moments later, police sirens wailed.
Stiles pulled up with his dad, Sheriff Stilinski, both of them stepping into chaos as officers swept the area.
Jackson and Lydia were wrapped in blankets, protesting.
"We didn't see anything!"
"It broke through the window! That's it!"
Stiles exchanged a glance with his father. Something didn't add up.
High above the crime scene, Malik and Derek crouched on the roof of an adjacent building, their eyes scanning the shattered glass and the pool of blood.
Derek stood still, his senses open.
"He was right here," he murmured. "But he didn't kill Jackson. Why?"
Malik tilted his head. "That's the second time he's spared someone he had dead to rights. First Scott. Now Jackson."
"Doesn't make sense," Derek said. "We're predators. But this… this Alpha's acting weird. Like he's testing people. Studying."
Malik smirked. "You sound like you're giving him too much credit."
Derek rolled his eyes. "I'm saying it's not random. It's calculated. My sister was looking for this Alpha—she thought he was building a pack. Maybe he's picking… candidates."
"Candidates?" Malik echoed. "You mean like Scott?"
Derek nodded. "Scott, Jackson. Maybe more."
Malik leaned against the ledge. "You think he's recruiting?"
"Or filtering," Derek said darkly. "The strong stay. The weak get discarded."
Malik let out a dry chuckle. "That's a hell of a philosophy."
The wind picked up.
They were about to leave when something glowed faintly beneath Derek's boot.
He stepped back.
Etched into the concrete, just barely visible under the red neon light, was a spiral—the same symbol burned into the woods where the Alpha had struck before.
Except this one…
was glowing.
The red light pulsed like a heartbeat.
Both men stared.
Neither spoke.
Because they both knew—this wasn't just another kill site.
This was a message.