today i saw the whole world, teen wolf

𝟎𝟑𝟗 motel california.

tw: mentions of suicide.

motel california.

PART I

THEY NEVER MADE THAT MEET.

For many on the bus, it was inevitable; missing the first meet of the season. No one wanted to go, but besides that, it seemed the universe didn't want them to go either.

Hours before Coach through his hat in—or, in his case, his whistle—one of his players, Isaac, had brutally attacked another, Ethan. Thirty minutes before that, Scott McCall fell ill to his wound, and nearly died if not for the help of Allison and Lydia. A wound Scott had gotten the night before when he and his friends had a run-in with the alpha pack that had been terrorizing them in the few weeks since school started back.

So though the luck of the cross-country team had ran out, they couldn't say the adventure following up to it, and actually attempting to go, hadn't been anything but eventful.

Eight hours away from home, miles away from civilization, the bus still swerved around the road, hitting every pothole, with metal squealing anytime the driver had to break.

Missing the meet had bummed Coach out so badly that he started telling a few stories of his past during each bout of standstill traffic. He'd talk to the bus driver as if he'd known the man his whole life, the students that couldn't sleep listened in.

He missed his nephew's birth, did you know that? Well, the bus driver does, and so does a handful of students. They also know he once missed a date with the perfect woman because he mixed reds with whites in the laundry, which turned his lucky pair of underwear pink and—in his words—was some sort of omen telling him that he shouldn't go on the date. So, he didn't.

If this day had to choose an omen, it would have too many options. Between the night before—in which everyone involved had faced their own suffering—and the long hours when Scott had nearly died, and Isaac almost killed Ethan, and how Paxton might've worsened her concussion when she fell in front of everyone.

It had too many options, all passing by like the billboard signs beside the road, flashing boldly with menacing lettering, warning them that it can only get worse from here.

Besides the squeal of metal, the only other noise on the bus is the quiet whisper of snoring. Most of the students had fallen asleep—especially after Coach spent the better part of an hour drilling on and on about his poor luck.

The seats that were once empty are now occupied by bags or students that moved away from their friends for more room to stretch out on. Coach refused to stop the bus after the incident earlier, so everyone blamed Isaac for ruining their chances of using the bathroom and ever regaining the feeling in their legs.

Space on the bus ran out quickly, except for the last few rows. No one wanted to sit near the guy who could've killed another, and ruined their shot at peeing.

Isaac didn't care how everyone looked at him once they got back inside the bus, or how they groaned when Coach announced they wouldn't be stopping even if someone does actually die. No, Isaac didn't care at all because that meant he got an entire seat to himself, and so did Boyd.

The only other person who sat alone is Scott. Allison chose to sit with Lydia despite the extra seat, she offered it to Paxton but she denied it too.

She didn't think twice about her choice, not even when Stiles spent several hours going into detail about Star Wars.

When he finally made it to the prequel movies, the sun had set, leaving nothing but the dim cast of the moon to reveal the other's face. They were the only ones still awake by that point, whispering over the snores.

They learned a lesson for laughing too loud when Isaac first fell asleep. He sat up in his seat, which took him forever to get comfortable in, and told them to be quiet, except he used a lot more words that were much more vibrant than a simply put 'be quiet'.

After being berated, they quickly adjusted to whispering and keeping in their laughter like two kids afraid their parent might yell at them.

Being the only ones awake, they began to feel more comfortable. Talking about stupid subjects that would sound ridiculous to anyone else but them. With nothing but them and the moon.

Eventually, when their bodies grew tired of the confined space, Stiles stretched his legs into the aisle and Paxton rested her head on his shoulder with the weight of a feather. One wrong move and the breeze might brisk her away.

Stiles kept talking but refused to move his body as he spoke; an unnatural thing for him to do. His rigid arms refused to move so much as a muscle, like one of those gold-painted mimes pretending to be a statue. If he were a statue, he belonged in the finest museum with the other marbled gods.

He went on another dive into Star Wars, humming into Paxton's ear like a lullaby. She closed her eyes, but kept listening. Her body relaxing onto his, fit like a blanket against his side.

The moon's light poked through branches of the trees, the natural spotlight revealed her peaceful face. Each stolen glance to her, he felt his heart skip a beat. The shadows of her eyelashes cast against her cheeks. Every-so-often, when she'd nod along to his lullaby, he'd stare at the point of her nose turning toward him, or notice how her eyebrows would twitch as if seriously considering what he had said.

He gazed at her, this precious person, and wondered how she could look so peaceful in her sleep yet so startled when awake. His mouth rattled out incoherent words while his mind flooded with things he'd never be brave enough to say to her. Flashes of fragmented sentences professing his love for her beauty.

It was then, as his gaze softened on her wishfully like she were a shooting star in the sky, when he realized just how harmonious she looked in this state of in-between, not yet asleep but not really awake, and what that peace must mean for her.

She probably hasn't slept well in days, or weeks, since moving from her house to his, then to Derek's. He'd wanted to argue about her staying with him but he knew what the argument would really mean; that they'd be in private for most hours of the day while still navigating whatever their relationship is. It scared him now like how it might've scared her in the moment.

He almost envied her state of sleep. With everything that's happened—the alpha's, the sacrifices, the spike of drama in their lives—he's been having his own trouble with sleep.

She once asked him what his most unreasonable fear is, he answered that it would be not knowing if he were awake or sleeping. And though she had offered a fix for his fear, he never put much thought into it. It's now, as he counted how many times her brows twitched, that he offered her as his cure. That he could simply imagine her face in this moment and his bad dreams would simply go away. It worked for him before when he had relived a memory of her during a time of terror.

He smiled to himself, glancing down to her, brushing a stray hair away from her face. When she didn't flinch, he knew she was gone, lost to her battle with sleep. Safe in his presence, with nothing to worry about but what her dreams could mean, she would never know how beautiful she looks, so blissfully unaware.

"Alright, tell 'em to grab their bags. I'm no valet," said the bus driver, his voice rough with a hint of a southern accent booming over the snores.

He turned away from Coach and slammed a foot down on his brakes. A loud squeal ruptured as the bus came to a halt, jolting everyone in their seats.

Some caught themselves before they fell, others were helped by a friend before it was too late. Isaac, however, slipped completely across the slick leather. Thudding to the floor. The only witness being Stiles, he tried his best to contain his laughter so Isaac didn't yell at him again. Not because the first time was mean but because it might wake up his peaceful shooting star beside him.

The long drawl of an aggravated whistle screeched, and everyone looked to Coach's reddening face. Stiles is the first to glare at the man, completely annoyed by his lack of care for Paxton.

"Alright, you heard the man. Grab your bags and meet me out front!" Coach shouted to wake up whatever students missed the whistle.

Isaac woke Boyd, Allison helped a still-healing Scott with his bag, and Lydia rushed to the front before anyone else, hoping to find out what's happening.

They weren't back in Beacon Hills, in fact, they're not even close.

Still, Stiles didn't move. He watches his friends find their belongings, a neon light reflected against his face. He begged them silently to be quiet and hurry up.

"Come on, man, everyone's leaving," Scott said, slapping a hand to Stiles' shoulder, shaking his body. Scott, ignorant to his new death threat, leaned over to steal a glance at wherever they're parked. "I think we're at a hotel.. or something."

Allison stretched over Scott's shoulder, her eyes lighting up at the sight of Paxton. "Aw," she cooed before digging around in her bag for her phone.

She quickly snapped a photo of Paxton, not realizing the flash was on. Stiles, mid-photo, jumped up to cover the blinding light.

"What?" Allison asked of his cold glare. "I have a scrapbook to fill."

"She'll kill me if I wake her up. You know how she gets," Stiles whispered, reminding Scott of a time where their sleepovers had been a daily occurrence—when they learned quickly how waking up Paxton is similar to waking up a grizzly bear.

Scott made a face, remembering well. "Yep," he sighed, smacking Stiles' shoulder again. "Have fun sleeping on the bus."

"Yeah," Stiles scoffed, glancing to the motel blinding them with its bright lights. "Have fun in that dump."

Scott laughed, and started for the door with Allison trailing behind him.

Paxton's brows began knitting together, her muscles tremoring softly. Suddenly, her eyes shoot open. The short moment of silence had overwhelmed her enough to wake her up. Loud, ringing like a distant siren in her dreams.

Stiles turned to her, slightly afraid, terrified as she gasped for air. She glanced to front of the bus, noticing no one around. Panic consumed her quickly. For a moment, she believes to still be dreaming, one mimicking an old memory where she had been alone inside a similar bus. Except now she wasn't alone.

At the front of the bus, the reflection of two neons lights glow red like the angry eyes of her mother.

Turning to Stiles, she reached for the sleeve of his shirt to determine if he's real or not, but is stopped once his gaze catches her. His warm comfort spreads throughout her, coursing through her veins until she felt the ecstasy of safety.

She turns back to the front, blinking the sleep from her eyes. The red eyes morph into a shapeless blob.

"You feel any better?"

She reached for her head, realizing the throbbing headache had simmered. "Better," she yawned, then glanced to the windows. "Where are we?"

Before he could answer, her name is called from the distance.

"Bridger!" Coach yelled with his usual rigidness.

"Here."

"No, the other one. The little one. Little Bridger? Where's your sister, Charlie?" he said with one continuous, frantic breath.

Charlie lowered his hand and shrugged, forcing Coach to stumble back into the bus, a clipboard in hand.

"What're you still doing back there?" he asked, glancing between the two. "Come on, I need your, uh, assistance."

"Go," Stiles said to her. "I'll grab your bag."

Outside the bus, the students surround Coach on the freshly paved parking lot. Everyone looked exhausted, and if they didn't, they looked terrified.

"No rooming boys with girls. I can't be the reason our school loses to teen pregnancy, again," Coach started his list of rules, watching as Paxton made her way to him through the small crowd. At his side, he passed her a handful of room keys.

He continued down a short list of rules, but she zoned out, too distracted by the nightmare of a motel staring at her. A feeling in her stomach telling her to run, even if it would take days to get home. It looked creepy, like something from one of the horror movies she and Stiles discussed earlier. The shadows molded to every crevice made it look haunted. She rubbed her eyes, hoping to wake her from her nightmare of bed bugs and mold.

It's sat on a lonely lot, with no neighbors, no trees, and dying patches of grass. Humming lights are displayed on a tall sign above the buildings' roof, setting a red flame to the desolate land for miles in each direction.

Motel Glenn Capri, it read.

Coach blew his whistle into the crowd, a puff of smoke huffed out as if the temperature had suddenly frozen over; perhaps an effect of the building, maybe it's an amusement park and this was a trick to scare the kids. Or, it's actually a haunted attraction where killer clowns are likely to jump out at any second with revving chainsaws.

"Listen up!" He gathered everyone's distracted attention. "Most of you know the meet's been pushed to tomorrow, so we'll be staying here for the night. The closest motel with the most vacancies—and least amount of good judgment when it comes to accepting a bunch of degenerates like yourselves. Now," he patted Paxton on the shoulder as she yawned. "Little Bridger here, will be pairing you off into roommates."

With his own key in hand, he spins around and starts for the first room on the lower level.

"Please choose wisely. I don't wanna share a wall with Greenberg," he called over his shoulder, pleading with Paxton. "Oh," he turned around completely now, "and I'll have no sexual perversions perpetrated by you little deviants! Got that? Keep your dirty little hands to your dirty little selves!"

The bus sped off to find a better parking spot, or a better hotel. At least it gave Gary, the bus driver, a moment of peace away from Coach.

Paxton turned to the unmoved crowd around her, tired eyes pointed to the maroon placards in her hands that mark the room's numbers.

"Okay, just pick one," she sighed out once Coach's door closed behind him.

The number of students dwindled down quickly, all weakly celebrating that they chose who to room with, though still following Coach's rules. After Danny and Ethan grabbed their key, it left only her group of friends to pick, with the addition of Charlie, who lingered behind them.

"I've seen worse," Scott shrugged, staring at the buildings cracked walls.

Stiles' brows formed a pressure between them. "Where have you seen worse?"

"Can you guys just take a key already?" Paxton hurried out, an impatient foot tapping against the pavement. "The longer we stay out here, the more likely something will come out and grab us."

"Something?" Isaac reached for one of the keys, leaning into her with wide eyes, hoping to spook her. "Or someone?"

She rolled her eyes while handing him and Boyd a key.

"I don't like this place," said Lydia as she glared at the motel's windows like she could see the ghosts of past residents peaking through the ancient curtains.

"I don't think the people who own this place, like this place," Allison joked, nudging Lydia's shoulder as she reached for a key. "It's just for a night," she added, smiling up to Paxton.

Paxton, still in a dreamy haze, raised her brows and mumbled, "a lot could happen in one night."

She stole a glance in Stiles' direction, a hint of red burning her cheeks. Her eyes darted away quickly.

"Hey, we could play cards," Scott offered with the chipper voice of someone who you'd never believe almost died a few hours ago.

Everyone turned to him, slighted with anger. Even Boyd, who hadn't spoken more than a few sentences to Scott. Ever.

"You have a deck of cards?" Isaac asked, his eyes lighting up.

"Yeah—well, no. I have a deck of UNO."

A groan rifted around the circle.

"You have UNO and you're just now telling us?" Paxton asked, her eyes narrowing on Scott.

He shrugged, lowering his head as he kicked at the pavement. "Yeah."

"You couldn't have told us this hours ago when we were bored out of our minds on that bus?" Isaac groaned, and with that everyone else added their own complaints: listening to Coach for hours, listening to Stiles for hours, constantly worrying for Scott's health with no distraction.

Though they didn't necessarily target them at Scott, or even the cards. Exhaustion brought out the worst in them, or maybe the motel is to blame.

"Sorry, I was a little busy trying not to die," Scott sighed. "Do you guys wanna play or not?"

Everyone nodded, quickly agreeing to meet up in Scott and Stiles' room after they settled in their own. Even Charlie, who had been quiet in the shadows behind them. No one could pass the opportunity up.

"Then it's settled," Scott looked around to them, smiling softly. "It'll be like summer again."

