Chapter Text
Slants of morning light filtered into the bedroom, the blinds half drawn, filling the room with a mellow, creeping warmth. It was early on a Saturday, but Thomas was already up—Newt too, though he was downstairs doing… something. The smell drifting up the stairs hinted at cooking, something warm and buttery.
The only sounds in the room were the soft groan of pipes in the walls, the faint shuffle of pages as Thomas worked through them, and the steady churn of the printer. The pair of them had been awake since around dawn—another nightmare—and Thomas hadn’t managed to fall back asleep after that. Newt, stubborn as ever, stayed up to keep Thomas company, even though he was more than capable of entertaining himself for several hours, Newt—
Now, with the sun fully up and seeping into the room at eight, they’d both given up on rest and risen to begin the day.
Thomas had rolled off the bed and immediately picked up where he left off yesterday. He sat on the floor with his binder open, organising the supernatural entries copied over from his old, beaten-up notebooks—now categorised by cultural mythology and alphabetised. And all neatly typed on the laptop and printed. One more page slid out of the printer, whispering slightly as he reached for it without looking, and tucked it beneath the growing pile to be filed away.
This had become his project for the summer. Well, sort of.
It had started as:
One – go through Stiles’ old bedroom, organise and reshuffle, get rid of the clutter that had no meaning—after checking if the others wanted anything for sentimental reasons. (A few items had been nabbed by the McCall pack.)
Two – redecorate the room into something he and Newt actually wanted.
Three – get new furniture because some of that stuff was ancient and falling apart.
Point four, uh… profit?
Thomas hadn’t thought much further than that. He’d simply worked his way through the room all summer. Under the bed had been the worst of it. A graveyard of forgotten nonsense—an old lacrosse glove, a cracked phone case he didn’t recognise, several photo albums from years past. Half of the things under there made him question past-him’s decision-making skills entirely.
Then there were the things related to his mum.
Those had been the hardest. A real punch to the chest. Claudia Stilinski was a complicated matter for Thomas—one he didn’t like to examine closely. Most of his memories of her were fractured at best, and the ones he did remember from her decline were sharp enough to cut.
It ached. A deep, hollow ache beneath his ribs. He knew she’d loved him, even in those final months, but those were the months he remembered most. And even knowing the dementia wasn’t her fault didn’t soothe the sting of her actions.
He flicked the thought away before it had teeth, grabbing the final printed sheet and sliding it into place. Then he began sorting the pages into the binder, adjusting tabs, smoothing corners, letting the familiar rhythm ground him.
His research from before his kidnapping had been scattered across notebooks and drawers and random piles throughout the room. He had spent too many nights scrambling to find them all. He wasn’t letting that continue.
So the bedroom clean-out had turned into a full-blown pet project—his own supernatural bestiary. Tabs, handwritten notes, highlighters, even Newt’s doodles decorating the margins. Some were detailed pencil sketches; others were goofy little doodles. They gave the binder personality, turning it from a reference guide into something alive.
The leather binder itself had been a gift from Lydia once he finished the summer work in record time. “A reward for working hard,” she’d said before handing out gifts to the others when they completed theirs. Even Gally had joined them for study sessions when he wasn’t at work. Thomas suspected he wanted to take online classes or eventually attend community college.
His dad had been helping Gally a lot, using his connections. Gally fit right in at the sheriff’s station, and Thomas was really, really glad.
Nearly complete now, isn’t it? Void hummed, stretching lazily at the edges of Thomas’s awareness. The renewed connection afforded them the option to peer through his eyes if they wanted.
It had been complicated at first—figuring out what he wanted and how to accept Void’s offer. But in the end, Thomas had known. Void was a Nogitsune, yes—but they had never lied to him. Not once. Tricks, manipulation, honey-sweet coaxing—sure. But no lies.
It was a sharp contrast to the pain that had accompanied his possession. He had suffered because of Void. Because of Noshiko’s choices. And he still felt the weight of that. But the connection existed, undeniable and steady, and maybe that blurred things. Maybe it didn’t. He’d always lived in shades of grey anyway.
I suppose, he conceded, turning his thoughts back to the binder before he could drift down that moral rabbit hole again.
He knew the bestiary was nowhere near complete; there were too many supernatural types in the world for that. But he’d tightened what research he had, organised it, made it something he could actually use and be proud of. And something he wouldn’t mind adding to, whenever curiosity struck.
Void hadn’t spoken all morning until now, content to drape across his shoulders like a sleepy fox. Sometimes Thomas swore he could feel phantom fur brushing his collarbone, a warm weight settling there.
Tommy? Newt’s voice brushed his mind warmly. Breakfast is ready.
His stomach rumbled immediately. I’ll be right down.
He sent a burst of affection toward Newt and felt it returned just as strongly. Closing the binder, he set it carefully on his desk and pushed himself to his feet. His knees twinged after sitting cross-legged for so long, but he ignored it, heading for the door.
The floorboards were cool under his feet as he crossed the landing, the smell from downstairs growing richer—toast, maybe eggs, something sizzling. In his hurry, he nearly missed the first stair entirely and caught himself with a startled laugh, gripping the banister before bounding down the rest.
