The abandoned warehouse parking lot lay silent under the full moon.
Marcus stopped a few meters from the entrance, his posture relaxed yet unmistakably alert. His full combat form was visible — bone armor gleaming under the silvery light, covering his forearms, shoulders, and chest in articulated plates. Amber eyes burned in the darkness.
The warehouse door creaked open. Derek Hale stepped out, carefully closing it behind him.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Derek began to circle. Slowly. Keeping his distance. His blue eyes glowed as he studied Marcus, instincts screaming that this was no ordinary werewolf.
The armor. The amber eyes. Everything was wrong.
"Who are you?" Derek's voice came out low, dangerous.
Marcus remained calm, unmoving, only tracking Derek with his gaze as he circled.
"The right question," Marcus said eventually, "is why I'm here."
Derek stopped, but didn't relax. "Then answer it."
"I came to make sure the kid inside doesn't hurt anyone." Marcus gestured lightly toward the warehouse. "Including himself."
"Scott is MY responsibility," Derek growled, a low sound rumbling from his throat.
"And you're doing a wonderful job," Marcus replied dryly. "Leaving a human teenager to take care of a freshly turned beta during a full moon."
"I don't know who you are or what you are," Derek began, tension visible in every muscle, "but—"
"Lupaztlán."
The word fell between them like a stone dropped into still water.
Derek froze completely.
"That's what we are," Marcus continued calmly. "And before you ask — yes, I thought we were extinct too."
Derek stood motionless for three full heartbeats.
Lupaztlán.
The name echoed in his mind — stories his mother had mentioned, old records that weren't supposed to matter anymore.
"Impossible," he said, but his voice lacked conviction. "You were hunted. Wiped out. My mother said the druids ended all of you."
"Your mother was smart," Marcus said. "But even she should have known — nothing truly goes extinct around here."
Derek didn't respond. Instead, he reassessed — eyes scanning the length of Marcus's armor, searching for a weakness, finding none.
Marcus deliberately took half a step forward.
Derek's reaction was instant — he shifted his weight, widened his stance, arms loose at his sides. Defensive. Instinct, not threat.
Marcus respected it. "Relax," he said. "If I wanted to attack you, you'd already be in pieces."
It wasn't arrogance. Just information.
Derek stared, letting that hang in the air. Then he said, "How many?"
"Four." Marcus let the word settle. "Just my family."
Derek absorbed that, running the numbers. "Why Beacon Hills?"
"Refuge." Marcus shrugged, a ripple beneath the bone plates. "You know how it is. Hunters everywhere. The Nemeton hides us. Or used to."
He let the last part linger, baiting.
Derek didn't bite immediately. But his eyes sharpened. "What changed?"
Marcus looked toward the warehouse, at the silver bar of moonlight over its roof. "Your uncle. He started killing. Stirred up every hunter on the continent." He looked back, almost bored. "We didn't come to fight you. Or him. We just wanted to live in peace. But now—"
"Now you're watching him too."
A flicker of surprise — Derek had connected it fast. Marcus nodded.
Silence again. The only sounds were the distant metallic rhythm of Scott struggling inside the warehouse, and somewhere far off, the steady hum of a patrol car.
Derek straightened, trying to assume an Alpha's posture, even though he wasn't one. "Keep your people out of my territory."
Marcus nodded once. "I don't want your territory. I want him contained. Because if he keeps drawing attention, we'll all be dead within a year."
They stared at each other, two kinds of survivors, neither blinking.
Finally, Derek said, "You're not what I expected."
"Likewise," Marcus replied. "But you're better than your uncle. That counts for something."
Derek glanced back at the warehouse. "He's going to break free. The chains won't hold."
"Maybe," Marcus said. "But his friend is better than you think."
Derek's jaw worked, but he didn't argue.
"What's your name?" Marcus asked, almost as an afterthought, just to confirm what he already knew.
Derek's eyes flickered. "Hale."
Of course.
Marcus allowed a genuine smile to crack across his face — cold and private. "Tell your beta — if I can call him that — to keep his head down. And tell your uncle—" He paused. "Actually, forget it. He already knows we're here."
Derek absorbed that. "If you become a problem—"
"You'll be the first to know," Marcus said, and he meant it.
Derek nodded, accepting the truce for now.
"Your mother," Marcus said suddenly. "Talia Hale. She knew my sister."