He had never been one for sentiments, but the sadness in his voice couldn't go unnoticed. Like he had been yearning for a regular life like Stiles and Paxton once had. 

"Hey, where're you going?"

Paxton stared up from the first floor, pausing her walk toward an old vending machine. The cheap snacks were calling her name, and her stomach for them.

Leaning over the second floor's railing, Lydia smiled down to Paxton, her question hanging in the air along with the slight terror Paxton felt, as if she were caught doing something wrong.

"Just grabbing some food," Paxton replied.

A brow of Lydia's raised as glanced to flickering light inside the vending machine. "That's hardly food. It's probably older than both of us."

"Well," Paxton sighed as if truly bothered, though her smile said otherwise. "I tried to call room service but the lady said the kitchen closed an hour ago. It's a shame, she said they were serving a divine five-course meal. Her words, not mine."

With a shrug, Paxton frowned up to Lydia, rubbing a hand over her empty stomach.

"Cute," Lydia laughed softly, her melody carrying throughout the empty parking lot. "You're spending too much time with Stiles."

"Was it the sarcasm, or is that just a general statement?"

Lydia shrugged, then broke into a small laugh. She started down the stairs, which ended near Paxton's feet. "A bit of both," she said and before the silence could settle, she added, "here, I'll come with you."

She carried a stack of neatly folded towels that wanted to look white in color, but were ultimately stained yellow. Reeking of residual smoke from cigarettes. It choked Paxton the moment Lydia stepped onto the sidewalk beside her.

"I was heading to front desk," Lydia patted her towels. "I don't really wanna go alone, this place creeps me out."

"Yeah, it's not exactly a Four Seasons," Paxton joked. "What's Allison doing?"

"Showering," a frown found Lydia with her response. "I told her not to, that I'd get her some new towels first. These smell like cigarettes. But," she sighed, "she insisted."

Paxton's nose wrinkled. She never had much experience with the smell, but the smack-in-the-face aroma knotted her stomach, reminding her of parties she went to last summer with her brother. Parties that she couldn't exactly remember.

"Everything here smells like cigarettes."

The motel was built in the shape of a horseshoe, the rooms on the interior wall are the only with a second floor. One side of the bottom floor had more rooms, the other held the lobby and owner's suite. Most of the students slept in the center of the building, on differing levels.

They came to a stop next to the last room, where the vending machine's light flickered. Beside it sat an ice box and above that, a window boarded shut from the inside.

Paxton looked over her options before deciding to find her dinner in chocolate that's definitely older than her. "Do you want anything?" she asked Lydia.

Lydia's eyes narrowed on the various candies or bags of chips—some with packaging from a decade ago.

"I think I'll pass."

Paxton pressed her button and waited patiently, but the wait became longer and longer. She pressed the button again, and again, and again, but the only thing moving inside the vending machine were the broken lights.

"Are you serious?" she scoffed. "That was my only dollar."

"Too bad it won't accept your mom's credit card," Lydia laughed softly.

The joke was met with an obvious fake laugh from Paxton. It sounded like Stiles, sarcastic and dry of humor but lighthearted, nonetheless.

"Come on," Lydia hung an arm around Paxton's shoulder, pulling her along. "We can ask for new towels, and a refund."

They left the vending machine behind and headed to the entrance of the lobby, following the tan stucco walls, walking only in the guiding light of the hotel sign.

The air grew cold despite it being one of the hottest weeks of the year. It sent a shiver down Paxton's spine, and with that, she grew paranoid.

Against her own judgment, she thought of how Stiles' accused Lydia of having something to do with the sacrifices. She tried to ignore it but being alone, stranded in the middle of nowhere, with Lydia didn't help.

"Hey, Lydia?" Paxton caught her attention before she opened the door of the lobby. Lydia's hand dropped from the handle as she turned to Paxton. "Do you remember when you were, uh, sort of.. possessed.. by Peter Hale?"

Lydia looked up to the stars, humming a melodic tune as she pretended to be deep in thought. "Nope," she said quickly before frowning apologetically.

Paxton nodded, turning her gaze to the pavement below her. "Right."

Before Paxton could assume the worst, Lydia swung open the door.

She hesitated for a moment, beginning to wonder what the hell she was doing treating Lydia like some ancient bomb that could either explode or just be a dud.

It's Lydia, completely innocent Lydia. Lydia, who despite being incredibly intelligent, had also been too naive to notice her boyfriend's preference for partners. The girl who planned Paxton's not-so-surprise birthday party.

Lydia, deceitful Lydia, who'd rather convince everyone that she's not the brightest bulb than to display her true wit and smarts for the sake of being accepted. Who fell into Peter Hale's delusions—though not purposefully—and nearly risked their friend's lives.

She's always been good at putting on a mask around others. Why wouldn't she continue to do that now while everyone is threatened? Again.

But, whatever, Paxton thought, then stepped into the lobby with Lydia behind her. Figuring she should spend less time questioning Lydia, and more time wondering how Stiles could influence her so easily.

The lobby is a small room divided by a wooden desk, with one long window to view the parking lot. The walls are paneled with outdated wood. It held a certain charm, as if it belonged in a magazine that showcased the outrageous trends of the seventies.

Really, it revealed something belonging to an episode of The Twilight Zone.

They approached the empty desk, their gazes exploring the surroundings. They couldn't quite place where the residual nicotine reek came from, perhaps like their rooms it lived in every crevice. The actual source of the smell; a crystal ashtray, sat beside a display of pamphlets and road maps. A funnel of smoke rose into the air from a singular cigarette resting on it. A green 'open' sign buzzed behind them, hung in the window. Besides a dim lamp on the desk, the sign is the only source of light in the room.

"So, you don't remember that day at school when I found you in one of the bathroom stalls?"

"Nope."

"Lydia," Paxton sighed. "You were crying, you didn't speak a single word, and just walked into the hallway like you were being forced to. Ring a bell?"

"Look, I'm trying to move on from all that, okay? I don't like thinking about it."

"But you remember?"

"Sure," Lydia huffed, then turned away from her.

Paxton stared at her, watching as Lydia's eyes trailed around the wall behind the desk to distract herself.

"I'm sorry that happened to you," she told Lydia, reaching for her hand. She squeezed it with a quick release. "I know we don't we talk about it, or mention anything that happens really, and I'm sorry you were just kind of thrown into all of this."

"It's okay," she mumbled out, still staring at the wall.

"And, I'm sorry it ruined your birthday," Paxton added with a short huff of laughter. "I'm sure drugging everyone you know wasn't exactly your birthday wish."

Smiling to herself, Lydia lowered her head, hiding the tears that welled in her eyes. "Yeah," she shared the small laugh. "I'm sorry your birthday was ruined, too."

"There's always next year," Paxton shrugged.

"Or, we could just throw another party."

They turn to each other, laughing more boldly now. But, in the blink of an eye, their short-lived happiness is broken by the sudden appearance of a woman standing behind the desk.

An older woman with gray hair and beady eyes stared at them, her wrinkled lips pulling into a strict line. She blinked slowly, unbothered despite waiting for them to hurry. They had interrupted her regularly scheduled program of sitting in the break room and watching reruns of her favorite show on a tiny box television.

"Uh, the card on the dresser said we have a no-smoking room, but somehow our towels reek of nicotine," Lydia said after collecting herself.

She placed the stack of towels on the desk, disturbing the coat of dust that had been collecting there for years. The woman stretched her neck to look at them over the towels.

"Sorry 'bout that," she said, her voice froggy and rasped as if dry.

Paxton stepped back from the desk, glancing around the room. She thought of Stiles and how he could always spot the details that she normally couldn't. Things out of the ordinary.

Things like the plaque on the wall behind the old woman.

"What's that?" Paxton asked, pointing to the plaque.

Thin wood framed three numbers; one-hundred ninety-eight. The numbers were scribbled onto the same tags their room keys wore, and could be changed out like an old calendar.

The woman laughed to herself for a moment. "It's kind of an inside thing for the motel. My husband insists on keeping it up."

To be polite, Lydia and Paxton laughed with her, though uncomfortably.

"Well, what's the joke?" Paxton pressed.

"It's a bit morbid to be honest. You sure you wanna know?"

Paxton glanced to Lydia before stepping back to the desk, leaning into the woman's hushed tone that drew her in. She nodded eagerly.

"We're not gonna make the top of anyone's list when it comes to customer service," the woman said, eyeing the stack of towels. "But, we are number one in California when it comes to one disturbing detail."

The girls watch the woman carefully, intrigued by the story, scooting further and further to the edge of their metaphorical seats.

"Since opening—more than any other motel in California—we have the most guest suicides," the woman spoke slowly.

Paxton's gaze flickered up to the number, understanding it's not the same suicides Coach would sadistically force the lacrosse players to run. Nearly two-hundred deaths, all in one tiny hotel that couldn't hold more than fifty people.

The air froze over, like it had outside, like death itself had stepped into the room with them.

"One-hundred and ninety-eight?" Lydia questioned, her voice cracking against the lump choking her throat.

The woman smiled, dipped her head down to look at them over the brim of her glasses, and laughed a wicked laugh.

"And counting," she sung, still smiling, her head cheerfully swaying to song of her voice.

"How.. optimistic," Lydia smiled politely. "So, the towels?"

"We clean our towels everyday, and replace them after cleaning the rooms. Yours are clean."

One of Lydia's eyes twitched, her grip on the towels tightening.

"Have a great night," the woman said, trying to hurry them away.

She placed a small sign onto the desk that announced the lobby would be closed for the rest of the night, then spun around and headed to the break room where her show awaits.

As the girls stepped back outside, the door shut behind them with a chime of a bell; a sound that should feel welcoming but now feels eery as it echoes into the empty parking lot, bouncing across the building's walls.

"Do you think it's too late to ask for a refund?" Paxton half-joked, half-genuinely-questioned. When Lydia turned to her with a glare, she decided to add, "I can see if my room has clean towels."

Lydia's glare only hardened, along with her frown. Their pace slowed, nearing the flickering light of the vending machine that haunted Paxton's wallet.

"What the—"

Paxton turned to Lydia before noticing the machine's appearance. The glass had been shattered, punctured through the middle as if something—or someone—had purposefully broken it. A few springs inside had been torn out, emptying what was left of the few, less questionable options of food. What remained were crumbs of chips and discolored packaging that ripped with the glass.

Lydia turned to Paxton, silently asking what to do, wondering if this was some sort of bad omen.

Paxton blinked, her brows furrowing. She tried to understand what could've happened, mentally checking off a list of questions she and Stiles might come up with if he were here, but, reaching her capacity for these sorts of things, she simply retired from her understanding.

She started for the staircase not far from them, shaking her head. Lydia stood in her place, disbelief shocking her expression.

"So we're just going to ignore the broken vending machine?" Lydia asked, watching as Paxton hesitated at the stairs.

Before she opened her mouth, her body answered for her by nodding. "What broken vending machine?" her words eventually caught up.

Lydia huffed away her worry and headed to Paxton's side. "You can't be serious, we can't ignore this. What if we're in danger?"

"Maybe it was just a freak accident," Paxton said, though she really just wanted to scream out her horror. Maybe that would help sway her thoughts back onto their track.

"Are you kidding?"

Lydia's right and Paxton knew it, but the moment of ignorance was blissful.

"I'll tell Stiles," she finally replied, sighing.

She had every intention of telling Stiles, but the need didn't last long.

Once she and Lydia parted ways on the second floor, and Lydia disappeared into her room, Paxton hesitated outside of Stiles and Scott's.

She sighed, and slowly opened the door. Still holding the intention of telling Stiles, or anyone that might know what to think of it, really.

But, then the intention was gone.

The room smelled slightly of smoke that lingered within the wooden walls. An old black-and-white show hummed quietly on the boxed television across from the two beds. Between the two beds sat a lamp, the only source of light boldly shined red. Someone had thrown a shirt over it, illuminating the room with a crimson coat.

She found the boys lying in a circle at the foot of the beds. The first time she had seen them since handing them their room keys—except for Charlie, who she had been forced to room with since everyone else already paired off.

Closest to her, Isaac lies on his stomach, laughing at something said a moment before. He held a fan of cards in his hands, though they nearly spilled into the center of the circle as he curled over with his fit of laughter.

Charlie sat beside him, furthest from the group. Leaning against the tall dresser that the television sat on, he smiled around the group as he questioned what card to play.

For the comfort of his wounded stomach, Scott had pulled an old armchair up to the circle. Not minding the various stains marking it. He hid his cards in his lap while he fell over with the same howl of happiness Isaac had.

It felt foreign; the sound of unapologetic laughter. A comforting noise despite the obnoxiousness.

She hadn't heard it in a while, it made her realize how much she missed it. Scott was right, it would be like summer again. She missed summer, when everything felt like living instead of surviving.

And then she spotted Stiles.

He sat between Scott and Isaac, high above them on the bed so he wouldn't risk them seeing his cards.

The sentiment grew stronger as she watched his eyes light up with the conversation. His dimples sunk into his cheeks with his smile. He threw his head back laughing, his perfect nose pointed to the ceiling.

For a moment, she wondered how much would be different between them if she never found him again, if the events of the last year never happened.

It made her realize that no matter what, no matter how tired her body grew, how much the guilt consumed her, how the weight of the world crushed her shoulders, that she would never change a thing. If she were granted the chance to forget everything about this strange life she lives, she'd undoubtedly refuse.

The realization struck her, leaving her in awe as she watched the boys play their game. They hadn't noticed her yet, giving her time to cherish this feeling for herself, and herself only.

Once the sentiment faded, and her swollen heart shrunk back to a normal size, her feet guided her past the spare bed, around Isaac's legs, and to an empty spot beside Stiles.

His gaze soften on her in an instant. He had been the first to notice her.

She shared a smile to him, fighting the urge to lean over and kiss his dimpled cheek. To distract herself, she turned to the circle, spying on their cards.

What was that thing she supposed to tell him?

The intention of telling him had fled her mind completely. Her body leaned into Stiles as she smiled at the group, basking in their laughter. Her arm rested behind him, keeping her from completely falling over into him.