·•—–٠✤٠—–•·
Thomas lounged on the deck, sprawled across the makeshift nest he’d built on the outdoor settee as he watched Newt tend to the garden. He liked watching Newt work; there was something soothing about how calm Newt got when gardening. On his knees, hands covered in soil, that gentle crease at the corner of his eyes softened even further, as though the sun and the dirt and the tiny green shoots all eased something deep in him.
Newt had always enjoyed being a track hoe, and over the summer he had spent a lot of time setting up a space to grow food. It was nice to eat the fruits of his loving labour—pun wholly intended.
Thomas glanced down at the active group chat with the rest of his pack, where most of them were complaining about how close school was to starting again. The only one not complaining was Teresa, but that made sense—she, like Thomas, had already experienced high school education, though she had been tutored by WICKED, so the concept of attending school had been new to her. Everyone else was still in the throes of the mere concept of High School and getting an education.
He snapped a photo of Newt without really thinking about it and set it as his new lock screen. Newt stayed blissfully unaware, fingers sunk into the soil, humming under his breath as if the world were exactly as it should be. Thomas watched him for a moment longer than necessary, wondering how long it would take before Newt noticed—and what his reaction would be when he did.
When Thomas glanced down at his phone again, the image made his mouth twitch. The camera had caught more than he’d intended: the faint bruise at Newt’s neck. A mark left from last night—left on purpose, if he was honest. Newt had (affectionately) complained about it at the time, despite how his instincts preened at being marked so visibly.
What annoyed Newt more, though—what always annoyed him—was that the same never held true in reverse. Anything Newt left on Thomas faded within the hour, his healing factor wiping it clean as if it had never been there at all. No lingering proof. No claim that stayed long enough to satisfy whatever instinctual itch it set off. Thomas knew it bothered him more than Newt liked to admit, and the thought carried a quiet, smug warmth before Thomas locked the screen again.
He shifted back against his makeshift nest, attention drifting to the small table beside him. The Nemeton box rested there, warming in the sunlight. No shadowy tendrils curled around its seal today, but he could feel Void within it all the same—stretched out, watchful, content like a cat basking in the warmth seeping into the wood.
Thomas might still be making up his mind, but he wasn’t mean. Void had been trapped for eighty years by Noshiko, then trapped again by them. Eventually—inevitably—Thomas would release them, but that didn’t mean he had to shove the box into a cupboard in the meantime. Leaving them in the sun sometimes felt like the least he could do.
Still, the thought pricked at him, guilt rising with the memory of the harm Void had done and the further harm they’d prevented by locking them away again. And beneath that… the itch. The kind he got if he didn’t shift often enough, simmering just under his skin.
He sighed, casting a quick glance around the garden—habit, really; the fences were high enough. Satisfied, he let his body reshape itself, bones clicking and sliding with familiar ease as he melted down into his fox form. He nosed his clothes into a pile beside the nest and stretched, long and luxurious. Then, with a hop, he landed neatly on the table.
Warmth sank into his fur instantly, delicious and heavy. He churred, tail swishing as he settled into a loaf, eyes closing, ears loose. His instincts crooned: oh, good sun, nice sun, warm warm warm.
The immediate ripple of amusement from both Newt and Void made him crack an eye open. He hadn’t meant to broadcast that.
He ducked his head. Sorry.
Oh, sweet thing, Void purred with the mental sensation like a warm hand smoothing over his fur. Never apologise.
Newt stood, brushing soil from his hands, smiling that soft smile Thomas adored. “Nothing wrong with a bit of sunbathing, love.”
His tail wagged—traitorous thing thumping against the table—before he could stop it.
Newt approached the deck, and Thomas hopped off the table, landing with a light thff on the planks. He trotted straight to Newt, circling his legs, brushing against his calves, nuzzling at his ankles. Newt huffed a laugh and bent to run warm fingers behind Thomas’s ears, scratching that perfect spot that made Thomas melt into a puddle of pleased chirrs.
“Affectionate little bugger,” Newt murmured fondly.
Thomas preened, winding around him like a tiny, black-furred satellite.
They lingered in that quiet affection for a minute before Newt gave his ear a final scritch. “So. Monday.”
Thomas let out a soft grunt and flopped onto Newt’s feet, very pointedly ignoring the concept of time. But after a moment, he shifted up onto all fours again and nodded—fox-like, but Newt understood him well enough.
School starts again, Thomas grumbled through their bond. And the Beacon Hills High Senior Scribe thing is happening tomorrow evening.
Newt tilted his head. “Are you ever gonna tell me what Senior Scribe actually is?”
Thomas chuffed—hadn’t he told them? He could have sworn he did… oh well. Seniors all sneak into the library the night before school starts and write their initials on the shelves. It’s like… tradition or whatever.
“Huh.” Newt’s brows drew together as he scratched under Thomas’s chin. “What’s the point?”
It’s dumb, Thomas said, but with the resigned fondness of someone who had once thought it was very, very cool. It’s just… a senior thing. Everyone does it.
Newt hummed. “Sounds a bit like the wall in the Maze. Everyone carved their names there too. But that was… different. That was a reminder we’d once been alive, in case we didn’t make it.” His voice gentled, sadness brushing the edges. “This is just… teenagers vandalising school property.”
Thomas barked out a sound that was the closest thing to a laugh a fox could give. Wow. You care about school property now?
Newt scoffed. “Not even a little. But that’s the joke, innit?”