Derek stopped completely, genuine surprise breaking through his defenses. "What?"
"Isabella Mendoza." Marcus let the name land between them. "My sister. Your mother met her in the '90s. They made a pact. An alliance between our families."
His voice softened slightly, something almost human surfacing. "Talia was… a good Alpha. Fair. Respectful. She kept her promises."
Derek stood silent for a long moment, processing.
"My mother never mentioned Lupaztlán," he finally said, voice rough.
"Because she promised us secrecy. Mutual protection. Absolute discretion." Marcus looked up at the moon. "Both our lineages were being hunted — us by Old World druids, you by the Argents. If anyone found out the Hales were working with a Lupaztlán cell, it would've been war."
Derek closed his eyes briefly. "She never told us. Not a word."
"That was the agreement." There was sadness in Marcus's voice now. "Your mother was a woman of honor. She kept it to the end."
"She died keeping promises," Derek said, bitterness bleeding through the words.
"She died for many things," Marcus replied quietly.
A shared silence followed — two men carrying the weight of lost families.
"Isabella," Derek asked eventually. "Is she still…?"
Marcus shook his head. "Hunters. Sacramento. 2002. They were lucky."
"I'm sorry."
"So am I. For all of yours. For Talia."
A crash echoed from inside the warehouse.
Followed by Stiles's shout: "SCOTT, NO!"
Violent growls. Steel groaning.
Marcus and Derek exchanged a look — concern briefly uniting them — and rushed back inside.
Scott was fighting the chains with superhuman strength, muscles swollen, eyes glowing wild gold. The steel shrieked, beginning to give under the impossible strain.
Stiles was pressed against the opposite wall, pale as paper, hands raised.
"He's losing it!" Stiles shouted when he saw Derek and Marcus. "I don't know what to do!"
Marcus stepped in, his voice cutting through the chaos.
"SCOTT MCCALL."
It wasn't a shout. It was something deeper. Older. A command that resonated on a primal level, making bones vibrate.
Scott froze. He turned his head, confused, snarling at Marcus with threat and uncertainty.
Derek moved to Marcus's side. "Scott. Look at me."
He tried to establish an alpha-beta connection. But it was weak — Peter had bitten Scott, not Derek. The bond was thin, almost nonexistent.
Marcus took a different approach.
He didn't try to dominate. He tried to calm.
"Breathe," he said, voice low but firm, each word deliberate. "In. Out. Slowly."
Scott snarled, pulling at the chains.
"You are not the wolf," Marcus continued, inexorable as the tide. "You control the wolf. You are Scott McCall. Student. Son. Friend."
He gestured toward Stiles without taking his eyes off Scott. "That boy right there. Your best friend. Who stayed here with you. Who didn't abandon you."
Scott turned his head, golden eyes meeting Stiles's.
"Scott," Stiles said, voice breaking. "You're not going to hurt me. I KNOW you won't. Because you're my best friend. And best friends don't hurt best friends."
Something changed in Scott's eyes. A flash of human recognition cutting through the wild gold.
"Stiles," he said, voice distorted but present. "I… don't want… to hurt you…"
"You WON'T!" Stiles shouted back, daring to take a step forward despite his trembling hands. "You're not a monster! You're Scott McCall!"
Marcus continued, voice steady. "Breathe with him. Together. In. Out. Control."
Amazingly — miraculously — Scott responded.
His breathing slowed. Syncing first with Marcus, then with Stiles. His muscles relaxed slightly. The chains stopped groaning.
And though his eyes remained gold, the feral edge dulled.
Derek watched, clearly impressed. "How did you—"
"Experience," Marcus said simply, never taking his eyes off Scott. "And truth. He needs an anchor. Not a chain. A reason."
"Okay, THAT'S ENOUGH!"
Stiles, still near the wall but finding his voice. "Someone — anyone — is going to explain what the HELL is going on?!"
He looked between Derek and Marcus, then locked onto Marcus.
"Who ARE you? And how did you do that?"
Derek tried to intervene. "Stiles—"
"NO!" Stiles snapped, pointing at Marcus. "Your eyes are DIFFERENT! Not red like an Alpha. Not blue like Derek's. They're… gold. Like Scott's, but different — not the same shade. So what ARE you?"
Marcus hesitated, glancing at Derek.