She wanted to rest her head on his shoulder but instead she simply patted a hand on his thigh. "Deal me in?" she asked, though their game is nearly finished with Scott holding one last card.

Stiles turn to her, the breath knocked from his lungs. He couldn't speak but he could nod, and he did so eagerly before leaning over to reach for the deck of spare cards.

"Where's Boyd?" she turned to the group, remembering how he should be with them.

Isaac turned away from Charlie, who he had been smiling at to affirm their conspiring deal against Scott. "He wasn't feeling well—went back to our room."

As soon as he answered, he placed a card onto the pile; a card that would force Charlie to draw four extra cards. Whether luck, or a part of their planned attack,  Charlie just so happened to have the exact card.

"You've got to be kidding!" Scott laughed, masking his slight annoyance. He had been so close to winning and now he'd have to draw eight cards.

Paxton shuffled through the deck Stiles had handed her while he placed one of his own down. "Where's Lydia and Allison?" he asked.

She studied her cards carefully. "Are we drawing until we get the color, or just drawing one?" she asked, hoping for her benefit, they'd pick the latter.

"Until you get the color," Isaac smiled up to her, already knowing she'd hate that.

Lucky for her, she had already stolen a peak at his cards before joining the game. It's not cheating, or so she tells herself.

She changed the color to one she knew Isaac wouldn't have, then turned to Stiles. "They're coming—I think. I don't know, I just ran into Lydia outside. She said Allison's in the shower, so."

She noticed a small pile of snacks scattered below her and Stiles, between the boys sitting on the floor. Outdated bags of chips, chocolate candy that seemed to be as rock solid as the walls of the room.

"Oh!" she suddenly remembered what she meant to tell them, and slapped a hand to her forehead—which she quickly regretted.

Her unexpected outburst scared everyone, especially Isaac, who had been deep in thought about what card to play. His attempt at an unbothered yelp failed and became more of a short scream of terror, like she had been a ghost.

Everyone turned to him, smiling with a questioning glare.

She remembered her empty stomach and placed a hand over it. "The weirdest thing happened," she started, gaining everyone's attention.

Isaac placed his card then set his hand down, giving Paxton his full attention. Scott did the same.

"After I went to change my clothes, I wanted to get some snacks," she recalled the events before running into Lydia. Glancing down to her lap, she picked at the fuzz on the extra pair of sweatpants she packed. "So, I went outside, my only dollar in hand, and headed to that stupid vending machine. Lydia saw me, said she was going to the lobby for new towels so she came with me. Well, the stupid machine ate my dollar and ruined my only chance of eating!" she huffed the last part, still holding a grudge.

"That's the weirdest thing to happen to you?" Isaac asked, dry of humor. He glanced up to her, feeling the heat of her stare.

"I wasn't finished."

"You want some chips?" Charlie asked as he placed his card onto the stack. Before she could answer, he reached for a bag and threw it at her.

She caught it, and as she held the outdated bag in her hands, she caught his gaze just as her nose wrinkled. "Thanks," she tried to sound polite, but she couldn't hide how unappealing a bag of stale chips was.

Scott placed his card quickly, then went back to listening to Paxton. Before Stiles played, he reached into the pocket of his sweatshirt and revealed the exact candy she had tried to buy.

She tried to hide how her face lit up at the sight of her favorite chocolate—for Charlie's sake, since he tried to play the big brother role and feed her. She took it from him with a careful smile, her gaze softening into his. In their own silent language, she thanked him.

"Right, so after I thought about breaking into the stupid vending machine, we went to the lobby," she continued as she studied her cards. Stiles played a wild card, changing the color to one she didn't have.

She paused for a moment, deciding whether or not to tell them about her conversation with Lydia. They had poor company, with Charlie being in a grey area of loyalty. Mentally, she reminded herself to ask him about why he had been at the abandoned mall the previous night, and decided to spare the details of Lydia's conversation.

"When we made our way back to the rooms, the vending machine was completely destroyed—like glass shattered, food ruined, destroyed."

"Maybe it was the wind," Isaac offered.

Stiles rolled his eyes away from him. "It was destroyed? How? You guys didn't see anything?" he rambled out.

He no longer cared for the game, so he hides his cards beside him and turned his attention to Paxton, who shrugs.

"It must've happened while we were in the lobby. I mean, that's what the stupid thing gets for eating my last dollar but if I knew someone was about to vandalize it, I would've kept my money."

The heavy weight of silence hung in the air. No one wanted to admit what they thought; that this is an obvious sign of something horrible bound to happen.

Like Paxton, they wanted to overlook it. To continue the game of cards as if every little thing gone-wrong shouldn't affect them. But it does, and no matter how much they didn't want to admit it, they knew it did.

"That's not even the craziest part," Paxton added, but before she could continue, Isaac interrupted her.

"I mean is a broke vending machine really on our list of concerns right now?" he asked, somewhat rhetorically. The heat of everyone's harsh stares scorched him, forcing him to defend himself. "What? We're in the middle of a game and I'm about to win! I don't wanna worry about some vending machine in a crappy motel. We're hours away from home, nothing followed us. I mean, except for Allison and Lydia. But, Lydia was with you, so you know it wasn't her."

"The vending machine wasn't just broken," Paxton sighed. "Someone broke it, like purposefully—probably with a very large rock or some superhuman strength. And we don't know if someone else followed us, we only know they did," she paused, then mumbled out, "and even then, who's to say trouble hadn't already been on the bus with us."

There it was again; the heavy silence, the palpable tension that squeezed the oxygen from the air around them.

Charlie, not paying much mind to their conversation, placed his card down. When he turned to Scott to watch him choose a card, he noticed him already staring at him. When their eyes met, Scott looked away quickly, pretending to be in deep thought over his next play. Really, it's to hide the guilty accusation on his face.

Isaac huffed, mumbling something about Ethan and how he was probably the one to break the vending machine. Stiles kept a watchful eye on Paxton, who had lowered her head.

She felt ashamed, blaming her brother as if he weren't the only family she considered to have left. It wasn't fair to him, especially when they hadn't talked much about the previous night. She really didn't mean to accuse him, and it didn't seem like she had. Only the few who knew what she meant understood her word choice.

Stiles still bet on Lydia being the potential sacrificer. Although a ridiculous suspect, she did shared a pattern with the clues they know.

"What?" Charlie asked of the group's silence. "You can't seriously think I broke the vending machine? I've been here this entire time."

Oh, naive Charlie. He has no idea what they think of him.

"Well, you did disappear for a while," Stiles said. "When you went to the bathroom."

"Yeah," Charlie huffed. "The bathroom. Last time I checked it didn't have some hidden passageway to the parking lot. I never left this room."

"We're not accusing you, Charlie," Paxton said, almost meaning it. She hadn't accused him of breaking the machine, that much is true. But she might've implied him being trouble, and possibly that none of them could trust him.

"It seems like you're accusing me of something."

The air constricted completely as the two siblings glared at each other.

Stiles—for the sake of Paxton—released a drawn-out sigh to ease the discomfort away from them. "It's probably nothing, maybe it was someone else staying here. You know, someone not from Beacon Hills, someone who doesn't have the intention to kill all of us."

Paxton huffed a breath of a humorless laugh. "Yeah, I really doubt anyone else is staying here."

They turn to her, trying to understand what her mumbled sentence could mean.

"When we were in the lobby, the lady told us.. something," she paused, not exactly wanting to ruin what was left of their peaceful exchange of cards.

"Well, don't leave us hanging," Isaac said, nudging her leg that fell from the bed beside him.

She threw her head back with a groan and allowed herself to fall back onto the bed. She covered her face with her hands.

It was stupid. Just a suspicion, and nothing even related to them. The cases of the suicides held no significance to whatever issues might've followed them from Beacon Hills.

Her hands still covering her face, she incoherently told them the same story the lady at the desk had told her and Lydia. Of course, none of them could hear her, they could only make out bits of her words. Motel. California. Suicides.

"What?" Stiles asked, then leaned over to hear her repeat what she had said.

She repeated it in one quick breath, still mumbling into the palms of her hand.

Feet shuffling and the sound of rippling plastic bags filled her ears. When she opened her eyes and looked through the cracks between her fingers, she found all four of them staring down to her, leaning over her spot on the bed.

"Did you just say—did you say suicides?" Isaac gasped. "Holy shit, this place is haunted! Boyd owes me a dollar now."

He smiled above her, nodding his head as he celebrated the dollar that would soon enter his pocket. The rest, however, did not look as cheerful.

"Wow," Charlie snarled. "A dollar!"

"I can't even be surprised," Stiles shrugged. "Of course Coach would pick the cheapest motel that just-so-happens to have the most guest suicides in the entire state of California. How is that even a record?"

He laughed as if amazed by how horrible their luck is.

"How many deaths happened here?" Charlie asked. "You said they keep a track of it."

"One hundred-ninety eight," Paxton said slowly as her hands fell from her face. "That's like five deaths a year, and counting."

As she sat up, they all returned to their seats, their cards sprawled around the floor.

"So, maybe a ghost broke the vending machine. Or maybe you did it with your mind! You said you thought about breaking into it," Isaac smiled, but they all ignored him.

"Do you think they had a reason?" Charlie asked. "The guests, do you think—"

"Isn't there always a reason?" Paxton returned, feeling herself sink into her seat as the topic of conversation took a quick fall into a low depth.

"I don't really know."

"Yes," Scott said, sure of his answer. His body pressed into the seat, hands gripping the armrests of the chair.

He didn't look at them, only stared at the disheveled cards below his feet. He looked at the last played card, then glanced to his own deck. He would've been the one to win if they hadn't gotten on this topic.

"Right, well," Stiles trailed off, shifting his gaze between Scott and Paxton. "What does this have to do with the vending machine?"

Just like that, with such ease, he steered the conversation back into the light. Winning the fight against their suffocating lungs.

Paxton groaned. "Who cares about the vending machine?" she asked, then turned to Isaac with a smile. "It was probably a ghost."

They laughed for a moment before Isaac opened his mouth to speak. "What we should really be talking about is what the hell happened last night."

"Let's not, actually," Paxton quickly replied, stealing a glance to her brother.

It would bring up an argument, one she's too exhausted to have.

"Okay, what about the people dying in our actual town rather than some motel in the middle of nowhere? What about the people being sacrificed?"

A silence passed, a guilty one that reminded everyone how horribly the last conversation discussing this topic went. When they had sat outside for lunch and Charlie joined them. They tried to lie to him, some better than others. Ultimately, it resulted in the siblings arguing.

Paxton felt watched and before the paranoia could startle her, she turned to Stiles. His gaze had been set on her as soon as Isaac stopped talking. Remembering, too, how poorly this conversation went for her last time.

In their secret language, her eyes slowly blinked as she nodded her head gently.

Stiles sighed, then turned to the group. "I have four suspects."

Paxton smiled, partly for her gratitude for him, partly for this comedically horrible turn of conversation. She didn't want to accuse Lydia again, nor run into the awkwardness with Charlie when they inevitably discuss the alpha pack.

"Four?" Isaac's brows raised. "You have four suspects?"

It seemed high, but Scott and Paxton knew it's the lowest amount Stiles had ever questioned.

"Yeah," he nodded, but quickly stopped. "It was originally ten. Well, nine technically. I had Derek on there twice."

Paxton fell back onto the mattress, hoping that if she kept Charlie out of sight, he'd leave her mind too. It brought a distraction; the oddly shaped stains that mark the popcorn ceiling above her. Glancing around them, she pretended their warped shapes were the constellation of stars she'd rather be staring at outside. Outside, where she could actually breathe.

"Who's the top suspect?" Charlie asked, surprising everyone with his boldness.

"Harris?" Scott guessed, smiling with anticipation.

Stiles' head leaned toward him, weighing the possibility with pouted lips. "Just because he's missing, doesn't mean he's dead."

"Right," Paxton laughed morbidly. "So if he's not dead, our chemistry teacher is out secretly committing human sacrifices."

"Yeah, I guess that sounded better in my head."

"It's kind of fitting," she shrugged. "I mean, he is cruel."

"What if it's someone else from school?" Scott offered. "Like, remember Matt?"

Paxton's eyes flashed. "How could we ever forget Matt."

Isaac laughed to himself at that, recalling the time he met Matt. 

"Well, we didn't know he was killing people."

Immediately, Paxton jumped up. At the same time, both her and Stiles turned to each other. Confusion matched in the form of their expressions.

"Excuse me?" Stiles turned to Scott, his brows pushed together. "I'm sorry, what?" he stood from the bed now. "I—yes, we did! I called it from day one actually!"

"Don't you remember Stiles declaring his hatred for Matt, like, every single day?" Paxton asked.

"Well, I just thought he was saying that for a different reason," he laughed, his innocent words going over everyone's heads. Everyone except Stiles and Paxton who suddenly felt as if they were placed under a microscope. "But, we never really, seriously thought it was Matt."

Stiles and Paxton, even Isaac, all glance between each other, mouths fallen open with disbelief. Every one of them, at some point before it got bad, had some sneaking suspicion of Matt Daehler.

"I was serious!? I was quite serious, actually. Deadly serious! No one listened to me!" Stiles argued, his arms waving around like they always do when he's worked up.

"Maybe no one believed you because you spent half the semester wanting to kill Jackson," Charlie shrugged, frowning as his head tilted to the side.

"It would've solved all of our problems a lot sooner if we had."

Paxton rolled her eyes at him. "Who're the other three?" she asked just to change the topic before steam could start hissing out of Stiles' ears.

"Derek's sister," he sighed, then plopped back down on the bed before continuing. "No one knows anything about her.. and she's Derek's sister."

"Hey, we know stuff about her!" Isaac argued, pointing between hisself and Paxton. "She's not like Derek, and she's definitely not as bad as Peter."

"Eh, she's still a Hale," Stiles returned. "Next," he looked over to Scott. "Your boss."

This caught everyone's attention, especially Charlie and Scott. Scott straightens up in his seat, staring at the finger pointed at him. Paxton laughed and lied back down, shaking her head.