Thomas nudged his shin approvingly.
He hopped back up onto the deck settee, curling into his nest, and Newt followed him up, sitting beside him. Thomas rested his head on Newt’s thigh.
Minho and Kira better get back in time, Thomas said. Their flight’s cutting it close. Three weeks in New York meeting Ken’s side of the family. Bet they’re exhausted.
“They’ll make it,” Newt said, certain. “Minho would outrun a plane if he had to.”
Thomas snorted into Newt’s leg. But then his amusement faded, something heavier pulling in its place. He went quiet.
Newt’s hand stilled. “…Tommy?”
Void nudged him gently. Speak.
Thomas hesitated, then exhaled. I’ve had this… feeling lately. Like something’s going to happen. His tail flicked, restless. That inevitability, like—like a bad thing creeping closer.
Newt didn’t take that lightly. He never had. He stroked his fingers through Thomas’s fur, thoughtful and grounding. “When you say that… you mean real danger?”
Thomas nodded, ears flattening. Yeah. Something like that.
Void chimed in, voice thrumming through their shared space. Are you able to navigate it? Or is it simply a sensation?
Thomas sighed. It’s mostly just… a feeling. The stomach-sinking kind. The kind I always got right before everything went sideways.
Void considered that, their curiosity stroking through Thomas’s mind like a fingertip down the spine. You have always had a… strange sense for danger, little fox.
Thomas perked immediately, preening despite himself. I’m taking that as a compliment.
It was meant as one, Void replied, amused.
Newt made a sound that was half laugh, half groan. “I swear, love. You and your sixth sense. Always knowing when danger’s about to slap us in the face.”
Thomas pressed closer to him, tail curling against his stomach. I don’t like it either, he complained softly.
Newt bent down, pressing a kiss to the top of his fox-skull. “I know. But we’ll handle it. Whatever it is.”
Void hummed approval. You will not face it alone.
Thomas let the reassurance settle in his bones. Between his mate, his pack, and the warm, purring presence inside the Nemeton box, the feeling was a little less heavy. Just a little.
·•—–٠✤٠—–•·
Thomas sat on the picnic table, watching and listening to the rain pelt the corrugated roof above him. It made a low, drumming roar that vibrated faintly through the bench, loud enough to blanket the steady hum of voices behind him. The storm was humid—sticky even—and he’d already shrugged off his jacket. Behind him, the other senior students clambered about as whoever was leading the charge tried to gather everyone together for announcements.
Newt was somewhere deeper in the crowd, mingling with the student council and art-club friends he’d made. Thomas had been with the cross-country team until about ten minutes ago, when Minho’s message had come through about the storm stalling traffic completely.
Downed powerline, by the sounds of it.
Thomas had felt off all day—an antsy, restless feeling that hadn’t eased even after two laps around the courtyard. With every passing hour, the feeling nested deeper under his ribs. Now, with the sky split open and rain coming down in sheets, it sharpened, prickling at the base of his spine.
MinMin: i’ve texted gally since he’s got the bike. kira said scott’s coming over for her. so hopefully we make it.
TomTom: Got my fingers crossed.
He sent the fingers-crossed emoji along with it, letting the tiny quirk tug at his mouth.
With a heavy exhale, Thomas slid his phone away.
His thoughts lingered, sinking deeper into that bad feeling in his gut as he watched the rain pour down like a curtain. It wasn’t new—he’d had this same feeling before, back in the years he’d gone by Stiles. That very specific tightening in his bones, the instinctive wrongness that always preceded something crashing into their lives: hunters, kanimas, the Alpha pack, Void, whatever the supernatural roulette wheel spun their way.
He didn’t talk about it much, because it sounded ridiculous out loud… but he knew it in his marrow. Something was going to happen. This was Beacon Hills. A supernatural hotspot, apparently perpetually on fire, with them perpetually trying to stamp it out.
Thunder cracked somewhere off in the distance, and Thomas scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to shake the unease off like water.
His phone buzzed again.
MinMin: gally and scott both made it. kira and i r on the way. if i get drenched through my coat, i’m gonna throw hands at both of them.
Thomas snorted, soft enough that it got swallowed by the storm. He could picture Minho’s scowl perfectly, coat already plastered to him, practically vibrating with annoyance. Served him right for insisting he’d “totally beat the rain.”
A moment later, Newt dropped down beside him on the picnic table, hands braced behind him as he leaned back.
“Thought I saw you hiding out here.” Newt nudged Thomas’s knee with his own. “Any word from the others?”
“Yeah,” Thomas said, pulling his phone back out. “They’re close. Gally and Scott made it already. Minho and Kira are en route. He’s whining because he’s gonna get soaked.”
Newt huffed a laugh. “Good. Not about Minho being pissy—though that’s always entertaining—but… good that they’ll make it. Would be rubbish to miss Senior Scribe after trying to organise this so everyone could make it.”
“Yeah,” Thomas murmured. “Would be.”
They talked for another minute or two—harmless small talk about nothing, which Thomas appreciated because Newt never pushed when he sensed Thomas’s nerves were off. Newt just let him sit in the rain-soaked quiet without demanding he explain himself.
But their next thread of conversation cut short when Liam came pelting toward them across the courtyard.
“Whoa—Liam?” Thomas stood immediately. Newt shifted beside him, posture going sharply alert.
