As the moon began to dip below the horizon, footsteps echoed across the cracked cement. A man with tousled blonde hair took a bite of his chocolate doughnut, then stopped mid-chew.
"What the bloody hell happened to the school?" he muttered, staring in disbelief.
It was John Constantine.
He stood at the edge of the Beacon Hills High parking lot, staring at what was left of the building. Large sections had collapsed, walls torn apart as if a storm—or something worse—had ripped through it.
His eyes scanned the aftermath. Bodies lay scattered across the courtyard—Scott, Stiles, Daniela—each unconscious but alive.
Then he spotted his son, crumpled and barely moving, exhaustion etched into every line of his face.
John sighed heavily.
"They were only supposed to track the Alpha," he muttered, pulling out his phone. The last message from his son still glowed on the screen: "School."
A vague warning. A reckless move.
"He set the trap without me," John muttered, pocketing the phone. "Stupid, stubborn boy…"
But as he looked around the ruined campus, the silence in the air told him something else.
The danger had passed.
At least, for now.
Then John's eyes landed on two young girls—Allison and Lydia—clutching each other pale and terrified.
Moments later, pickup trucks pulled in, tires screeching. Armed men jumped out, assault rifles drawn.
John narrowed his eyes as Chris Argent stepped down from one of the trucks, A pistol in hand. He scanned the scene, then rushed toward Allison.
"Allison?" he asked, his voice sharp with concern. But she was frozen, still trembling from what she'd witnessed.
Chris turned to John. "What happened?"
John didn't answer right away. His gaze swept over the wreckage—Stiles and Daniela unconscious, Scott barely breathing, and his own son in a miserable heap. He sighed, frustration and worry tangled in his expression.
He finally looked back at Chris.
"Take them home. Both of them," he said firmly. "They've seen enough."
Chris gave a quick nod, gently guiding the girls toward one of the trucks.
John stood alone, eyes drifting to the crumbled building behind them. The air still thrummed with lingering energy, thick with what had taken place here.
"The Alpha's gone," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "But the magic left behind… no ordinary Alpha did this."
He raised both hands. Light sparked at his fingertips, tracing glowing symbols in the air—ancient, golden, and powerful.
"Time to fix this."
The runes flared to life. As he spoke the final word, "REPAIR," the ground pulsed beneath them.
The ruins of Beacon Hills High began to rebuild—walls rising, shattered windows restoring, scorched earth renewing beneath their feet.
Above them, a flock of ravens circled in the gray morning sky, watching.
Silent witnesses to everything.
"Now where the bloody hell is Derek Hale?" John muttered, lighting a cigarette with a flick of his thumb. "Always disappears when things go straight to hell."
————
A small figure moved silently through the woods, the broken branches crunching faintly beneath his boots. Moonlight slipped between the trees, casting long shadows as Derek Hale stepped into the clearing—and there he saw him.
His uncle. Naked. Shaken. Curled in on himself like a man who had just seen a ghost.
Peter didn't even lift his head.
Derek approached slowly and crouched beside him, his expression unreadable.
"So," Derek said quietly, "you're the one responsible for my sister's death."
Peter finally looked up, eyes hollow. "All I wanted was revenge."
"And for that," Derek growled, his eyes beginning to glow with a fierce red light, "you'd kill your own niece?"
Peter turned his head away, voice flat. "So you're the Alpha now. If you're going to kill me… just do it."
Derek stood tall, his voice firm. "I'm not going to kill you. No more Hale blood will be spilled—not tonight." He paused, then added coldly, "But you're going to help me, whether you're a wolf or just a man."
He leaned down, inhaled his uncle's scent, memorizing it.
"But know this," Derek said as he hoisted Peter over his shoulder. "Kate Argent will die."
With that, he carried his broken uncle through the trees, toward the place that would now be their war room—the loft. Their new home. A new beginning.
——
As the moon dipped lower on the horizon, a creature emerged from the shadows—silent, cautious, sniffing the air. It was a coyote, its fur bristling with instinct, padding slowly through the clearing until it found the boy.
Unconscious. Still.
She crept closer, her nose twitching as she examined the dark-haired, tan-skinned boy lying motionless in the grass. A faint silver glow pulsed from the moon-shaped pendant around his neck. Curious, the coyote tilted her head and leaned in to sniff it.
But the moment her nose neared the pendant, it shimmered with light—soft, but commanding. The coyote jerked back, startled, and with a low whimper, turned and darted off into the trees, vanishing into the forest beyond.
Iván groaned, his fingers twitching. Slowly, his eyes blinked open, meeting the sky still painted by moonlight.
"What… the hell happened?" he murmured, trying to piece together the fragments. There was pain—intense, blinding—and then… nothing.
Just emptiness.
He looked down at himself—naked. "Great. Just great," he muttered, sighing in frustration.
Then came the sound of movement—twigs snapping, leaves rustling. He tensed, turning sharply, half-expecting a threat… but it was nothing. Just animals, probably.
A raven suddenly swooped in, landing right in front of him. It let out a sharp caw, flapping its wings once as if in warning, then took off into the sky.
He stayed where he was, too exhausted to do anything but breathe.
"Hey, kid," a dry voice broke through the silence. "Your mom's worried sick."
Iván looked up to see John Constantine standing nearby, cigarette between his lips and a knowing smirk on his face. Without much ceremony, John tossed a pair of pants at him.
"Cover up, yeah? You're making the wildlife uncomfortable."
Tonight's events would leave scars for some, and a haunting reminder for others—that the world they lived in was full of hidden secrets, waiting in the dark.