"I don't really like the whole 'Obi-Wan' thing that he's got going on, you know? It freaks me out."

Scott's glare falters, the concern washing from his face as his mind draws a blank to whatever reference Stiles tried to make. His fingers wrestled in his lap.

"That was a Star Wars reference, by the way," Paxton informed while her gaze began to retrace the constellation of stains above her.

"Oh, my god?" Stiles sung depressingly. "Have you still not seen Star Wars?"

"I swear if we make it back alive, I will watch it."

"It just makes me crazy—"

"—Who's the last suspect?" Paxton veered the conversation back before Stiles' lullaby could put her to sleep again.

"Lydia," he sighed. "She was totally controlled by Peter and had no idea, so."

Before another wave of a contemplating quiet could end the discussion, Paxton groaned. "It's not Lydia."

"It's totally Lydia," Isaac chimed in, his face full of awe as if the planets had just aligned for a brief moment. "Remember yesterday in the woods? She started screaming her head off, I thought my brain was gonna explode."

"See!" Stiles pointed at Isaac while he turned to Paxton.

"That means nothing. Again, she could just be psychic."

"My brain exploding means nothing to you?" Isaac frowned, she just rolled her eyes.

Though Isaac joked about Lydia, a hint of truth remained. And, poor Charlie, he doesn't know what to think. He's just glad he didn't make the list.

Before anyone else could accuse Lydia with their own stories of her strange behavior, a knock met the door.

"Sorry, we're late," Allison apologized as she and Lydia entered. "Are you in the middle of a game?"

Shocked, and guilty, expressions softened as they turned to the mess of cards around them. Paxton shot up from the bed, smiling to ease the sudden tension that moved into the room. She scooted closer to Stiles, pushing him to the edge of the bed to make room for another.

"Uh, no," Paxton answered. "We were just about to start another round."

Isaac sat up and adjusted to make more room for them. Allison chose to sit beside him while Lydia moved across from Charlie, next to Scott.

Though Paxton had made more room on the bed for them, she's glad they didn't sit beside her. It's small enough with just her and Stiles. He moved closer to her, leaving them to sit comfortably with their legs teasing each other's bodies.

Someone handed him the deck of cards, and they watched as he shuffled them on his lap. Paxton fell into a trance, watching the cards move quickly in his hands. He deals them out, and everyone focuses on their fresh set.

Isaac smirked arrogantly at his hand. Charlie kept his face neutral while Scott did the opposite. He fought against his smile but he couldn't help getting excited over his luck. Lydia's the most determined of them all, and the most competitive. She glances around to study everyone's expressions. Allison kept her calm but she had a deck full of wild cards, and she couldn't wait to use them.

Paxton, sitting above Allison, accidentally noticed her hand. As soon as she spotted the handful of plus-cards, she nudged her elbow into Stiles' side. He followed her pointed stare, and raised his brows once he noticed. He smiled to her, narrowing his eyes, silently making a treaty.

"So, who's going first? Who won the last game?" Lydia asked.

The previous players turned to each other, guilt shown in their unsure reaction.

"I did," Isaac smiled brightly.

She rolled her eyes. "Great," she said. "I'm just glad I'm not sitting beside you."

She refers to the many nights over the summer where they did this very thing; gather in a circle and play UNO for hours. Isaac gained the reputation of being an explosive player. He'd play any card he felt without much thought put into it, surprisingly his strategy won most of the time but it frustrated everyone since they'd usually have more cards than they could count.

He started them off, placing a green card on top of the drawn card. Charlie went next, then Lydia. Scott, then Stiles. It didn't get out of control until Allison played the first of her insane stack. Isaac's confidence deflated quickly once he had to add four cards to his hand.

Unlucky for Lydia, Charlie decided to take his residual annoyance from the previous conversation out by stacking another plus-four onto the pile. She rolled her eyes in response.

The game continued like this, competitive yet innocent. They'd keep up a conversation about random things like how Stiles broke his arm when he was little, or how Isaac had a really bad haircut in the sixth grade. Allison told a story about living in San Fransisco, and how it was odd they were so close to the last city she lived in because everything in her life is so different now. Then everyone began bringing up how drastically their lives had changed.

"I still don't know how to feel about my dad being gone," Isaac said. "I don't know what was more traumatic, watching it happen or having to dig the hole for his casket."

"That's how it is with my mom," Allison shared. "We used to get into arguments every day about stupid things. She'd yell at me about something my dad tried teaching me, always corrected me on how to hold my bow. I used to wish for a break from it all, just not one where I'd never see her again."

Scott sunk into his seat.

"I still can't believe our dad is gone."

Paxton glanced up from her cards, her chest caving in at the sound of her brother's distant voice.

"Sometimes," he sighed. "I feel like he's not actually gone. Like one day I might wake up for school and still hear him singing along to the radio while he made breakfast."

She smiled at that sentiment. "He knew how to cook bacon perfectly," she added. "Now we just eat cereal—if there's any left," she laughed at the memory before a knot twisted in her stomach.

She spoke as if she still lived with Charlie, as if she could still have a perspective on what it's like inside their house.

Charlie wanted to smile, but it didn't quite make it onto his face. "Yeah," he said with the same sadness she felt.

Lydia placed a plus-two card, making Scott laugh as he quickly stacked another on top of it.

Stiles groaned, then drew his four cards. "I still don't know when the right time to tell my dad about everything would be."

"There's never a right time," Paxton said, placing her card onto the stack.

"I think I adjusted pretty easily," Charlie laughed softly.

"Didn't you try to turn them into the cops for kidnapping Jackson?" Isaac asked.

"He didn't try. He did," Paxton said, laughing the same way Charlie had. "Then we had to sneak around to talk to each other."

"Well, you guys did kidnap him, and in my defense, I thought you guys might actually kill him."

Stiles laughed at that, Paxton joining him.

"How is Jackson?" Lydia asked. "Oh, you've got to be joking," she said as Charlie changed the color of the cards. She had a deck full of blues, he changed it to red.

"He's okay," Charlie responded shortly, not wanting to talk much about Jackson. He missed him dearly, and the emails they exchange had grown distant in their responses. "He was really terrified at first, you know, moving while transitioning into life as a werewolf."

"I couldn't imagine it," Isaac said. "When it happened to me, I kind of became a new person without even realizing it. Everything was scary, and I didn't know how it all worked. Derek kind of sucked at teaching us."

He laughed to himself, remembering something from when he, Erica, and Boyd had to deal with Derek.

"Jackson learned a lot from him."

"Yeah," Isaac smiled. "Because by that point, he already realized torture didn't exactly make great puppets. Boyd and.. Erica, we had each other during it all. It made things easier. Derek wasn't all bad, though."

"I think the only reason I survived it all was because of Stiles," Scott added his own perspective. "I didn't know what I was doing most of the time. It's weird, sometimes I wonder how differently things would be if we never went searching for a body in the woods that night."

Stiles patted a hand on Scott's shoulder. "I wouldn't change it for a thing," he told him, winking with a smile.

"Do you think we'd still find ourselves playing UNO at eleven-o-clock at night, in the worst motel we've ever seen?" Paxton humored, though it brought up an interesting question.

"Probably," Stiles said. "Well, I don't think it would be all of us," he added, glancing around the group before landing on the few he couldn't see in his alternate universe.

"I certainly wouldn't," Lydia finally joined the conversation. It caused them to laugh, and once it settled, she continued. "I would've never followed a school bus eight hours away from home. Well," she paused. "If, in this hypothetical situation, Allison and I still became friends, I would probably go along with her anywhere."

"I don't think any of us would be here," Isaac said. "Because Paxton wouldn't have become a tyrant, and she wouldn't have forced us to sign up for cross-country."

She smiled to him, trying to fake an expression of offense. "Hey, we might not even be friends in this other universe."

"No," he shook his head. "We would've, we got to know each other before I got caught up in all of this."

"I was your lab partner for—maybe—ten minutes."

"Best ten minutes of my life. And I still would've copied all of your work, so yes, still friends."

"If that's the logic, then we would still be friends, too," Allison added, pointing between herself and Paxton. "We still would've met outside of the school no matter what."

"So, basically, you're like an angel that saves me in every version of our lives," Paxton smiled.

Charlie's eyes narrowed on his sister, noticing how Stiles kept his gaze on her and how she doesn't see him doing so.

"I think you two still would've been friends," he said, nodding in their direction.

Stiles turned away from Paxton while she lowered her head to her cards, blushing.

"I mean," he cleared his throat. "I think Paxton would've found her way into our dad's records one way or another."

She shrugged. "Well, what can I say. I'm just a nosy person."

Stiles smiled to himself as he placed a card down. He wanted to say how they would've still had unfinished business. How that fateful night one summer still would've happened, and that it would've driven him insane to be in classes with her all while knowing they had this 'unfinished business'.

Paxton watched as he placed a wildcard down, smiling as he changes the color to the exact one she had left.

Before she placed her winning card down, she thought that maybe there's some truth in what was said. Perhaps, in every universe, she and Stiles would find each other again.

That their little group would be huddled around in a circle of mismatched bandits, leaning over their deck of cards, laughing at everything and nothing, in every life.

As she placed her winning card, a groan moved through the room. Then, without much care for who wins or loses, they hurry into the next round.

The conversation molded and found itself wandering in many directions, most of which avoided any conversation about the supernatural. Refreshing them with change, they begin to believe that maybe everything is alright and that the challenges couldn't follow them from home.

For once, they didn't worry about anything. The impending doom didn't hover over them, tauntingly. The danger surrounding the bandits seemed small, and a treaty of peace withheld them from battle.

But the treaty isn't real, and danger is still a cheap motel room away.

PART II

COUNTLESS ROUNDS OF games had been played, endless conversations had been spoken. Delirium set in as the hands of the clock spun unnoticeably fast. Time had lost itself so easily within that motel room.

They had no idea how late it had been until a break had been called for. The break went from stretching and yawning to Charlie calling it a night. Then Isaac passed out on the bed while Scott went to the bathroom. Lydia and Allison spent their last moments laughing at Isaac, who woke up to them taking a picture of him drooling. He got up and left after that, running into Paxton and Stiles on his way out.

"Hey," said Lydia as she and Allison stepped into the cold night's air. "We're going to bed, I don't really do well with less than eight hours of sleep."

Paxton turned away from the balcony's railing and smiled. "Goodnight," she said to them, watching as they start for their own room with a small wave. Beside her, Stiles copied the goodbye.

During the break, she and Stiles escaped outside for some fresh air, believing the chill might wake them up better than the stale pot of coffee made an hour before.

They sit on the cold floor just outside his door. Her legs slipped under the metal railing, dangling above the sidewalk below. Her arms resting on its' bars, she uses her sleeves as a pillow for her tired head to rest on and watches the constellation—which looked more appealing than the stains above Stiles' bed.

Stiles sat with his back against the rail beside her, head tilted back just enough to relax onto it, his legs stretched toward his room. He kept his eyes closed and listened to the comforting silence dancing around them.

Keeping each other warm with the touch of their bodies, the sound of chirping cicada's and the buzz of the motel sign above them fill the rest of the silence.

"You know what I just thought?" Paxton asked.

He hummed in response, brows raising slightly as he leaned toward her.

"The only people unaccounted for was Boyd and Allison."

"What're you talking about?" his voice rasped in her ear.

"The vending machine," she sighed. "And, I don't think Allison would've thrown a rock into it. I mean, I didn't even see a rock. I don't think Boyd would've done it either, but—well, when did he leave?"

"I don't know," he shook his head before adding, "not long before you showed up actually."

With that, his eyes flashed open. His body straightening up.

"You don't think," she trailed off.

"That Boyd broke the vending machine? No, but I also don't really know Boyd. I paid him fifty dollars once, I know that he ripped me off."

"What if it's the killer?"

"You mean Lydia?" he somewhat joked.

She rolled her eyes and adjusted her head on the railing to turn to him. Glancing down to his nose nearly touching hers, a stray hair fell into her face.

"It's not Lydia."

He copied her, rolling his eyes, except his sarcasm is more exhausted than hers. "If it's not her, it's definitely someone," he smiled back, more lazily.

"Yes, it is definitely someone. That's a groundbreaking discovery, Stiles."

Her laugh caused her nose to wrinkle, and once she met his gaze, soft and kind, it melted her in a way only he could be capable of.

Her shoulders shrugged and she relaxed her head back onto her sleeves. "I don't know, maybe I'm just paranoid."

He took a moment to readjust himself by lowering his head on the cold railing, matching her line of sight. Once their tilted gaze met, he frowned a slight smile.

"Hey, you're not paranoid. You're just being cautious."

She inched herself closer to him, humming as if she were deep in thought. Nose wrinkling in the way that drove him wild.

"Can I be cautious without thinking of our impending doom?"

He leaned into her, touching his nose to hers then pulled back. "Probably not," he smiled, the kind that set his dimples into place.

She turned back to the stars above them, groaning even though her eyes held a glimpse of hope that maybe the constellation would magically reveal some answers.

"You know what you need?" he asked, poking a finger into her arm beside him. It made her squirm, not physically, but her stomach definitely did a somersault.

"What do I need, Stiles? Please, enlighten me with your wisdom," her voice rubbed like silk against his ears, enticing him.

His hand moved from her arm, to her face. He brushed away the strand of hair, hooking it behind her ear. She kept her eyes forward as best she could, but the battle against her peripheral put up a strong fight.

"You need a break—a getaway."

He laughed softly knowing the possibility is slim to none, even for himself.

"A vacation? Yeah," she joined his laughter. "Maybe I can schedule that between finding out who the Darach is and fifth period calculus."

"Look around," he said as if she weren't already. "We're in the middle of nowhere, you're mom isn't around, no one's in serious trouble. Except for Isaac, he probably has detention every single day until, like, graduation."

She thought for a moment how incredibly sad their lives must have gotten for him to be optimistic about being stuck in the middle of nowhere.