Liam wasn’t supposed to be here; he wasn’t a senior, and he should have been at the hospital with his dad.
But that didn’t matter because even before Liam reached them, Thomas could read the panic in his expression—and the scent of it, sharp and spiking, even under the thick humidity. Liam’s clothes were stuck to him, hair plastered down, and he looked like he’d full-on sprinted through half the storm.
“Thomas—Newt—” Liam gasped, chest heaving. “It’s—Scott—he—something’s wrong—”
“Slow down,” Newt urged, though his own heartbeat jumped. “What happened?”
Liam swallowed hard, forcing out the words. “There’s—there’s this guy—this supernatural guy—he attacked Parrish. With talons. Actual talons, apparently. Parrish said he was looking for Scott—whatever he is, they think he can take Scott’s True Alpha Spark—”
Thomas didn’t wait for the rest. Adrenaline surged cold through him, washing away the heat, the humidity, the bad feeling that now aligned sharply.
“Come on.” Thomas grabbed his jacket without putting it on and jumped from the table. “We’ll move while you talk.”
They started running, feet splashing through shallow puddles and mud as the storm battered down. Thomas fumbled for his phone mid-sprint, thumb already swiping to Scott’s contact.
“Come on, come on—pick up—” He pressed the phone hard to his ear.
It rang. And rang. No answer. Thomas’s stomach dipped.
If Minho and Gally were here—Thomas could feel them over the pack bond—then Scott and Kira had to have arrived too. They should’ve been close to the parking lot by now. They should’ve—
“The underpass!” Newt yelled suddenly.
A sound cut through the storm—faint but unmistakable. A snarl, metal crashing, something heavy striking pavement. Even the rain couldn’t completely smother it.
Thomas didn’t think. He sprinted faster. Newt and Liam were right beside him as they tore toward the fight.
Rain hammered down, lightning stitched across the clouds, and somewhere up ahead, Scott was fighting for his life.
And Thomas—heart pounding, instincts roaring awake—knew in that moment that the feeling in his gut had been right all along. Something bad had found them. Again.
·•—–٠✤٠—–•·
As Thomas, Newt, and Liam rounded the corner toward the underpass, the storm swallowed nearly all sound—except the ones that weren’t natural. The ones that didn’t belong to rain.
The ones that meant fighting.
They slowed only for a heartbeat, listening. Thunder rolled overhead, deep and long enough to rattle Thomas’s ribs. But under it—under the storm—something else cracked. Concrete scraping. A snarl. The solid, meaty thud of someone getting thrown too hard into a wall.
“Down here,” Liam said, breathless, pointing into the dark stretch beneath the walkway.
The underpass was dim, shadows cut and reshaped by flickers of lightning. Water poured off the edges in a steady, relentless curtain. The ground was an uneven mixture of puddles.
They stepped in—and the fight came into focus.
Scott and Kira were already engaged, circling a man who moved nothing like a man. Not unless a man’s limbs bent too loosely, too easily, with long talons like Liam had described, glinting blue. His shoulders hunched unnaturally high, and his movements were fluid in a way that set Thomas’s instincts screaming.
For a second, all Thomas could do was watch. The bad feeling that had been gnawing at him since morning didn’t just spike—it detonated.
Oh good. This is definitely it, Thomas broadcasted the thought to everyone, bewildered shock trickling through.
No shit, sherlock. Where you at? Minho retorted.
Underpass, Newt answered.
We’ll be there soon, Gally assured.
Their voices in his head steadied him. Even as Scott grunted from a hit, even as Kira’s sword sparked off a claw swipe, even as Liam tensed beside him—
Thomas felt the pack settle around him like an anchor.
Newt stepped forward first.
He didn’t shift visibly. He didn’t flash eyes or bare teeth. But something in the air shifted around him, like pressure dropping before a storm. His spine lengthened. His stance rooted. Even the supernatural unknown paused, head tilting almost warily.
Newt hated showing what he was capable of. He avoided it whenever he could.But when he chose to step in, it was unmistakable.
“Newt—” Thomas started, but didn’t finish because Newt was already moving.
He struck cleanly, efficiently. No flourish. No showing off. Just raw, compact force. It startled the unknown man enough that Scott took the opening and slammed his shoulder into its chest, buying a few precious seconds of breathing room.
Thomas followed right after Newt, feet splashing hard through the puddles. He slid on the wet concrete but caught himself, lunging in to grab the creature’s arm just as it swung at Kira. He forced the limb back with a twist and Newt used the moment to drive a knee into the man’s side.
For a second, it worked. For a second, it felt like they had found the rhythm. Then a new roar echoed from the far side of the underpass.
Minho and Gally.
Thomas didn’t have to look as Gally hit the scene like a thrown boulder. Thomas didn’t even fully register himself shouting “heads up!” before he shoved the unknown bodily toward Gally.
Gally caught him with one arm.
One.
And with a snarl that scraped the air raw, Gally twisted, lifted, and slammed the stranger into the wall with enough force to crack it. His eyes flared a sharp, burning yellow that lit the dim underpass.
The man yelled when Gally’s grip shifted to his right hand. There was a sharp, vicious crack—then a series of following snaps—as Gally wrenched and snapped the glowing blue talons clean off at the base. They shattered against the concrete, clattering to the ground at his feet.
