The house sat just far enough from the Beacon Hills preserve to feel secluded, but close enough that the trees loomed like silent watchers beyond the backyard. It was big—too big for one person, really. Polished wood floors, high ceilings, windows that let in too much light. The kind of place that looked expensive without trying.
Inside, luggage moved on its own.
Suitcases slid across the floor, boxes stacked neatly, garment bags floated down the hallway like obedient ghosts. The front door opened and a tall, red-haired young woman stepped inside, keys dangling from her fingers.
Jean Grey waved a hand lazily, barely looking.
The last few bags snapped into place.
She exhaled, shoulders slumping. "Finally," she muttered. "I'm done."
For a moment, she just stood there, surrounded by her entire life reduced to neatly arranged piles. Then she stepped back outside onto the porch, resting her hands on the railing.
"Beacon Hills," she said quietly, scanning the distant tree line. "Let's hope you're normal."
She turned and went back inside before the words could feel like a challenge.
An hour later, the house actually felt lived in.
Jean's clothes were hung and folded in her new bedroom, books lined up on temporary shelves, toiletries placed with careful precision. Her new furniture wouldn't arrive until tomorrow, but everything else was in place. Too smooth. Too easy.
Jean frowned faintly.
That usually meant something was about to go wrong.
Her eyes flickered—just for a second—with a faint orange glow.
A howl echoed from the direction of the preserve. Long. Low. Powerful.
Jean turned toward the sound, head tilting slightly as she listened. Her expression stayed neutral, but her body tensed.
"So," she thought, staring toward the trees, "either I go investigate a mysterious howl like a complete spaz… or I stay in my very expensive, very comfortable new house."
She waited another beat.
"Lucky for everyone," she said aloud, "I don't have a death wish."
She turned away from the windows and grabbed her laptop, settling at the kitchen island. Her inbox refreshed. One new message.
Jean clicked it open.
Hello Jean,I'm Melissa McCall. Your resume is amazing, and you seem like a gifted young woman. I'd be happy to hire you at Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital if you're still interested.
Jean let out a slow breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
"Oh, thank God," she murmured.
All those late nights. All those endless hours studying, pushing herself, trying to be something more than what fate had handed her. At least it meant something. She had money—more than enough, thanks to her parents' investments—but she hated the idea of not earning her place.
Her parents.
The thought hit harder than expected.
Her hand tightened slightly around the edge of the counter as a memory surfaced uninvited—headlights, rain, the radio crackling and switching stations over and over. Her dad turning in his seat.
Jean, stop messing with—
The sound of impact never came in her memory. Just static. Heat. Light.
She swallowed and shook her head sharply, forcing the image away.
They didn't make it. Jean did. She never found out how, but she suspects it was due to the Phoenix; however, she has no definite answer.
Jean closed the laptop and headed down the hall, exhaustion settling into her bones now that the adrenaline was gone. She stepped into her bedroom, the unfamiliar space already claiming her as its occupant.
Tomorrow would bring work. People. Questions.
And judging by that howl—trouble.
Jean collapsed onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
"Normal," she muttered dryly. "Yeah. Sure."
Jean woke to sunlight spilling across unfamiliar walls.
For a moment, she didn't move. Just breathed. New place, new start. No alarms, no screaming thoughts—just quiet. She reached for her phone on the nightstand and squinted at the screen.
7:03 a.m.
"Way too early," she murmured.
Her phone buzzed softly as she checked her email. One new message.
From: Melissa McCall
Jean sat up a little straighter as she read.
Good morning, Jean. If you're free today, feel free to come by the hospital anytime between 10 and 11 a.m. We'll get your paperwork sorted and show you around. Looking forward to meeting you.
Jean smiled, genuine and bright. A job. A real one. Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital. For the first time since arriving, excitement outweighed caution.
"Okay," she said to herself. "That's one thing going right."
She scrolled absently, thumb flicking downward—until a news alert caught her eye.
LOCAL NEWS: Body Discovered in Beacon Hills Preserve
Jean frowned and tapped it.
Half a body.
She blinked, rereading the line.
"Half?" she muttered.
The article went on about the police investigation, speculation already forming. Authorities suspect a mountain lion attack.
Jean scoffed softly, locking her phone.
"Yeah," she thought dryly. "Because mountain lions are known for slicing people clean in half."
She pushed the thought aside. Not her problem. Not yet.
Sliding out of bed, Jean got ready quickly. Comfortable clothes, keys, wallet. Today mattered—not just because of the hospital, but because of the other reason she'd come to Beacon Hills.
Family.
She grabbed her jacket and headed out to the driveway, where her pride and joy waited.
The Mustang gleamed in the morning light—an old-school '70s model, lovingly restored piece by piece after Jean had found it half-dead in a scrap yard. Everyone had told her it wasn't worth saving.
Everyone had been wrong.
Jean smiled as she slid into the driver's seat and turned the key. The engine purred to life.
On the drive, her thoughts drifted to her cousin.