Derek sighed. "He already knows about werewolves. He can handle more."
Marcus turned fully toward Stiles, allowing him to be clearly seen under the dim light.
"I'm not a werewolf," he said plainly. "I'm Lupaztlán."
Stiles blinked. "Lupa… what?"
"Lupaztlán," Marcus repeated carefully. "Nahuatl. It means Bone Wolf."
"Nahuatl?" Stiles connected instantly, brain firing despite the fear. "Like… Aztec? You're like an Aztec werewolf?"
Marcus looked genuinely surprised. "You recognize the term?"
"I READ!" Stiles gestured wildly. "A lot of mythology lately, for obvious reasons!"
Despite everything, Marcus almost smiled.
"We aren't werewolves," he explained. "We're… different. A fusion of werewolf and berserker, created by druids centuries ago. Hybrids."
"Berserker," Stiles murmured, processing. "Like… insane Norse warriors?"
"Something like that," Marcus confirmed. "With more control. And bone armor."
"Armor—" Stiles stopped, eyes widening. "That was you. In the forest. The energy Derek felt."
Derek nodded slowly. "His family."
"Family," Stiles repeated. Then his eyes snapped back to Marcus. "Wait. You said your nephew was attacked. By Peter."
Marcus nodded.
"Daniel," Stiles said, his voice shifting from confusion to understanding. "Daniel Moreno. That's why he knew so much. That's why he helped us research."
"He wanted to help," Marcus confirmed. "But couldn't reveal what he was. Not without exposing the whole family."
Stiles processed that, turning to Derek. "You knew?"
"Suspected," Derek admitted. "Confirmed it tonight."
Scott, still transformed but calm now, spoke for the first time in minutes. His voice was hoarse, distorted, but present.
"Daniel… is he okay?"
Marcus looked at him, surprised by the concern from someone still fighting the change.
"He is. His family's with him. He went through his first full moon tonight too."
"He's… like me?"
"Similar," Marcus said carefully. "But Lupaztlán feel the moon differently. We don't lose control the same way."
"Lucky," Scott muttered, exhaustion finally cutting through the adrenaline.
As Scott continued to calm, his breathing growing steadier, Stiles dared to step away from the wall. He moved slowly back to Scott's side, anchor intact.
Derek and Marcus stepped aside, moving to the far corner of the warehouse, voices low.
"Peter will notice," Derek said tensely. "That there's another supernatural in town. Another alpha-level predator."
"Peter already knows," Marcus replied darkly. "We visited his hospital room. Left a warning."
Derek reacted like he'd been punched. "You did WHAT?"
"We told him the attacks stop. Or we respond." Marcus stood firm. "He needed to know he wasn't alone here."
"You don't understand who Peter IS," Derek hissed. "What he's capable of—"
"I understand perfectly," Marcus interrupted, his voice carrying real anger for the first time. "I saw the files. Read about the deaths. The victims. The fire that killed your family."
Derek fell silent.
"But Peter also needs to understand," Marcus continued, calmer now, "that he's not the only alpha predator in this town. Three adult Lupaztlán. One adolescent still learning, but powerful. All willing to protect this place."
Derek studied Marcus for a long moment. "Are you… offering an alliance?"
"I'm saying we share a common enemy," Marcus corrected. "And it would be stupid to fight each other while Peter's out there planning God knows what."
He extended his hand, palm up — a gesture older than any of their lineages.
Derek looked at the hand. Then at Marcus. Then at Scott, finally looking more human, anchored by Stiles.
"Truce," he said at last, taking Marcus's hand.
"Truce," Marcus agreed.
Light began to seep through the dirty warehouse windows.
Blue-gray pre-dawn. The moon weakening, its power fading as the sun approached.
Scott's transformation slowly reversed. Eyes returning to brown. Muscles shrinking back to normal size. Fangs retracting.
When it finally ended, he slumped against the wall, completely exhausted, chains hanging loose around his wrists.
Stiles was at his side immediately, hands checking pulse, temperature — anything.
"You did it," Stiles said, voice breaking with relief. "You DID IT, man!"
Scott managed a weak smile. "We did."
Marcus watched from across the warehouse, something like approval on his face.
"The anchor worked," he said quietly.
Derek approached, kneeling in front of Scott. "How do you feel?"
"Like I got hit by a truck," Scott said hoarsely. "But… normal. I feel normal."