Gally didn’t wait for the echo to die. He hurled the creature down hard, the body hitting the floor in a boneless sprawl.
The creature wheezed and slumped but didn’t stay down. Of course he didn’t. Because why make this easy?
Thomas and Newt reset their footing just as the man clawed his way back up, but before any of them could land another hit—
Someone else appeared.
A blur. A shape from the shadows behind them. Faster than Thomas could track, the newcomer lunged and raked claws across the man’s back. The first unknown howled, stumbling forward into the open.
Scott reacted instantly, stepping between Kira and the attacker, but the newcomer raised his hands in surrender, casual, as though this were all normal.
“Hey—hey, I’m on your side,” he said.
Thomas didn’t buy it for a second.
Newt looked at Scott’s unknown attacker coolly, as if deciding whether ripping his head off was worth the effort.
“I don’t know who you are,” Newt said, voice calm but carrying that underlying warning that made the air go thin, “or what you thought you were going to do, but I’ll give you a choice.”
The man who had been fighting them froze, still crouched, still breathing hard.
“You can stay,” Newt continued, “and we’ll kill you…. or you can run.”
Thomas added, “I’d run,” without missing a beat.
It wasn’t bravado. It wasn’t a threat. It was simple, friendly advice, delivered. The man clearly understood the threat. He bolted. None of them chased.
Instead, the underpass filled with the heavy, uneven sound of everyone left reeling by what had just happened..
Gally nudged one of the fallen blue talons with his boot, then bent to pick them up. He turned them over in his hands, brow furrowing as the glow continued, though dimmer now. “These weren’t normal,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Thomas reached for them without really thinking. Gally handed them over, still watching them like he expected them to bite. Thomas slipped them carefully into his bag, already filing the questions away for later—for Deaton, for research, for whatever this might turn into.
Scott was the first to speak. “Thanks,” he said, nodding once with that quiet sincerity Scott always had.
Newt nodded back, wiping rain from his brow. “Anytime.”
Scott turned to the second unknown—still standing with his hands loosely up, expression caught somewhere between hopeful and relieved.
That smile. It prickled at Thomas’s nerves.
“You don’t remember me,” the guy said, eyes flickering between Scott and Thomas, then sliding over all of them. “Do you?”
Scott hesitated. Thomas frowned.
The guy huffed a small laugh. “I guess I look a little different since the fourth grade.”
Scott’s expression snapped into recognition. “Theo?”
Thomas tilted his head, squinting. He knew that name. He knew Theo’s young face.
Malia and Lydia had arrived sometime in the chaos. “You know him?” Malia asked, glancing at Scott, then Theo.
“They used to,” Theo answered smoothly. “Trust me, I never thought I’d see you guys again. A couple months ago, I heard about an Alpha in Beacon Hills. When I found out his name was Scott McCall, I couldn’t believe it. Not just an Alpha…” He paused, letting the words hang. “A True Alpha.”
Thomas nodded along, setting his face into a bright, politely surprised look. Very overly happy-like. Very gee-I’m-totally-processing-this-right-now.
Inside, though?
Guys… red flags?
Big ones, Newt agreed.
Gally grumbled, dude drips weird.
Minho was giving Thomas a sideways glance, something wary in his eyes. Tom’s got that look. The “i’m-smiling-but-my-brain-is-screaming” one.
Newt hummed. I see it too.
Gally grunted. Twenty bucks says this is the start of something.
Newt rolled his eyes in the bond. We’re not making that bet. From Tommy’s past experience, that’s a stupid one to agree to.
Thomas kept his outward expression bright, attentive, and borderline friendly. He even stepped forward a half step, drawing Theo’s attention. It worked.
Theo’s face lit up like they were childhood best friends reunited. “Stiles?”
Thomas blinked, scratched the back of his neck, and flashed a sheepish grin. “Uh—Thomas now, actually. Stiles is… kind of not my name anymore. Long story. Amnesia. Don’t remember much from, like, before five or so years ago.”
Theo’s brows shot up. “Seriously? You don’t remember anything?”
Thomas shrugged, keeping his tone light. “Still trying to figure out what I had for lunch last Tuesday, man. It’s a process.”
Scott nodded at Thomas’s words, which was ideal. Thomas didn’t need Theo realising the lie wasn’t for Theo’s sake—it was for everyone else’s.
Because Thomas did remember. Lydia had helped him dig through the past during the summer holiday. Photos. School papers. The sound of his own voice in old videos. And somewhere in those half-healed fragments was Theo. Or at least the impression of him.
Thomas didn’t trust him.
And worse—his instincts whispered that Theo wasn’t exactly normal either. Something in the guy’s presence echoed in a way too close to the way Thomas himself sometimes felt. Like gravity around him wasn’t quite behaving.
So Thomas kept talking. And chatting. And being charming in that fast-talking, half-chaotic way he had perfected as a child.
On the inside:
Nope nope nope. Don’t like him. Nope.
I knew it, Minho called.
Gally sighed. The guy smells like lies.
Newt gave a contemplative hum. His scent is… odd. Can’t place it.
Their voices in his head formed a tight circle around him—protective, grounding, quiet but steady.
Lydia remained beside Malia but was watching Thomas talk to Theo. Really talk. Open, easy, comfortable. And that was exactly the problem. Lydia knew Thomas too well. Her brows pinched slightly.
