Chapter 3: Shadows on the Edge of Town

[Scott's POV – Night, McCall House]

The scratching came at 3:17 a.m.

Not loud. Just enough to make my heart race. I sat up, sweating, the same way I had the night before. Was it a dream again? Or—

The noise came again. Window.

I crept over, expecting Logan.

Nope.

Nothing.

But something felt wrong. Like I was being studied. Like a predator was watching from just beyond the light.

My phone buzzed. Stiles.

"Tell me you heard the scratching again. Because I just had a nightmare about Logan eating deer. Raw. With chopsticks."

I sighed.

"Yes. Not him. Something else."

No reply.

Just three dots.

Then—

"You don't think Beacon Hills is like... haunted or cursed or secretly Hellmouth 2.0?"

Oh, Stiles.

I really hoped it wasn't.

[Logan's POV – Next Morning, Forest Trail]

My senses were sharper than ever.

The wind tasted like rain and tension. There was a scent I didn't recognize. Familiar, but... distant. Musky, old. Steel and pine and blood.

Not Alpha.

Not werewolf.

Something... older.

My fingers twitched.

Then I heard the low rumble of a motorcycle in the distance.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

No one else would've noticed the way it growled like thunder caged in steel—but I did.

That was his bike.

He was close.

[Allison's POV – School Parking Lot]

"Are you okay?" I asked Logan when I spotted him. He looked—tense. Alert.

He blinked at me. "Do I look not okay?"

"Well, usually you look like a guy who just walked out of a magazine shoot. Now you look like a guy who walked out of a war zone."

He smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"Someone I used to know might be back."

I tilted my head. "Old friend?"

"Something like that," he muttered.

Before I could ask more, Coach Finstock yelled, "ARGENT! MYSTERY MODEL! Move it or lose it!"

[Stiles' POV – Beacon Hills High, Lunch]

Scott was acting weird.

Which, okay, normal lately.

But Logan was acting weird too.

Which was terrifying.

I watched them from across the lunch table like David Attenborough watching lions trying to pretend they're vegetarians.

"What if," I said slowly, "Logan's secretly a werewolf-wolverine hybrid created in a lab by—wait, do you think he even has a belly button? I bet it's a tracking device."

Scott gave me the world's longest sigh.

"Stiles, please."

"I'm serious! What if he's, like, a clone of some elite hunter DNA or something?"

"I am sitting right here," Logan said behind me.

I jumped and nearly dropped my tray. "How do you move like that?!"

"Talent. Or witchcraft."

"Please don't be a witch. I'm not emotionally ready for witches."

Logan chuckled softly. "Not a witch. Something much worse."

"...Okay that's not comforting."

[Chris Argent's POV – Argent Residence, Later That Night]

I heard it before I saw it.

The low thunder of a motorcycle engine—old, but perfectly maintained. The kind that didn't just purr—it warned.

I stepped onto the porch as the bike stopped across the street.

Leather jacket. Old boots. Unlit cigar in his mouth. He dismounted with the grace of a killer.

My chest tightened.

"James."

He looked up. Eyes like golden steel. A smirk barely visible beneath the stubble.

"Chris," he said, voice low, rough. "Beacon Hills treating you well?"

"What are you doing here?"

He tilted his head toward the house next to mine.

"Moving in."

I narrowed my eyes. "With who?"

He smirked again. "My kid."

And then it hit me.

Logan wasn't alone.

[Logan's POV – Home – Late Evening]

I opened the door and froze.

"Hey, kid," the man said, throwing his duffel on the couch like he owned the place. Same voice. Same smell. Same damn cigar.

"...You followed me."

He cracked a beer. "I was already on the way."

"You always crash into my life like this?"

He shrugged. "It's what dads do."

"You're not a normal dad."

"And you're not a normal son."

I sighed. "You're staying?"

"Damn right I am. The moment I heard the name Argent and the phrase 'Alpha werewolf on the loose,' I packed up my gear. This town needs someone who knows how to slit a throat without blinking."

I looked at him.

James Howlett. My father.

The last man I ever wanted as a teacher.

[Kate Argent's POV – Road to Beacon Hills]

The drive was quiet. Too quiet.

But then, this town had always drawn blood and ghosts like flies to rot.

She tapped her nail against the steering wheel.

She'd heard whispers.

A boy with claws. Healing like a wolf—but not a wolf.

A man with a voice like gravel and eyes like war.

Kate smiled.

"Let's see what kind of monsters Beacon Hills has now."

To Be Continued in Chapter 4: "Mr. Howlett's Class"