"You're right," she mused. "This is the perfect vacation spot. Maybe I should take a bath, I wonder if the tubs have those jets like the fancy kind. I could light some candles and wonder how many people died in my room!"

He laughed at her, his tired eyes swelling. "See, that's the attitude!"

She tried to fight her smile with a firm shake of her head, but it doesn't work. "You're ridiculous."

They stayed like that; lazily watching the other. She took the time to appreciate his attempt at relieving her stress. Even if it's a distraction in the form of a wish that could never be granted.

"I'm being serious, you know," he said, breaking their game of staring longingly at each other by turning back to the door of his room. "We could get out of town for a while—just disappear."

"But, who would be the masterminds behind taking down the big, scary villains if we left?"

He shrugged, then lowered his head. A sad frown set on his face. "Once this is all over then."

She looked forward again. The constellation brightened the parking lot below her feet. Would it ever be over? she thought.

"And where we would we go?"

"Anywhere," he said. "We could go anywhere you wanted."

"Anywhere I want?" she questioned with a thoughtful hum. "We'd have to buy a lot of duct tape for the Jeep. I don't know if she could make it across an ocean without it."

"I'm being serious, you know."

She turned to find him staring at her again, the stars in his eyes. The response couldn't find her so she reached for his face and leaned into him. Their foreheads pressed together, her thumb caressed his freckled cheek.

"I know," she sighed into his lips before meeting them with a gentle kiss.

She pulled back, opening her eyes to find him still lost in that position, puckering lips and closed eyes. It felt like a dream, like he had somehow fell asleep and her kiss had been the thing that kept him alive. He soon found reality, smiling more than ever while she connected the dots of his freckles with each glide of her thumb on his cheek.

"We could go to Disneyland," her eyes flashed as she smiled.

"How ambitious. Maybe I should choose where we go."

"Your loss."

The comforting silence fell on them again, just for a moment. Long enough for him to notice her dreamy gaze on the night sky. She were the moon, the stars, and all of the planets combined.

Once his stare felt heavy, she pushed away from the railing and spun her body in the same direction as his, facing the rooms. With her back pressed against the railing like him, her head tilted up, back to the stars. It encouraged him to do the same.

So, there they are, sitting on the second floor balcony of the most frightening motel in California, watching the stars together as best they could with the roof blocking most of the view.

A fitting picture for them, horrifying in theory but in the moment, as they sit hand in hand, it had never been more perfect. The stars filled their eyes, but their proximity to one another filled their minds.

Nothing could hurt them—not now, and naively, not ever.

Paxton could relax because he's by her side. She wondered when 'safe' and 'Stiles' became synonymous considering how much her feelings for him terrified a part of her only he could reach.

"I need to talk to Charlie," she sighed.

"Like, right now?"

"No. Well, maybe—if he's still awake. No. No, not right now. Just some time soon. There's something going on with him, something I don't know about. I can feel it."

"He was being uncharacteristically himself today."

His words tempted her to laugh, so she did. Short and sad, like the memories of her brother that fluttered around her mind. She knew he only meant Charlie had just been nice, understanding, more himself, but she couldn't stop questioning why that version of him felt so foreign now.

"You think Scott's still in the bathroom?" he asked.

"I don't know," her voice hummed. "If he is, I do not want to go in there to find out. He's been in there for at least thirty minutes now."

"We can air it out," he offered despite her already souring expression. "I'm sure there's some air freshener somewhere."

"Have you smelled this place?" she laughed. "He probably just fell asleep."

"Hopefully not on the toilet."

Their laughter overshadowed the sound of a door swinging open, but as it faded, it couldn't hide the noise of frantic footsteps hitting the floor they sat on.

"Lydia!" Allison called out further down the balcony.

Lydia rushed toward Stiles and Paxton, hair blowing with the wind as she gasps for the air she couldn't breathe. Her feet skid against the floor, halting a few rooms away from them.

"Lydia, wait! What're you doing?" Allison's whisper carried to Stiles and Paxton, abruptly ending their thought that it would be a somewhat decent end to a very long day.

"We need to get out of this place!"

Lydia's voice caused Paxton and Stiles to exchange a worried, yet knowing, look. One that wished they didn't recognize that sad tone of Lydia's meant something bad happened, that hoped they'd still be able to end the night peacefully despite knowing the opposite.

The night has only just begun.

"Lydia, just—it's okay," Allison's huffed words fell from her mouth with each panted breath as she chased after Lydia.

"It's not okay!" she cried as loudly as she could without disturbing any sleeping classmates around. "I heard them—that couple—I heard them!"

"I believe you, Lydia. I do, I believe you."

Paxton and Stiles—being nosy Paxton and Stiles—had moved from their spot under the stars and found themselves wandering too close to trouble.

"What did you hear?" Paxton asked, shocking the girls that had not yet noticed them.

Suddenly, Lydia spun around to them, blinking away the tears that welled in her eyes. She felt crazy, insane even. Wondering how anyone could believe her when she barely believes herself. But nonetheless, the unconditional belief Paxton wore on her face gave Lydia a small glint of hope.

"We were in our room and I heard voices echoing through the air vent," she began, staring at the floor as she concentrated. "It was a guy and a girl, and—and they sounded younger. They were in the room beside ours. I heard them, I heard—"

"We believe you, Lydia," Paxton quickly reassured her before Lydia's tears broke the surface of her eyes. "Which room is it? Maybe we can check on them."

Paxton didn't know what she had signed up for but she'd do anything for a friend in need. Lydia turned back around to Allison, her mouth falling open with a loss of words.

Allison shook her head. "We thought about doing that. The room," she looked over her shoulder, pointing out a lonely room beside theirs. It had been the last on the balcony before another staircase ended the path. "It's empty—nothing but construction equipment."

"Empty?" Stiles questioned. "It was empty and you thought you heard someone in there?"

Lydia glared at him, at his subtle accusation that she might be as crazy as she felt. "I didn't think I heard them, I did hear them!"

"What else did you hear?" Paxton asked before Stiles could point out how Lydia sounded.

"I heard them—I heard them kill themselves."

"Oh," Stiles hummed, his brows raised. "Great."

Just when he and Paxton believed they were in the clear, and the paranoia had dispersed, suddenly the ghosts of this motels past decides to haunt them.

"We need to leave," Lydia pushed through the two, and as she does, they noticed her purse slung over her shoulder. Her items packed inside haphazardly. "We need to get out of here, there's something seriously wrong with this place."

"Yeah," Stiles huffed. "Anyone with eyes could tell you there's something wrong with this place." 

She didn't respond, only pushed her pace further down the balcony. The items in her bag cluttering. Once she met the staircase, she turned around to them.

"We need to leave."

Hesitant to follow, Allison turned to Paxton and Stiles. "You believe her, right?"

It was a question only they could understand, it asked if there's something else going on with Lydia that couldn't be trusted. Something like her becoming a wolf, or a lizard like Jackson, or something Stiles had read about on the internet.

"Yes," said Paxton, confidently, as if she heard the strange voices herself.

She turned to Stiles, expecting him to be just as sure. He didn't wear quite the same confidence. Other than Lydia being a potential nut-job, he didn't know what to think. But one look at Paxton, and his opinion is swayed.

"Yeah, sure, whatever," he finally responded, then led them down the balcony after Lydia.

"Lydia, wait," Allison said, hurrying down the staircase to Lydia's side. "It's not like this place is haunted, right?"

"Maybe it is," Lydia argued, turning around to them. "You know, I bet that couple made their suicide pact in that very room. Maybe that's why they're renovating. Maybe they've been scraping brain matter off the wood paneling!"

Stiles leaned into Paxton, his eyes wide. "Is she serious?" he whispered into her ear.

"This is literally how you sound when you start conspiring against everyone in town," she returned with the same quiet tone, though more annoyed.

He rolled his eyes and turned to Lydia. "Maybe we should go find out," he said, gesturing to the front office where their answers might be answered.

"And stay here any longer? No, thank you," Lydia rolled her eyes, then started for the school bus.

"It's not a bad idea," Allison said loud enough for Lydia to hear. "If we leave now, we'd be stranding the entire cross-country team, all of our friends, and Coach."

"Fine," she huffed, spinning back around with the weight of guilt on her shoulders. "But I tried to warn you."

Dew settled down on the parked cars, glimmering on windshields and casting a misty veil over the ground. A cold front sharpened the air, intensifying the chilling wind. Like death itself had found its way to the motel. An omen of sorts.

Lydia returned to them, joining a small circle by the stairs. They turn to Stiles since he seems to always have a plan in situations like this.

He didn't have one, but the sound of a door opening distracts them long enough for him to start thinking of something. Turning to the noise, they find Boyd walking toward them.

Their eyes cut to one another, mouths drawn into a fine line to keep them quiet. None of them knew what to do. Boyd went to bed early because he felt sick, so his appearance left them wondering why he's still awake.

Boyd moves past them with ease, not even noticing them, then slows down by the vending machine and the ice machine beside it. Unbothered by the shattered glass beside him, he reaches for a small bucket and lifts the lid of the ice machine.

For a moment, the group watching him could sigh out their relief. He's just grabbing ice, he's sick and wants to cool his fever.

"Wait," Paxton whispered into Stiles' side. "He left earlier because he felt sick, right?" she asked, which was answered with a nod. "Can werewolves even get sick?"

She had a point, there's only been a few times when Scott had felt sick but each time had been because of a greater force, something they didn't quite understand. Like at Lydia's birthday party when Scott had grown hot in temperature due to his hallucinations. Or, full moons where he couldn't control himself.

Boyd gathered some ice into the bucket, but stopped once the metal scoop clanked against the surface. His hands began to tremble, forcing him to drop the scoop and bucket altogether. He took a step back, gasping. He says something they couldn't hear from the distance while stumbling further away from the ice machine. Sobbing quietly to himself.

Fueled by adrenaline, Boyd's shaking body breaks into a sprint toward his room. The fast pace caused the nosy group to jump into a huddle in hopes they wouldn't be caught in his path. He disappears into his and Isaac's room, slamming the door shut.

"You guys saw that too, right?" Lydia asked. "I'm not going crazy?"

"You might be going a little crazy," Stiles said quickly, reminding them that he didn't truly believe Lydia had heard a couple before. "But, uh, yeah, we definitely saw that." 

She paused for a moment to glare at him. "I knew I should've left."

"That was weird, wasn't it? Like, weirder than normal?" Allison asked.

Paxton nodded, eyes still wide. "Yeah, weirder than normal."

"On a 'weird' scale, I'd say it ranks pretty high," Stiles added dryly, sarcasm being his only defense mechanism in times like these.

"Not as weird as Jackson turning into a lizard, but definitely more weird than said lizard paralyzing people."

He turned to Paxton. "You didn't think it was weird that a lizard-person could paralyze people?"

"I thought it was strange, sure, but not as weird as Boyd getting ice at one in the morning only to run back into his room like he just saw a dead body."

"Can we just figure out what to do?" Lydia begged, tapping an impatient foot against the concrete below them.

"Right," said Stiles, sighing into a more serious tone. "We, uh, we should probably tell Scott. You know, warn him. I don't really know what we're warning him about but," his voice trailed off.

"We could go ask about the room Lydia heard the couple in," Paxton offered for more evidence, turning to the office across the lot.

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles nodded. "I'll grab Scott, you guys ask about the room."

He made it sound so simple, but could it ever be that simple?

"I'll go with you," Allison offered, and before Stiles could say anything, she hurries upstairs.

"Just find out whatever you can, okay? We'll meet back here," Stiles said before following after Allison.

When he and Allison found Scott, the question found an answer; no, nothing could ever be simple.

Lydia and Paxton begrudgingly found themselves standing at the desk of the lobby, again. The sign that announced the lobby is closed is still sitting there. The green 'open' sign still hummed. The ashtray, however, was no longer decorated with a cigarette. A television buzzed in the distance, behind a door kept ajar.

"She's not coming back out here," Lydia huffed, tapping an anxious finger against the wood of the desk.

"Maybe she didn't hear the bell ring," Paxton offered, turning to the bell hanging over the door they entered.

"Maybe, you should go open and close the door a few hundred times to find out."

Paxton rolled her eyes and sighed. "This is pointless. You're right, we should just leave."

"If we make a run for it, I have lip gloss in my bag, maybe it'll help us on our long hike back home."

"Maybe," Paxton smiled, turning to her. As she did, the framed numbers behind the desk caught her eye. It had been changed, jumping ahead three numbers to two-hundred-one. "Lydia?"

"Okay, so maybe lip gloss won't help."

"No, Lydia," Paxton's voice faltered. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the sign.

"I also have pepper spray, I'm sure that would help—"

"Lydia!"

"What?" she turned to Paxton, her gaze following to the poor joke the motel had kept track of. "Wait, didn't that say—"

"One-hundred-ninety-eight?" Paxton squeaked out. "Yeah, yeah it did."

She jumped away from the desk, completely uncomfortable, she began to pace across the checkered tile floor. Lydia kept her stare on the numbers, feeling her stomach sink.

"What does it mean?" Paxton asked her thoughts aloud. "That—that there's been three more suicides? We don't know when those numbers changed, who knows what could've happened in that time?"

Lydia pushed herself away, forcing her eyes to focus on something else. Anything else. She watched Paxton's feet stride back and forth.

"Or, three more about to happen," she sighed, and as soon as she said it, Paxton stopped her pacing.

Without saying much, they both ran for the door. The bell rang on their way out. Stumbling across the cracked pavement, they couldn't breathe due to the fear constricted their chests.

Allison and Stiles had been waiting for them on the stairs. He sat at the bottom and watched the pads of his thumbs tap uncontrollably. Allison sat beside him, holding herself in an attempt to savor any last warmth the cold wind was stealing from her. Scott's nowhere to be seen. Their conversation with him didn't last long, but his strange disposition lingered within their thoughts.

They had the same breathlessness as Paxton and Lydia. Pure panic encouraged by their delirium from the late night. The two rose from their seats on the staircase.

"Where's Scott?"

Stiles glanced up from the pavement, suddenly finding Paxton in front of him. "Yeah," he mumbled. "Uh, he was trying to sleep."