Thomas eventually drifted back toward the Gladers, posture relaxing now that he’d created enough distance from Theo. Gally stepped forward, clearly ready to head out—he wasn’t a senior, after all, and didn’t need to stick around now he’d dropped Minho off.
Theo’s eyes tracked Gally, then Minho, Newt and lastly Thomas.
“Wait,” Theo said, confusion clicking into place. “You’re—Sti–uh, Thomas isn’t part of your pack, Scott?”
Thomas opened his mouth, but Newt stepped in smoothly. “No,” he said. “He’s part of mine.”
Theo’s eyes widened just slightly. His smile sharpened. “You’re… an Alpha too?”
Newt gave the smallest, most politely dismissive smile imaginable. “Something like that.”
Theo’s interest didn’t just spark—it ignited. And Thomas felt it like a drop in barometric pressure. A warning. A promise. A beginning. The kind he absolutely hated.
The Gladers remained at a distance, far enough to give Scott space with Theo’s grand “I want to join your pack” declaration, but close enough to hear the last traces of their voices bouncing down the tunnel as they headed out, leaving the Gladers and Lydia behind.
Gally was wringing some of the water out of his hair and hoodie, muttering something about Beacon Hills having the worst weather patterns he’s ever seen. Thomas didn’t know why he was squeezing the rainwater out when he was going back out there.
“Guess you’re heading out?” Newt asked him softly, shoulder pressed to Thomas’s in that steadying way.
“Yeah,” Gally exhaled. “Gonna beat the next downpour if I can. Besides, if this is how Beacon Hills does school events, I’m good.” He shot a look toward the path Theo had taken with Scott, Kira, Malia and Liam. “Guy gives me the creeps.”
Minho snorted. “What, the talon dude or the new guy?”
“Yes,” Gally said flatly.
That earned him a tired laugh from all three of them.
Gally turned toward Thomas last. His wolf eyes had long since faded, but the tension in them hadn’t. “You okay?”
Thomas nodded, pushing wet hair back from his forehead. He played it cool, casual. “Yeah, yeah. I’m good. Just, you know—Beacon Hills bingo night. New supernatural stranger, tense fight, somebody almost ended up with claws in their side. A classic.”
Gally huffed a laugh. “You better text if klunk goes weird.”
“When doesn’t it?” Thomas said lightly.
“Fair point.” Gally clapped Minho’s shoulder, then Newt’s, and lastly Thomas’s. It was brief, but grounding. “See you losers later.”
“Bye, Gal,” Minho said, waving exaggeratedly.
“Try not to skid on your bike,” Thomas added, because there was a risk with the amount of rain that had fallen. Gally raised one hand in a mock salute as he jogged off into the rain, swallowed quickly by the curtain of water.
The underpass quieted again, and then Lydia approached, having been waiting for their conversation to end. She didn’t walk so much as glide over, wet hair clinging to her cheeks, expression sharp in the muted light.
Her eyes locked onto Thomas first.
Thomas straightened unconsciously. “Hey, Lyds.”
Lydia stopped in front of them, folding her arms tight across her body—not defensive, just containing energy. “Okay,” she said, voice low. “What was that?”
Thomas blinked. “Which part? The unknown guy or Theo showing up and making dramatic declarations like he’s in some supernatural musical—”
“Thomas,” Lydia cut in. “Your reaction.”
Newt and Minho exchanged a look but didn’t interrupt. They were silent, present walls at Thomas’s back.
Thomas shifted his weight. “My reaction? It was nothing. Just… surprised.”
Lydia stepped closer, just inside his space. Her eyes, always sharper than anyone gave her credit for, searched his face. “You were being friendly.”
Thomas shrugged. “I can be a friendly guy.”
“Not with strangers,” she said. “And especially not with supernatural strangers. And especially not with ones you claim you don’t remember. Which I know for a fact is a lie.”
Minho snorted under his breath. “She’s got you there, shank.”
“Shut up,” Thomas hissed at him without heat.
Lydia didn’t look away. “Thomas. What do you remember? I know we went over things, but you never told me the extent that you remembered.”
Newt shifted, placing a steadying hand between Thomas’s shoulder blades. Not pushing, not urging—just there.
Thomas exhaled slowly. Internally, across the Glader bond, his voice murmured first. Alright. She knows something’s off.
Minho snorted. She’s Lydia. Of course she knows.
Out loud, Thomas said, “I remember… pieces.”
Lydia’s eyes softened slightly. Encouraging. But wary.
“Not much,” he added quickly. “Not everything obviously but I remember pieces of Theo.” He swallowed.
Newt tensed behind him. Minho went still. Lydia’s breath caught—quiet, but Thomas heard it. He hadn’t admitted to anyone what he had remembered about Theo—hadn’t wanted to. Theo was supposed to be in the past, not…
“What do you remember about him?” she asked, carefully.
Thomas looked toward the wet asphalt, toward the glowing streetlights warping in puddles. He was quiet for a moment, sorting through the old, scattered flashes—the smell of woods, scraped knees, a baseball glove too large for small hands, the sharp laugh of a kid who ran too fast.
He lifted his eyes again.
“We were… close,” he admitted.
Lydia nodded once. “You were inseparable.”