"You did well," Derek said, genuine surprise in his voice. "Better than most. Better than I did my first time."
Marcus prepared to leave, his armor beginning to retract, bone plates dissolving back beneath the skin.
"I need to go," he said. "My family's waiting."
Derek nodded. "Tomorrow. We can talk more. No full moon."
"I'll find you," Marcus said with a faint smile. "Heightened senses, remember?"
He turned to Stiles, still kneeling beside Scott.
"You were brave tonight," Marcus said seriously. "Braver than most adults I know. Scott's lucky to have you."
Stiles was momentarily speechless — a rarity.
"I… thanks?" he finally managed.
Marcus then turned to Scott, who looked up at him with exhausted but human eyes.
"It'll get easier," Marcus promised. "Every moon. Every time. And if you need help…" He paused. "Daniel can pass you my contact."
"Daniel is… like you?" Scott asked.
"Similar," Marcus confirmed. "But different too. Trust him, Scott. He understands better than anyone."
Marcus walked to the door, stopped, and looked back one last time.
"Derek. Keep the kid safe. He has potential."
Derek nodded.
And then Marcus left, the door closing behind him, leaving Derek, Stiles, and Scott in a heavy silence that would soon break under a thousand questions.
In the ritual clearing deep in the forest, Daniel sat at the center of the rune circle, completely exhausted.
The transformation had reversed hours earlier, but the strain — the effort of maintaining control through the entire full moon — had left invisible scars.
His parents sat beside him, one on each side, silent but constant presences.
When Marcus emerged from the trees, Daniel stood so fast he nearly stumbled.
"Uncle!"
He crossed the rune circle — now inactive, its light gone — and hugged Marcus with surprising strength for someone so drained.
Marcus returned the embrace, a large hand resting on the back of Daniel's head.
"How did it go?" Daniel asked when he finally pulled back. "Scott? Is he okay?"
"He is," Marcus assured him. "Contained. Controlled. Your research with Stiles helped make that possible."
Daniel let out a breath of relief, shoulders finally relaxing.
Daniel's mother stepped forward, hugging Marcus as well. "How was it really?"
"Complicated," Marcus admitted, allowing himself to sit on a nearby stone. "But… productive."
Daniel's father joined them, expression serious. "Derek?"
"He knows now. About us." Marcus looked at each of them. "But he's not an enemy. He could be an ally."
"You told him?" Daniel's mother asked. "About Talia and Isabella?"
Marcus nodded. "He had the right to know. And… it helped. Built trust."
Daniel sat again, processing. "What happens now?"
Marcus looked toward where the moon was sinking toward the horizon, only a thin silver sliver still visible.
"Now? We survive until sunrise." He smiled tiredly. "And tomorrow… tomorrow everything gets more complicated."
Daniel's father scanned the surrounding forest, instincts still alert. "Peter will know. About you showing up. About Derek knowing us. About everything."
"Let him know," Daniel's mother said, her voice carrying a resolve Daniel rarely heard.
Marcus nodded, eyes hardening. "Let him come. This time, we'll be ready."
[POV: Peter Hale – Hospital]
Peter Hale sat on the edge of his hospital bed, staring out the window as the moon set.
He had felt everything.
The energy in the forest — his nephew Derek, unmistakably. Moving. Interacting with someone. Something.
The beta he had created, Scott, struggling through his first transformation. Contained, but alive.
And the others.
The Lupaztlán.
Peter smiled, but there was no joy in it. Only cold calculation.
"Interesting," he murmured to the empty room. "Very interesting."
They thought a warning would be enough? That symbols carved into walls and veiled threats would scare him?
Peter Hale had burned alive and survived. Had spent six years in a coma, his mind trapped in a hell of pain and fury. Had clawed his way back to consciousness through sheer will and vengeance.
Three Lupaztlán — even adults, even trained — did not frighten him.
But they weren't fools to be ignored either.
"Patience," he told himself, fingers tapping against the window frame. "All in due time."
He had plans. Big plans. Revenge against Kate Argent. Against those who had let his family burn.
And a few supposedly extinct creatures wouldn't stop him.
But perhaps… perhaps they could be useful. In other ways.
He smiled again, and this time there was something genuinely dangerous in it.
"Welcome to Beacon Hills," he whispered to the rising dawn. "Let's see how long you survive."