"You told him this place is haunted and he decided to go to sleep?" Paxton asked, darting her eyes from him to Allison.

"Well, not exactly," she answered. "We went inside and found him in the bathroom. He was just staring at himself in the mirror, like really staring."

Stiles sighed. "Yeah, so then I told him what Lydia heard."

"After that, he pushed us out of the way and headed to his bed. He didn't say anything, just pulled the covers over him and stared at the ceiling. Then told us to stop worrying."

Paxton turned to Lydia, who wore the same distraught worry across her face. "The numbers," Lydia's voice was quiet, distant. "The numbers for the suicides, they—they changed."

"They changed?" Stiles' body jolted. "What do you mean they changed?"

"They changed! How else can I put it?"

"It's not at a hundred and ninety-eight," Paxton chimed in. "It's two-hundred and one now."

"It can do that?" he wheezed. "So what—what does that mean? That three more happened?"

"Can we talk about this in the room? Or, any room, really," Lydia squirmed, her paranoid glare searching the shadows of the motel. "I know I said I wanted to leave, but standing out here isn't any better."

Going back to Allison and Lydia's room seemed the best bet. It would be the least hostile with Scott trying to sleep, and Boyd dealing with whatever Boyd saw. Of course, there was the fact Lydia heard a dying couples' last words in their room. Paxton's was the closest, but with Charlie still on the outskirts of trust, the idea of alerting him was quickly refused.

"The last time I saw Scott act like that was during a full moon," Allison started the conversation, pacing around the front of her bed, making a trail of prints in the shagged carpet.

Stiles stood off to the side, away from her path. He kept a hand pressed to his mouth, picking at the skin while he tried to piece together whatever he could.

Lydia and Paxton sat together on a bed, and though they could split between the two, it was decided they enjoyed the other's company too much—or, they were both too frightened to split apart.

"Yeah, I know. He was definitely a little off," Stiles said, dropping his hand as he spoke. "But, I think Boyd was really off. Scott didn't really do much, but Boyd—he seemed terrified. He had a reaction, Scott didn't."

"It's the motel," Lydia noted, again. "Either we need to get out of here right now, or," she leaned over, reaching for the nightstand beside her. "Or, someone needs to learn how to do an exorcism," she pulled out a red Bible, waving it in the air for all to see. "Before the werewolves go crazy and kill us!"

"So this place really is haunted?" Paxton asked. "Do we even know if ghosts are real?"

"Okay, just hold on, all right?" Stiles said, motioning his hands in the air as if he might magically calm the conversation down. "What if it's not just the motel? The number in the office went up by three, right?"

"Ancient druids loved patterns of three," Paxton mumbled out the very words he once said to her. "Three sacrifices," she looked up to him, her face falling.

"What if this time it's three werewolves?"

"Scott, Isaac, and Boyd?" Allison questioned.

Paxton stayed quiet, thinking it over. Ethan came to mind as she wondered if he could be one of the sacrifices. Maybe Scott really is fine and it's Ethan they should be worried about. They hadn't heard anything from Isaac, he seemed normal before.

"Exactly!" Lydia shouted as quietly as she could. "So, can we get the hell out of here now? Please?"

The Bible waved in the air as she spoke, then, as she tipped it over, a page fell out.

Paxton jumped from the bed. "What is it?" she asked, leaning over Lydia's shoulder to steal a glance.

"Probably just money," Allison figured, shrugging.

"No, not money," Lydia squeaked before reading off the loose page. "Twenty-eight-year-old man hangs himself at the infamous Glen Capri."

Lydia passes the page around, then examines the Bible closer. Another page slips out, falling into her hand. She flips through it, finding more and more. All newspaper clippings with different dates.

They gather them onto the bed before sitting in the silence of grief.

"Look," Paxton called for them, pointing to two separate pages. "They both mention this room's number."

"This one, too," Allison said, holding up her own paper.

"You don't think," Paxton's voice drew out, she couldn't even begin to speak the horrors she was thinking up. "These are the suicides that happened in this room, aren't they?"

They study each headline with the new perspective, shocked by it all.

"If every room has a bible—" Allison said, followed by Lydia continuing.

"There could be articles in all the rooms."

Pushing away from the bed with fear shivering through the air, they glance to one another. The terror only just begun, and they could feel the energy shift within the room. It pressed against their chests and caused their ears to ring.

"That's a.. beautiful thing," said Stiles, blinking slowly as he read over the headlines again. "Most places leave a mint under the pillow. This one leaves a record of all the horrible deaths that occurred."

"What if that room has the one about the couple?" Lydia asked.

"It didn't have much furniture," Allison noted. "There might not be one there."

"We could try my room," Paxton turned to them. "Charlie's probably asleep, I could just sneak in."

The newspaper clippings were left scattered across Lydia's bed, the lack of discretion came from their pressing lack of time. This isn't a mystery they could figure out within a few days time in Beacon Hills. No one knew how long it would be before someone died, but death is knocking on each door, one by one to find its victim.

They rush down the balcony, not a word spilled. Their thoughts overruled. Adrenaline might overpower their bodies, but their minds weren't as sharp. All that could be thought is how one of their friends will die, how Lydia can hear dead people, and what might be the safest route of fleeing with three to four werewolves in an uncontrollable state.

"Did you hear that?" Allison broke the silence, and their pace down the balcony.

Their bodies almost collide into Allison, but with their sense heightened, their near-collision didn't matter. They're all too busy listening to the unnerving noise echoing from the darkness behind them. A metallic whirring, blades slicing through the air at high speed—an ominous sound to encounter in the dead of night.

Slowly, heads turned toward the source; the door of the room Lydia had been sure she heard the mysterious couple in. The room sat dormant, in a state of construction. Filled with tools and paint cans, unlikely for anyone with good intentions to find themselves inside.

"I'm not the only one hearing that, am I?" asked Lydia, her voice cracking.

Allison covered her face as she gasped. "The handsaw—there was a handsaw on the floor!"

"Handsaw!?" Stiles cried out.

The noise grew louder, more insistent, immobilizing them as if their limbs had solidified like cement. Though uncertainty met with the identity of whoever's inside, one thing was certain; whoever it is wouldn't remain there for much longer.

Lydia lunged for the door. "No, no! It wasn't locked before, I swear!"

Paxton pushed through their crowded bodies while calling for space around the door. Hesitating, she remembered her concussion, then pushed the thought away. She didn't care. All she knew is that they needed inside.

With a hand on the knob, she pulled back, then threw her weight against the door. Despite her effort failing to budge it, she persisted, trying again and again until finally, with a crash, the door flew open, nearly sending her tumbling to the floor.

The walls were draped in plastic film, tools strewn across the floor amidst empty paint cans. Despite the reconstruction, the pungent smell of smoke and mold refused to be masked. A radiator steamed with humid heat.

She staggered back from the exertion of forcing open the door, as she collected herself, Stiles hurried past.

"Ethan! No—don't!" he yelled, capturing the attention of those few who hadn't yet realized what was unfolding.

Ethan stood in the center of the room, holding the source of the noise. The sharpened blades aimed for his stomach. Though he doesn't seem to care about the threat, a part of him is struggling against the urge to split himself in half. His sight blurred by tears, he stares at the saw in hand as he fought against his own thoughts.

In a swift, somewhat clumsy motion, Stiles lunged for Ethan, grappling for control of the saw's handle. Despite Ethan's unnaturally superior strength, Stiles refused to yield, throwing himself into the battle against the frantic push and pull for power over the deadly tool.

Lucky for both involved, the fight doesn't last long.

Between the struggle, Paxton followed the cord of the saw to a wall. In a blur, she reached for the outlet and unplugs the saw. Its whirring begins to slow as Ethan unexpectedly releases it, sending Stiles onto the bare floor decorated with nails. He holds himself up, as tall as he could manage despite the tremble of his muscles.

Just below his nose—his perfect nose that Paxton would've missed dearly—the saw had landed perfectly on its back. The blades slowed their spin while he gasped for air, wavering above the saw as his mind caught up to the pace of his body.

Throwing the plug aside, Paxton hurries to Stiles' aid, nearly tackling him with her speed. With her arms hooked under his, she hauls him out of harm's way. Both panting as they stumble across the floor, colliding into a plastic-covered wall.

The weight of his fall is cushioned by her body before he slips onto the floor between her legs. Without hesitation, her arms wrap around his chest tightly, embracing him as if it might be their last.

Before their emotions could sway into a low depth, Ethan's claws slashed at his stomach.

Stiles lunges forward once again, Paxton close behind. They position themselves on either side of Ethan, pulling at his arms with all their might. The tug becomes a shove, causing Ethan to stumble and fall onto the steaming radiator nearby before crashing into the wall. He tears down the plastic sheeting with him as he screams in agony.

Allison and Lydia moved to Ethan, helping him as best they could without getting too close.

His scream dissolves, and suddenly he jumps to his feet with a wild glare pointed to Paxton and Stiles.

"What just happened?"

Before anyone could respond, he darted towards the unguarded door, setting off a frantic pursuit.

Paxton and Stiles were out first, followed by Lydia, then Allison who had found Ethan's shirt on the floor.

"Ethan—Ethan, wait!"

His hurrying stride never slowed, but he did take the chance to yell over his shoulder. "I don't know how I got there or what I was doing, but I don't wanna talk about it!"

"Okay, you could be a little more helpful, you know?" Stiles responded, slowing down once reaching the end of the stairs they followed Ethan down. "We did just save your life."

Spilling onto the pavement, the four of them surround Ethan. Allison throws him his shirt, and Lydia stays as far back as possible, hiding behind Paxton and Stiles.

"And you probably shouldn't have," he said, fastening the buttons of his shirt.

With that, he spins around toward his room and closes the door behind. Ending any further questioning.

"What now?" Lydia asked.

"I'll find Scott," said Allison, stepping back onto the staircase. "You guys grab Isaac and Boyd. The best thing we can do is get them out of this place."

Lydia nodded and started for Isaac and Boyd's room, but when no one follows her, she turns around.

Paxton hadn't fully comprehended what had just happened, it all went by so fast. The pounding of her head had found her again, making it a lot harder to think anything at all. She could only see a flashing behind her eyes, visions of Stiles and how his face had nearly been sawed in half.

"What?" Lydia sighed as she noticed Stiles' hesitant expression. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

His thoughtful eyes sharpened on her before blinking away the judgmental stare.

"Stiles!"

He glanced to Paxton, frowning apologetically.

"Alright, I didn't wanna say anything," he paused. "But this—everything we're going through. We've kind of been through something like this before. A lot like this."

"Stiles," Paxton sighed, lowering her head.

Despite the temptation to agree with his perspective, she knew now wasn't the time to blame Lydia.

"What do you mean? When?" Lydia innocently questioned, but even she knew where he was aiming.

"Your birthday party. The night you poisoned everyone with wolfsbane."

"I didn't know what I was doing."

"Ethan doesn't know what he's doing either—hence, the 'we've kind of been through something like this before'."

"I'm confused," Paxton shook her head. "Are you accusing her?"

"No," he said, then sighed. "Not completely."

"Not completely?"

"I just think we should look at the similarities."

Lydia sighed, and Paxton simply rolled her eyes. "The similarities can wait. If we don't hurry, Isaac and Boyd will be just another newspaper stuffed into a Bible."

Before Stiles could argue—not that he had much to fight against—Lydia cut him off.

"I didn't do this, okay?" Lydia's voice cracked. "Okay?

"Seriously, as much as I'd love to dive into the details," Paxton paused, glaring between the two, then continued, "we just watched Ethan try to split himself in half with a handsaw. And, if that doesn't leave you traumatized, with all this time we've wasted pointing fingers, Isaac and Boyd have probably ditched the handsaw and found a nail gun instead, so if we—"

Lydia sniffled, overwhelmed with the accusations she's faced all night. The attention falls onto her, alarming Paxton and Stiles with her quiet sobs.

"Look, Lydia, I didn't mean that you're the one killing people. I just—I just meant that maybe you're somehow involved in getting people to kill themselves, you know?" said Stiles, but his words are quickly regretted. "Which now that I say that out loud it sounds really terrible, and maybe Paxton's right, so I'm just gonna stop talking—"

"Yes. Please stop talking," Paxton turned to him, frowning so she could hide her smile.

"Wait," Lydia said, her ears perking. "Do you hear that?"

"The sound of Isaac and Boyd begging for help?"

Lydia didn't say anything, neither did Stiles. They stand there, in the middle of the silent parking lot, listening to the distant chirp of cicadas.

"You don't hear that?" she asked again, this time with a whisper.

Paxton and Stiles exchange a glance, their attention drawn to Lydia as she takes a step forward, positioning herself at the edge of a water grate. The sound of running water echoes from beneath the pavement.

"Isaac and Boyd? No, I don't hear them, but I can't get the sound of that handsaw out of my mind."

Ignoring Paxton, Lydia lowers to her knees, leaning over the grate.

"Lydia? What—what do you hear?" Stiles asked curiously.

"A baby crying," she said as if were so simple, and not alarming at all. "And, I hear water running."

She leaned closer, trying to understand the voice only she could hear.

"Oh, my god," she cried. "She's—she's drowning the baby!"

Stiles' eyes widened, he turned to Paxton again. She just shook her head, feeling time run out around them. As concerning as it is, Paxton's patience was wearing thin.

"Who, Lydia?" Stiles asked.

Paxton stood back, doing Stiles' job. She pieced together the few clues they had. Lydia heard the couple in the room beside hers, then they found Ethan inside trying to slice himself in half.

If she hears water running, hears a drowning, Paxton wondered, which wolf is next?

Allison left for Scott, so if anything strange is happening with him she would be there. Something strange happened with Boyd, and no one's there for him. Except Isaac, but even he might feel the spell cursing them.

"Isaac and Boyd!" Paxton yelled, eyes widening with horror. "Someone's drowning, we need to help them!"

Stiles caught her gaze, full of tears. His worry for Lydia disappears instantly. Lydia broke out of her trance that fixated on the water below by nodding to them.