They hadn't seen each other in years, but growing up, they'd been inseparable. Trouble magnets. Late-night talks. Shared secrets. Jean and her grandmother had always called her by the same nickname.
Ariel.
Jean pulled up in front of a large, pristine house—expensive, even by Beacon Hills standards. She tapped the horn once and leaned back, waiting.
The front door flew open almost immediately.
A young woman rushed out, strawberry-blonde hair catching the sunlight, eyes bright and unmistakably familiar. Jean stepped out of the car just in time to hear—
"JEANIE!"
"Ariel—!" Jean barely got the name out before Lydia Martin collided with her, arms wrapping tight.
Jean laughed, hugging her back just as fiercely. "Wow," she said, pulling back slightly to look at her. "You grew up."
Lydia scoffed, grinning. "Please. Look at you. You're like… unfairly pretty."
Jean rolled her eyes, cheeks warming. "You always say that."
"And I'm always right," Lydia shot back easily, then grabbed Jean's arm and dragged her toward the car. "Come on, I'm going to be late."
They climbed into the Mustang, Lydia's eyes lighting up as she looked around. "Okay, this is officially the coolest car I've ever been in."
Jean smirked as she pulled away from the curb. "Missed you too."
Jean pulled into the student parking lot and eased the Mustang into an open space near the edge. The school loomed ahead—Beacon Hills High—already buzzing with noise, laughter, lockers slamming. Not her world anymore, but close enough to feel familiar.
Lydia unbuckled her seatbelt and paused, hand resting on the door.
"We should hang out," she said suddenly, softer than before. "Like… actually hang out. I need my best friend back."
Jean smiled, warm and real. "You've got me. I didn't come all this way just to disappear again."
Lydia leaned over and hugged her through the center console. "Good. Because I'm not letting you vanish this time."
They pulled apart, grinning.
"I'll text you after work," Jean said.
"Do that," Lydia replied.
A few feet from the parking lot, Scott McCall stood awkwardly while Stiles paced in front of him, gesturing wildly.
"I'm telling you," Scott said quietly, lifting his shirt just enough to show the still-healing claw marks along his side. "Something attacked me. And then… I found the other half of the body."
Stiles froze mid-step.
"The other half," he repeated slowly, eyes wide. "Scott, this is the best thing to ever happen since—"
He trailed off.
Scott frowned. "Since what?"
Stiles didn't answer. He was staring past Scott now, mouth slightly open.
Scott followed his gaze.
Lydia was walking across the lot—laughing, hair catching the sun—beside a tall red-haired woman who looked like she'd stepped out of another world entirely. Confident without trying. Calm. Dangerous in a way neither of them could explain.
"Who is that?" Stiles whispered.
Scott shrugged. "Maybe her cousin or something?"
Stiles nodded absently. "Whatever she is… she's hot."
Scott glanced back toward the woods, unease settling in his chest.
Something about her felt wrong.
An hour later, Jean parked outside Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital and cut the engine. The building was clean, bright, and deceptively calm—the kind of place where people came looking for answers and didn't always get them.
She walked inside, smoothing her jacket, and approached the front desk.
"Hi," she said politely. "I'm Jean Grey. I'm supposed to meet with Melissa McCall about some paperwork?"
The receptionist smiled. "She'll be with you shortly. You can wait just across the hall."
"Thank you," Jean replied, returning the smile before heading to the waiting area.
She took a seat beside a small girl who couldn't have been older than eight. The child looked pale, too thin, her chest rising and falling unevenly with each breath. When she noticed Jean, her eyes widened.
Jean tilted her head gently. "Hi there."
"You're really pretty," the girl said softly. "Like an angel."
Jean laughed under her breath. "I'm beautiful? You're adorable."
That earned a shy smile.
"What are you doing here?" the girl asked.
"I'm starting work," Jean said. "I'm going to be a nurse."
The girl's face lit up. "Can you help me?"
Jean hesitated, just for a moment. "I can certainly try. What's wrong?"
The girl looked down. "My lungs. They don't work right. I can't breathe like other kids."
Jean was quiet for a few seconds, thinking.
"Hey," she said gently. "Can you keep a secret?"
The girl nodded eagerly.
Jean's eyes glowed a bright, unmistakable orange. Heat shimmered above her palm as a small flame bloomed—controlled, delicate.
The girl gasped, stunned but smiling. "That's amazing."
"With this," Jean said softly, "I can help a little. I can't make it go away completely… but I can give your body a fighting chance."
"That's okay," the girl whispered. "I just want to breathe."
Jean placed her hand carefully against the girl's chest. Warmth flowed—not burning, not overwhelming. Just enough.
The girl's breathing steadied. Deepened. Her eyes filled with tears as she took a full breath, then another.
"I can breathe," she said, amazed. "I can really breathe."
She hugged Jean tightly before hopping up and running toward a woman standing down the hall—her mother, Jean guessed.
Jean watched them go, her smile lingering as she looked down at her hand, the faint glow fading.
With all the pain these powers have caused… she thought, that smile makes it worth it.