“Yeah,” Thomas said softly. “He was… my best friend before Scott came. Wasn’t too fond of Scott when I first brought him into our friendship group.”
His chest tightened. It wasn’t a lie, just not the whole truth. He had seen the photos Lydia helped him sort through. He had read the dumb notes they’d written each other in childish handwriting. He’d seen himself—all skinny elbows and pointed grin—standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a boy who’d looked at him like they shared the world.
“So when he showed up,” Lydia said, “you recognised him.”
Thomas gave a humourless smile. “Recognised the name. And his face, kind of. The way you do when someone was important once.”
Lydia studied him. Really studied him. Her gaze flicked sideways—to Newt, to Minho—measuring their tension.
Then she asked the question she really came here to ask. “Do you trust him?”
Thomas’s answer was immediate. “No.”
Lydia exhaled through her nose. Relief and confirmation in one. “But you acted like you did,” she said.
“That was the point,” Thomas replied. His voice dropped. “It’s easier to read someone when they think you’re open and appear trusting. People talk and spill things more easily.”
Across the bond:
Minho baulked. Holy—Thomas is in detective mode.
Newt chucked. He’s not wrong. That boy had something off about him.
Thomas resisted the urge to scrunch his nose. Instincts are screaming. Something about him isn’t… natural.
Minho paused. Like you?
…in the exact opposite way.
Lydia stepped closer still, lowering her voice. “What about him feels wrong?”
Thomas’s mouth tightened. “His scent is wrong. I can’t pinpoint anything at the moment, but it’s like if someone was trying desperately to smell one way that they’re not supposed to. Manufactured, maybe.”
Newt let out a quiet, troubled hum.
Minho muttered, “That’s what I was smelling too.”
Lydia frowned. “Like… artificial?”
“Or altered,” Thomas suggested softly.
He glanced toward the tunnel opening where Theo had vanished.
“And he looked at me like he expected something,” he added, and Theo probably had in all honesty. “Like he was waiting for me to… I don’t know. React differently?”
“Or like he wanted something from you,” Lydia said.
Thomas met her eyes. “Yeah.”
He wondered if Lydia knew how close to the mark she was. Not when Thomas didn’t give anything away.
The rain outside thickened again. The whole underpass echoed with it, a hollow rhythmic pulse.
Lydia’s expression shifted—worry carving a thin line through her composure. “How’s the entire situation making you feel?”
Thomas hesitated, and then he gave the most honest answer he had. “I don’t know.”
Newt’s hand slid to Thomas’s shoulder, warm even through the damp fabric. Minho stepped closer too, the bond humming with protective instinct.
Lydia saw it—the way the Gladers drew around him. She didn’t step away.
“I’m not asking as a banshee,” she said quietly. “I’m asking as your friend.”
Thomas swallowed hard. “Something about him is wrong,” he whispered. “I know it.”
Lydia’s lips pressed together. “Then we trust your instincts.”
Minho nodded. “Yeah. Tom’s instincts haven’t missed yet.”
Thomas huffed a tiny, self-conscious breath. “You say that like I’m not the panic-prone one.”
“You’re panic-prone and usually right,” Lydia said, brushing wet hair behind her ear. “It’s a terrifying combination.”
Thomas cracked a thin smile. But Newt’s voice slid through the bond, soft and firm. Whatever this Theo shank is, we’ll handle it. You’re not doing this alone.
Yeah, we’re not letting creepy childhood whatever-he-is breathe near you without backup.
Thanks, guys. Really.
Lydia glanced between them, amused. “Pack bond?”
Thomas flushed slightly. “Pack bond.”
Minho grinned wolfishly. “We’re delightful.”
Lydia shook her head fondly. “Well, delightful or not, you all need to keep an eye on him. If Thomas is picking up on something, I’d bet money it’s real.”
Thomas frowned thoughtfully. “Lyds… there’s one more thing.”
“What?”
He stared out toward the rain again.
“When he showed up tonight,” he murmured, “that bad feeling in my gut? The one I’ve had all day?” He swallowed. “It got worse. Exponentially."
Lydia’s brows knitted together. “Do you think he caused it?”
“No,” Thomas said. “I think he’s connected to whatever will.”
The underpass seemed to grow colder around them.
Minho crossed his arms. “So this is the start of something.”
Newt’s jaw tightened. “It usually is.”
Lydia stepped closer, laying a gentle hand on Thomas’s forearm. “Then we figure it out. Together.”
Thomas let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding.
For a moment, none of them spoke. The rain filled the silence, steady and relentless.
Lydia squeezed Thomas’s arm before stepping back. “I’ll text you if I pick up anything weird,” she said.
Minho nodded sharply, casting one last narrow-eyed look in the direction Theo had vanished. “I’ll walk with her,” he told Thomas and Newt. “Meet you both inside for Senior Scribe. Don’t get kidnapped or possessed while we’re separated.”
Thomas managed a small smile. “No promises.”
Minho snorted. “Typical.” He fell into step beside Lydia, talking low as they moved toward the rain-curtain and quickly disappeared through it. And just like that, the underpass quieted again.
The storm’s hollow drumming became the only sound, punctuated by the occasional rumble of thunder. Water trickled from the roof edge in streams, forming a faint mist in the cool air.
Thomas let out a breath he’d been holding without realising, crossing his arms tightly, resisting the urge to tap a foot. Newt watched him quietly for a long moment as Thomas stared out into the distance.