Their hearts pound like the rhythm of their footsteps against the pavement, each beat echoing loudly in their ears, drowning out any attempts at conversation. Silence hangs heavy between them, fueled by the collective realization of what has occurred or what is inevitably about to unfold.

Although they managed to arrive just in time for Ethan, an unsettling reminder alarms them that Boyd has already had more than enough time to carry out whatever influence he'd been spelled by.

Like the previous room, Paxton slammed her weight into their door. The hinges loosening as she moves into the room with the force of a tornado, the cold breeze follows them inside. Death itself.

No one's around. The beds are made. Bags are still packed. The only thing out of the ordinary is the bathroom door being wide open. The light revealing their assumed horror.

There he is, Boyd, lying in the tub he's too tall to fit in. His legs dangle off the end, and a safe the size of a small nightstand is pressed against his chest. His fresh breath bubbles up under the surface.

Stiles rolls his sleeves up and begins pulling at the safe. Lydia hides in the doorway, crying and trying her best to organize her scattered mind. Paxton reaches for the drain, finding it clogged with something.

"The drain—it's blocked!" she cried, then pulled on the safe with Stiles.

Straining against the safe's strength, their chests fill with fire. Warm and burning, reminding them to breathe before they pass out.

"Is he dead?" Lydia's voice cracked. "How long can a werewolf stay underwater?"

Stiles huffed, still pulling on the safe. "You think we know that?"

"We can't—we can't!" Paxton yelled, falling onto the floor behind her, short of breath. "It's too heavy! We have to find something else!"

Stiles fell back as well, neither wanted to give up, but they both knew it's useless to fight against something they couldn't measure up to. If Isaac were around, maybe he could help.

"Where's Isaac?" she asked.

No one answers. Stiles leaned against wall, his arm swaying into the wall. His hand grazes an old, metal heater built into the wall across the bathtub. Like his lungs, it stings him as well.

"Wait," he said, holding his burning arm. "The heater. The heater—Ethan came out of it when he touched the radiator!"

Lydia turned to him, confused. "What?"

"It's heat! Heat! Fire! Heat does it, all right? We need something—"

"He's underwater!"

"Yeah, I'm aware of that!"

Paxton shook her head, trying to ignore their arguing. She looks to Boyd beside her, his eyes closed under the water. They were nearly out of time.

"The first-aid kit," she mumbled, sniffling as she used her sleeve to wipe away her tears. "On the bus, the first-aid kit, it—it has flares! I left it in Scott's seat!"

She glanced over her shoulder, catching Stiles' gaze. He doesn't say anything, doesn't question her like he might Lydia. He takes off toward the door, and disappears into the parking lot.

Lydia moves to the side of the tub, pulling against the safe despite it being useless. Once she gives up, she starts scooping the water out onto the floor with cupped hands—though it might be just as useless.

Paxton, avoiding the water, stands up from the floor, and moves into the room. Searching for anything that might tell her where Isaac is. He fell asleep earlier, in Scott's bed. He should be asleep now.

She sits on a bed, listening to the springs squeak over water crashing onto the floor in the bathroom. Her ears strain to find a faint noise adding to the choir of sounds—the quiet sniffling of someone crying.

Uncertain of the source, she holds her breath in case it might be the sound of her own. Yet, even in the silence of her withheld breath, the quiet sobs persist.

After jolting to her feet, a moment of hesitation prepares her for what she might find. She falls to her knees, finding the cries of another had grown louder, as if it's right beside her. She's met with the urge to comfort the grieving soul, no matter the fear that trembled her body

She turns to the bed beside her and lifts up the orange skirt that hides the wooden frame.

Just as she does, a gasp breaks the noise. She finds Isaac staring at her, pressed against the carpet under the bed, eyes red and puffy. He scoots away from her as best he could.

"Isaac?" she tried to sound brave, but her own fear refuses to lie. "Isaac, it's okay," she added after a relaxing breath.

"I got 'em!" Stiles ran back inside, slamming the door shut behind him.

Isaac winced at the loud noise, jumping and squeezing his eyes shut as he covers his face. His fear reminded her of something. A night forever ago, when she had went to Isaac's house for dinner. The start of their friendship, where she learned how horrible his father was.

"What do I do?" Stiles asked in the bathroom. "How do I do this?"

"The—the cap, it's like a match," Lydia explained, pausing her endless scooping of water from the tub. "The cap's a match."

While he and Lydia try to light the flare, Paxton continues to watch Isaac despite the heartbreak of seeing his past haunt him. She wonders if that's the cause all of this. The past coming back in the form of hallucinations, driving them mad and to the point of violent outbursts.

"Isaac," she pleaded. "Please, please, it's okay."

A flame ignites on the flare, casting the room in a fiery red glow. Stiles drops it into the bathtub beside Boyd, his heart pounding while he prayed their desperate measure will break whatever control Boyd is under.

Paxton startles at the sudden crash of metal against the tiled bathroom. Abandoning the bed skirt, she spins around to survey the room, her eyes widening in shock as she takes in the sight of broken tiles scattered across the floor, the safe at the center of the chaos.

Boyd rises out of the tub, claws by his side. His growl scares Lydia and Stiles enough to run out of the bathroom altogether.

"Boyd," Stiles sighed. "Are you—do you remember what happened?"

He doesn't respond, he just stares emptily at the red flame that taunts him.

Paxton stands up, eyes set on fire. She pulls the flare out of Stiles' grip, and finds her spot on the floor again.

Boyd blinks back to the reality, panting as he stares around the room and the tub behind him.

Paxton held the bed's skirt up. "Isaac," she called his name, more of a warning than anything.

Her hold on the flare tightens before reaching it under the bed. It waved in Isaac's face, the heat burning his skin.

He winced and tried his best to move away from it, but it's too late. The flame touches his skin, causing him to  relax onto the floor.

"Here," she said to anyone around, handing the flare to the first hand offered. With it out of her way, she reaches under the bed and finds Isaac's arm.

Gently guiding him out from under the bed, Paxton supports him as he wrestles out of the confined space. Once out, he collapses in her arms. Exhausting despite his tortured breathing that keeps him alert.

She comforts him with a quiet shushing, brushing his short curls from his sweaty forehead. "It's okay, you're okay," she cooed between his quiet sobs.

Glancing up from him, she finds Stiles and Lydia staring at her. They're drenched in water from the waist, down. Behind them, Boyd sits on the edge of the tub, his head in his hands.

They all had tears in their eyes. The wolves for whatever captured them, mourning the cruel thoughts that nearly convinced them into a tragedy. Paxton, Stiles, and Lydia blinked away the tears that fought hard, wanting to be strong. But the weight that hung in the air nearly collapsed on them.

"I can't find him!" Allison shouted from outside the door. It opens, and into the grief she enters. "I can't find Scott, I looked everywhere!"

"What's going on?"

Behind Allison, Charlie appears. Nerves evident as he runs a nervous hand through his hair and scans the room for his sister. His eyes lock onto her figure comforting Isaac, noting the dried tears on her cheeks. His heart sinks at the sight of her.

In an alternate reality, the little group of friends from Beacon Hills would've woken up by now, left to shake off the remnants of a haunting nightmare.

They would have exchanged relieved glances, grateful that the events were nothing more than a figment of their imagination, a temporary disturbance in their peaceful lives.

Sharing a laugh over how odd their minds could be before going back to the conversation they were having during a card game—a topic asking the question of what would've happened if none of them had met. Maybe they wouldn't have disturbing nightmares about being stranded at an old motel.

And in that moment of relief, of waking up to find out it was all a lie, they'd joke about the absurdities. They'd find it strange that a motel would keep records of deaths, but never question it under the assumption that it's doing of imagination running wild in their sleep.

But, this isn't an alternate universe, and the moment of relief would never find them.

In the midst of their harsh reality, everything feels oddly surreal, as if they're navigating through a haze of disbelief. The only emotion felt is an overwhelming sadness that weighs heavily on their hearts and clouds their thoughts with its presence.

Now they're left to question why this would happen to them. Were they destined to stay in this motel, hours away from home? If yes, is there a lesson to be learned? Is there a greater conspiracy happening that they're not yet aware of? Is this preparing them for the war on the horizon at home? Did they miss all of the warning signs? All of the bad omens? Could they have prevented this?

"He wasn't in his room?" Stiles asked Allison, breaking through the haze.

No one acknowledged Charlie's question, but ignoring him wasn't the purpose. They didn't have to answer, the grief spoke for them. The thick air that leaves him suffocating did the job. It made him sick, so sick he might puke.

"No," Allison answered. "I looked everywhere."

"It's happening to him too, isn't it?"

"It has to be," Paxton nodded to him, still brushing Isaac's hair away from the burning skin of his forehead.

"There's another flare on the bus," he sighed, carrying the room's collective grief. "I'll go grab it."

"I'll go with you," Allison said, stepping outside for him to follow.

Isaac sat up, allowing Paxton to move from under him. "I'll go, too," she told them after one last glance to Isaac.

She met them by the door, beside Charlie. Before they got far, he held onto the sleeve of her shirt.

"What's happening to Scott?" he asked her quietly.

Her head shook as he tested her trust. "We're not sure," she answered as honestly as she could. "But, can you—I need a favor."

"Anything, what is it?"

"Can you stay here?" she asked of him, leaning into his ear and whispering. "You need to make sure they stay here."

He didn't move his body, just his gaze. He already spotted Isaac, but now he could see Boyd in the bathroom as well.

He turns to his sister, a line tightening his lips. He nods, then watches her disappear outside with Stiles and Allison. Lydia follows them, closing the door behind her.

The grief lingered, ruining whatever relief they might've hoped for when escaping into fresh air. The weight on their shoulder didn't ease up either.

Lydia didn't have to catch up to them much, she ran into the others just a few steps outside the room.

A fire cracked, echoing between the building's walls. Their line of sight followed the noise.

In the center of the parking lot, Scott stood with their last chance of feeling hopefulness in his hand. The flare crackled in his hold, glowing its red light, illuminating the dew of the parking lot.

He shivered as the wind blew past, revealing his drenched clothes. His hair curled with the water soaking him, plastering to his forehead like his clothes do to his body.

Despite the crushing of grief that lingered, he remains as still as a statue. Cast in the crimson light of the flame, his figure appears both fearful and resolute. A blend of uncertainty and bravery. He stood tall like a leader guiding his troops into battle. A beacon of strength that wavers with the shaking of his cold body.

No one could move. It's as if all of the worry, the grief, the panic, it has all crashed down on them. They were scared for Ethan, frightened for Boyd, saddened by Isaac. But, Scott held all of their emotions high. He keeps them strong in the midst of despair, but even from the distance, they could see the faults in his exterior.

Whatever possessed the others, it held no stance to Scott. He's supposed to be the strongest, the brave one. The fighter, the leader.

But even the bravest soldiers, heart like a lion, will be paralyzed by fear.

"Scott?" Allison stepped forward.

She guides them closer to him, navigating through the heavy atmosphere until they stand within arm's reach of where he stands, his feet firmly planted on the pavement. They study him like the statue he appears to be. His knuckles turned white with the tension applied to the flare. Gaze fixed on the pavement below, he's lost in a world of his own thoughts and worries.

"Scott?" she said again.

Paxton held onto Stiles, an arm wrapped around his. Lydia kept close as well, holding onto Paxton's hand behind them.

Stepping closer, they fall into his view. Again, the faults of his exterior are on display. This time with a magnifying glass. His lips were turning blue from the temperature, but that's not their biggest concern. Their gaze falls to the gas can discarded beside him, sending a shiver down their spines. A puddle flooding around his shoes. Perhaps another omen.

They reel in shock, realizing that he's not wet from water, but drenched in gasoline. His clothes saturated with the liquid. Gravity punches them like a punch to the gut, and urgency fuels their adrenaline at they understand the danger he's put himself in.

As their eyes dart between the flare clenched in his hand, the can lying close to his feet, and the puddle of gasoline pooling around him, a sense of helplessness washes over them. He holds the power in his hands, this leader, their intervene would be powerless. All they can do is watch with a silent dread.

Slowly, his eyes trail up from the flare, to his friends. He stares through his brows. All of the emotions from earlier come crashing down from their high.

Their friend, their leader, standing before them on a ledge. Would they jump with him? Do they even have to ask how high? The questions need no answer, it's written in the unbreakable that binds them. Without hesitation, they would follow him to the ends of the earth, confronting any challenges.

Scott's voice cuts through the heavy silence. "There's no hope," he utters, his rasped words heavy with despair, echoing the bleak reality of their situation.

"What do you mean, Scott? There's always hope," Allison told the love of her life, her voice strong despite the tremor of fear just below its surface.

"Not for me," he paused. "Not for Derek."

It stung to hear Derek's name. The events of before; Derek's death, the fight between them and the alpha's, it had all been lost within this night.

Paxton steps forward, her bottom lip trembling with the effort to hold back her tears. She wrinkles her nose and presses her lips into a tight line, determined to stifle her cries.

Shaking her head to further stifle herself, she slips away from Stiles, and looks to Scott. "Derek was not your fault, Scott. He was never your fault," she insisted, her gaze unwavering as she meets his eyes. "If it weren't for you, my brother wouldn't be alive."

Her addition of her gratitude proves just one instance where Scott had an impact on her. Of course, his hearing is blinded by his thoughts.

"If it weren't for me, Derek would still be alive," he told her, his voice seeded in anger, in guilt. "Every time I try to fight back, it just gets worse. People keep getting hurt. People keep getting killed."

"Scott, listen to me, okay?" Stiles stepped forward this time. "This isn't you, all right? This is someone inside your head telling you to do this," he took another determined step closer, Paxton still clinging onto his side. "Okay?"

Stiles reached for the flare, but its too far out of reach. Scott lowers his hand, causing them to shiver out of fear that it might meet the gasoline.

"What if it isn't? What if it is just me? What if doing this is actually the best thing that I could do for everyone else?"

Scott's voice shook, either from the breeze freezing him over, or the fear eating him alive.

Paxton squeezed her eyes shut, she couldn't bear it. She hides her tears in the sleeve of Stiles' shirt, wiping them on the material while she breathes him in. She turned behind him, holding his arm tight, and finds Allison and Lydia in the same mess of emotions.

Surrounded by the bravest people she knows, Paxton is swallowed into sorrow as she watches the cracks begin to form in their armor. It's a sobering reminder of their humanity.

"It all started that night—the night I got bitten. You remember the way it was before that?" he asked, pausing between sentences to push past the knot in his throat.

There it is again; the hypothetical alternate universe. The conversation from earlier, when it seemed they were on top of the world, replayed. If they were never introduced to the supernatural because of Scott, what would've happened to them? They never thought that innocent conversation would have him rethinking his role in their lives.

Even in this other reality, they'd still wake up from this nightmare with Scott by their sides.

"You and me," he said, staring directly at Stiles. Or, more through him, at the memory of their simple life. Stiles, like the others, refused to hide his tears. "We were—we were nothing."

Paxton found Stiles' hand, reminding him that without that night in the woods, he may have never found Paxton again.

"We weren't popular," Scott continued, turning his cruel glare onto Paxton for the moment. "We weren't good at lacrosse. We—we weren't important," he said, hiccuping through his words due to his sobs. "We were no one. Maybe I should just be no one again. No one at all."

His fist around the flare moved, turning it over in his hand, its red flame reflecting in the puddle below.

"Scott, just listen to me, okay?" Stiles took another step toward his friend. His voice low to control his fear.  "You're not no one, okay? You're someone, you're—Scott, you're my best friend, okay? And, I need you," he paused, breathing in deep as a tear fell from his cheek. "Scott, you're my brother, and I couldn't do any of this without you."

Paxton's hold on Stiles slipped, allowing him to take one last step to Scott. His beat-up converses break the surface of the pooling gasoline, his hand extending for the flare. The tension suffocates them as he inches closer to Scott.

Stiles' subtle move leaves him balancing over a tall ledge with his best friend by his side, choosing between two decisions that could change everything.

"So, if you're gonna do this, then," he trailed off, securing the flame with his hand around Scott's. "I think you're just gonna have to take me with you."

Their eyes meet, and it distracts Scott long enough for Stiles to move the flare into his hold. It burned his skin but he couldn't feel it.

Paxton moves forward now, her eyes locked onto Scott, a flicker of recognition passes through his gaze as he turns to her. The distraction Stiles provides is wearing off with the loss of the flare in Scott's hold. Time hangs suspended in the air, each heartbeat drumming in the silence that surrounds them.

Though she could never be as brave as Stiles, her determination burns just a bright. Her shoes join them in the puddles as she joins Stiles' display of loyalty. Her trembling hand finds Scott's shoulder, a gesture of her solidarity, of their bond,

"To the grave," she said, causing Scott to blink against his tears.

To the grave; a phrase the three used to say to each other frequently. Said after one of them had shared something personal. They kept each other's secrets like an oath. A vow of loyalty.

To the grave with your secrets. No questions asked.

It held another meaning now, a more literal one. If Scott were to ask how high they'd jump for him, they wouldn't be able to answer. It would be limitless.

Scott's breathing became more panted, less controlled. While Paxton distracts him with her hand still planted on his shoulder, Stiles throws the flare far behind them.

And for a moment, it stayed in that bittersweet state. Stiles smiling through tears at Scott, Paxton doing the same. They had saved his life like he had done for them, and will continue to do forever.

Between them, countless memories were shared. Pillow-castles built when they were little, arms broken by skateboards, nights spent at each other's homes. No matter where life took them, or what path they're put on in the future, they'd always have each other. That feeling, that relationship and bond, it never goes away.

But the moment, like everything else in their lives currently, takes a bitter turn.

The wind picks up, blowing forcefully at them. Chilling them over like it had earlier throughout the night. Between Allison and Lydia, where the flare lies still burning, the breeze targets. It blows against the flame, sending it in the gasoline's direction.

It all happens so fast; the scream from one of the girls that saw it happen, the pulling of Stiles hand against Paxton's, a fire igniting, the tackle of Scott.

When their eyes open, and their bodies ache, the group of friends bound together now for life, find themselves atop one another. Dogpiled away from the blazing fire behind them.

Paxton's fall had been broken by Stiles, who fell onto Scott. Allison collapsed beside him, shielding herself and Scott from the flame. Lydia fell the furthest away, closest to the fire.

She kept a careful watch on it despite the burning heat. It's then when she spots the shape of a creature between the flames. It stared at her, lifelessly. Like it might actually be death itself. Or an omen they're determined to ignore.

When they had finally woken up, each startled by a nightmare, they found themselves inside the safety of the bus.

The sun rises above the horizon, its fiery glow setting the interior of the bus ablaze. They were awoken by its blinding glare, opening their eyes to a hazy white light at the end of metaphorical tunnel. Death consumed them last night, so they could only assume they were meeting their maker.

When the heat became too much, most of them covered their faces with a shirt or the hood of a jacket, then fell back asleep. Death couldn't stop them now, even if their assumptions were false.

With the dawn of a new day comes a fresh start. Full of optimistic possibility. All of their worries from the night before, and the things they left back in Beacon Hills, begin to subside in the gentle light of the morning. Giving them a chance to forgive their past, and a chance to renew their hope for the future.

For once, they didn't feel normal, nor afraid for their lives. Even happy felt too extreme, too overwhelming for the peace that settles over them. They were finally calm; an emotion they never thought possible.

Nothing could hurt them now. They've discovered how far they'd go for each other, found new depths of relationships they'd never seen before. Loyalty had never felt more true.

Boyd and Isaac took up the last two rows of seats, stretching their legs across the aisle while they slept. Allison and Lydia fell into place ahead of them, sharing a seat. Charlie slept in a row closest to the front. Scott sat across from Paxton with Stiles behind her.

Paxton tried to stay awake long enough to see Scott's eyes close, but ultimately failed. He never fell asleep, instead he spent the remaining time before the sun rose to stare at nothing while he retraced everything that had happened in his mind. He couldn't remember much.

When they first found safety in the bus, no one spoke a word. Not even Isaac, Charlie, and Boyd who hadn't been outside to witness the explosion, and though they weren't around, they could still hear it. Charlie was the first to run outside.

The fire died down fast, and once he found Paxton, it had disappeared entirely. As if it never happened. She sat on the pavement, her knees pulled to her chest as she rocked herself back and forth. He fell beside her, and pulled her into a hug. With his head resting on hers, he studied the area around them.

Isaac and Boyd had stepped outside at that time. Allison held onto Scott, crying as she held his limp head up by the collar of his shirt. She was whispering to him, telling him how much she loved him. Lydia stared blankly at the bus, where the fire once was. Stiles, like Paxton, kept to himself. He sat in silence, fighting hard against his escaping tears. Once he pulled himself together, he walked past Charlie and Paxton, and crouched beside Scott.

It took him a while to wake up. With the impact of the explosion, and everyone tackling him into safety, he had hit his head hard. And though he bled onto the pavement, with passing time, his eyes eventually shot open.

Stiles had been the first to notice not only him waking up, but the hint of red in his iris's.

After that, it didn't take long for them to pack their belongings and rush into the bus. It did, however, take awhile for the adrenaline to settle, and even longer for them to fall asleep. Once most of them had, the sun already began its new cycle, flecks of grey and light blue meshed with the dark night sky.

So, again, when they had woken up inside the bus, with only an hour of sleep and startled to life by the heat of the sun, everything felt refreshed. Despite an uneasy life, a glimmer of hope shines through.

This unspoken shift of energy had occurred without anyone noticing.

It recollected itself around them throughout the night, reminding them that despite the tragedies, they would never change a single detail that defines their shared path.

Together they're more powerful, more alive. Aware that they'd never be alone again, they could relax by knowing that they'd never be no one to anyone ever again. Joy will still fuel their obnoxious laughter, and heartbreak will still cause tears to be shed. This is the normalcy they craved. A life lived together, filled with every emotion, heightened by the dangers they face.

Paxton searched for a pack of gum in her bag, and once found, she handed a piece over the aisle to Scott. He turned to her, finally breaking the staring contest he had been having with the leather seat in front of him.

"Thanks," he whispered, careful not to wake Stiles behind them.

Unfortunately, the bus door slides open forcefully and wakes Stiles up instead. Coach steps into the bus, shaking his head, watching as the few that were still asleep woke up to the noise.

"I don't wanna know," his loud voice boomed across the seats. "I really don't wanna know."

Stiles stretched behind Paxton, Lydia yawning behind him. Boyd didn't bother to open his eyes, and Isaac, in a startled mess, fell onto the floor beneath him.

"In case you missed the announcement, the meet's been cancelled, so we're heading home," he said to them, then turned to the door and ordered the students waiting outside. "Pack it in! Pack it in!"

The students come filing in, one by one. The first inside is Ethan, and despite having first pick of where to sit, he plops down beside Scott.

Scott turns to Stiles and Paxton, wide eyed.

"I don't know what happened last night," said Ethan. "But I'm pretty sure you saved my life."

"Actually, I saved your life," Stiles interrupted, leaning over Paxton's seat, as close as he could get to Ethan. "But that's just a minor detail so," he added, sinking back into his seat.

Ethan ignores him by turning to Scott and blocking Stiles' view. "So, I'm gonna give you something. We're pretty sure Derek's still alive."

Again, Scott turns to Paxton, who turns to Stiles. Another shift moves through the air, holding a greater optimism.

Perhaps they really were destined to stay at the motel. Without the lesson learned, they wouldn't be as prepared for what they might return home to.

"But," Ethan sighed. "He killed one of ours. That means one of three things can happen; either he joins our pack, or," he paused, leaving Scott to fill in the blank.

"Or, he kills one of his own."

To that, Ethan nods his head. "Or, Kali goes after him, and we kill him. That's the way it works."

He stood from Scott's seat, and Stiles opens his mouth as Ethan passes by. "You know, your little code of ethics there is sort of barbaric, just FYI."

Unbothered, Ethan found a seat close to the back of the bus, beside Danny, and Stiles moved to sit with Scott.

Once he sat down, Coach moves down the aisle, checking the seats to take a count of the students. Around his neck rests the whistle he loves to abuse. It bounces against his chest as he walks.

Paxton leans forward, moving close to Stiles and Scott to say something to them, but as she does, the whistle catches her eye. Where it bounces, a purple powder falls. It stains Coach's white shirt.

"Charlie, can you—"

Paxton stands up, interrupting him. "Hey, Coach," she called for his attention, and before asking permission, she pulls the whistle over his head. "Can I borrow this?"

"Uh, I'm gonna need that back," he stammered out, then headed back down the aisle to talk to Charlie.

Stiles glanced up to her, watching her curiously as her hand wraps around the plastic. She blows into it, then reveals more of the purple powder in the palm of her hand.

She huffed quietly before smiling. "Wolfsbane," she muttered, then rolled her eyes.

She almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of the night's events, that stem from the small dose of poison held in the palm of her hand. The irony isn't lost on her, and a hint of amusement dances in her eyes as she contemplates the chain of events set in motion by such a seemingly insignificant substance.

"I guess that means ghosts really aren't real," she joked.

Stiles sighed, and sunk into his seat. "Every time Coach blew his whistled, Scott, Isaac, Boyd—"

"And, Ethan," she finished for him. "They were poisoned by it."

"That's why the numbers went up!" he jumped in his seat, excited by his discovery. "The darach, he knew were going to be here. That's how the darach got into their heads. That's how he did it."

She nodded to his words, but as the weight settles upon her, she slouches defeatedly. Leaving her to question everything she knew. Even the refreshing new day couldn't break her paranoia.

But, they are still left with unanswered questions, like the deaths that occurred in those rooms. Could they have all been summed up to poisoning?

Or, what about Lydia? How could she hear unexplainable things? Maybe she were poisoned too, but that would mean she's a werewolf. Right?

If the darach made a weapon of their weakness, how did it get so close without being noticed? How did it change the death count? Did it somehow find a way to postpone the cross-country meet so that they were forced to stop there?

The question she asks herself first is; should we have seen this coming?

Maybe if they knew more about the darach, all of this could've been avoiding. There had been so many warning signs, but in the midst of the chaos, all of the bad omens were easily overshadowed.

So, maybe, they really were destined to land in that situation, faced with the hardest challenge they've yet seen, because now, upon reflection, they've been granted their normalcy, a new start, and an unbreakable bond.

Perhaps, in the grand scheme of things, they really were destined to encounter the night's challenges, to navigate through the depths and emerge stronger on the other side. Through the trials they faced, they have been granted a newfound sense of normalcy, a fresh start, and an unbreakable bond. In retrospect, they realize that every obstacle they've overcome has led them to this moment, where they stand united, ready to face whatever the future may hold with unwavering resilience and strength.

___

i would like to dedicate this chapter to anyone who has left comments, or voted on any of these chapters.

with you, i literally would not be motivated to do this, and this lose any passion for this hobby

so thank you.

to any silent readers that keep up, thank you as well.

i always knew this was going to be the hardest chapter for me to right, even in the beginning. this is one of my favorite episodes, and unfortunately i'm somewhat a perfectionist.
so, im extremely sorry for the wait on this chapter.

as it normally does, life has gotten in my way, but i try not to let it drive me away from this story. i promise, this WILL be completed, i have so much love for not only teen wolf, but these characters as well and i cannot let their story go untold, as cheesy as that sounds.
i have so much planned, but i also have ADD, and well, we see how that's playing into me actually getting chapters out :)
(i literally think about writing, then get distracted by everything else going on, then i think about writing again, and the cycle continues)

but anyways, as always, thank you for reading, for supporting me and believing in this silly little story that i never thought anyone would care for.

thank you! thank you! thank you! thank you!

i'd also like to say a thank you to noah kahan because i quite literally would've never finished this without stick season playing in the background.

okay, ill go. stay tuned for the next chapter
(i'll try to get it out in a timely manner)

if anyone has questions, or if you're reading this and anticipating another chapter, leave a comment, i usually see them on here before i see anything else.

_