“Tommy,” Newt murmured, voice soft but perceptive in that way only he could manage. “You’re thinking yourself into a hole.”
Thomas huffed a humourless breath. “Yeah. Not unusual.”
“Is there something else on your mind?”
He hesitated, then, slowly, he reached up to his ear, feeling the kanji scarred there. Thomas hadn’t even realised he was doing it until Newt took his hand in his own.
Thomas rubbed his free hand across his face. “I… think I’m done waiting.”
Newt’s eyebrows rose, gentle but attentive. “Okay.” There was no judgment.
Thomas swallowed. “I’m releasing them.”
The admission felt heavier than he expected—like saying it out loud broke some protective spell he’d been holding together with both hands.
Newt was quiet for a moment, rain filling the silence. Not judging. Not surprised. Just letting Thomas breathe. Finally, Newt asked, “You sure?”
Thomas nodded, eyes fixed on the water pooling at their feet. “I’ve been waiting for something. For some sign, or perfect timing, or… I don’t know. Some feeling.” He exhaled slowly. “But that’s just me stalling. Pretending I need more time. Pretending any moment would feel right.”
Newt’s gaze softened. “Afraid?”
Thomas let out a shaky laugh. “Understatement of the century.”
He dragged a hand through his rain-damp hair. “Void and I… we’ve sort of reached this equilibrium. It’s not going to hurt me. It’s not trying to get out. They’re just waiting for my decision. And the longer I wait, the more I feel like I’m the one trapping them.”
“That’s because you are.”
“Yeah,” Thomas whispered, throat tight. “And I hate it, but I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t even be considering it after Void killed Allison and all those other people in its attempt to get revenge on Noshiko.”
Newt stepped closer, touching Thomas’s arm lightly. “Tommy, you’ve been cautious. That’s not cruelty. That’s being responsible.”
“I know.” Thomas’s voice shook. “But I’d want out too. And it… Void’s been patient. Patient in a way that doesn’t feel forced or manipulative. Just… waiting.”
Newt’s hand curled at the back of Thomas’s elbow, grounding him. “Then you’re doing it for the right reasons. Not because you’re scared. Because you’re choosing to trust Void.”
Thomas swallowed hard. “Yeah.”
Becuase the idea that Thomas trusted Void didn’t feel as outlandish as it should have. It was—simple, really. Thomas had all of summer with Void, talking and discussing things. Never once had it gone back on its word, never pressuring Thomas to make his choice or even release them.
Thomas liked to think the friendship they had built was real, true—that the trust ran both ways.
“And?” Newt prodded softly. “There’s something else in there. I can feel it.”
Thomas let out a shaky sigh. “Well… Noshiko’s back in town.”
Newt nodded slowly. “She is.”
“And Void’s gonna have… opinions,” Thomas muttered.
“That’s an understatement,” Newt said, humour curling his voice.
Thomas’ lips threatened to split into a grin. He allowed a smile.
Newt tilted his head slightly. “You’ll need to talk to Void before you let them out. Get a feel of what it might be planning once released.”
Thomas nodded again. “I know. And I’ve been avoiding that too. Because I don’t even know what to ask.” His voice went smaller. “What if it wants revenge still? What if they’re angry? What if releasing Void puts everyone at risk? What if—”
Newt stepped in before he spiralled again, laying both hands on Thomas’s arms.
“Hey,” he said gently. “Breathe.”
Thomas did. Slowly.
Newt continued softly, “Void’s been hurt. Betrayed. Trapped when it only came to do as was asked of them.”
Thomas’s chest tightened. “Yeah.”
“It’s going to have feelings. Big ones, which Void’s allowed.” Newt’s thumbs brushed once against Thomas’s sleeves. “That’s not a reason to trap Void. It’s a reason to prepare. A conversation is the first step.”
Thomas met Newt’s gaze. Stormlight glinted off the green in Newt’s eyes—soft, warm, steady. Unshakable.
“You trust my decision?” Thomas asked quietly.
Newt didn’t hesitate. “Of course I do.”
Thomas exhaled a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been gripping so tightly. It left him trembling, but lighter.
“Okay,” he murmured. “Then… tomorrow after school, I’ll talk to Void.”
“Good.” Newt squeezed his arm.
Thomas’s eyes burned suddenly, sharply, unexpectedly. He blinked hard.
“God, Newt,” he muttered. “Why are you always right?”
Newt smiled softly. “Occupational hazard of being your Alpha, love.”
Thomas choked on a half-laugh, half-exhale. “Careful. You say things like that and I might start believing you.”
Newt leaned in just slightly, nose brushing Thomas’s. “That’d be a bloody good thing, love.”
The moment hung between them, fragile and warm and quiet beneath the roar of the storm. Then Newt nodded toward the curtain of rain. “Come on. If Minho said not to get kidnapped, we should probably at least pretend to listen.”
Thomas let out a breathy laugh and nudged him toward the exit. “Yeah, yeah. Before the universe throws something else supernatural at us.”
Newt arched a brow. “You mean like your childhood best mate from fourth grade suddenly returning with claws and secret agendas?”
Thomas groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
Newt laughed softly.
“Let’s go,” Thomas said, taking Newt’s hand in his and together they stepped out into the rain.