Morning sunlight filtered through the blinds of Malik's apartment, casting thin stripes across Derek's unconscious body. His chest rose and fell slowly, unnaturally still—locked in a hibernation state.
Malik knelt beside him, watching.
He had crushed and mixed a blend of rare herbs—some for healing, some to sedate—and fed them to Derek before dawn. The concoction slowed the spread of the wolfsbane in his blood, but not for long.
"Just hold on," Malik muttered. "I need time to figure out which strain they used…"
He stood up, slipped on a clean shirt, and headed out.
At Beacon Hills High, students swarmed the hallways, blissfully unaware of the war waging beneath the town's skin.
Malik moved with purpose, scanning every scent, every heartbeat. He caught a faint trail—Scott's. Just as he'd remembered, it had been there last night, near the Argents. He needed answers.
But then—
"Hey." Jackson's voice, oily with contempt. "You Malik, right? You Scott's... 'supplier'? Or do you just know who hooks him up?"
Malik paused.
Turned.
And in one smooth, silent motion, grabbed Jackson by the neck and lifted him off his feet, one hand tightening just enough to be a warning.
"I'm not Scott," Malik growled, eyes flickering gold. "Next time you open your mouth like that... I'll break something you won't heal from."
Jackson choked, flailed, and Malik dropped him with a grunt, already walking away before Jackson even hit the ground.
Scott found Malik near the lockers. The tension between them crackled like dry leaves.
"I need to know what you overheard last night," Malik said flatly. "Near the warehouse."
Scott swallowed. "Kate said there were three of you. Chris told her not to kill any of you because he wants to track you. She said she shot one, but didn't know which. Something about... forty-eight hours?"
Malik's jaw tightened. "Thought so."
He grabbed a pen from his jacket and scribbled his number on Scott's hand.
"Go to Allison's house. I picked up her scent near the shooter—Kate's. There's a bullet. I need to know what kind it was. The poison—if I use the wrong cure, it'll kill Derek faster."
Scott blinked. "Wait, why me?"
"Because she trusts you," Malik said simply. "Don't get caught. I'll call you."
That afternoon, Scott arrived at Allison's house under the pretense of studying.
Allison was ecstatic, practically glowing in the presence of her aunt Kate. She pulled Scott into her room and immediately began kissing him, sparks flying until his body began to twitch—his control slipping.
His eyes began to glow.
Before it could go any further, Stiles called, snapping him out of it. Embarrassed, Scott tried to refocus, asking about her interests.
She smiled and pulled him toward the garage.
Inside was an impressive archery setup, a precision-crafted bow mounted beside rows of arrows. Nearby were gun racks, cases of ammunition, and gear labeled for tactical use.
"Your dad sells all this to cops?" Scott asked.
"To anyone who'll pay," Allison said, half-joking, half-weary.
They kissed again—just as Mr. Argent walked in.
There was an icy silence.
"I think it's time Scott went home," he said curtly.
But Kate, ever the chaos agent, stepped in. "Let him stay. It's just dinner, right?"
At the table, things only got more tense.
Chris offered Scott a drink—testing him. Scott declined politely with a smooth answer. Still, the eyes around the table watched him like hawks.
They talked about "animal attacks." About rabid things that couldn't be saved. About putting things down for the safety of others.
Scott shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Later, as he crept down the hallway, he found the locked door Kate had disappeared behind. He jiggled the handle—locked. He was about to try harder when Kate appeared behind him.
"Bathroom's the other way," she said sweetly.
She pointed him toward the guest room—her room.
Inside, Scott's heart pounded. His eyes scanned the shelves, the bed, the bags—and then he found it.
A box of bullets.
The label read: "Aconit Napel Bleu Nordique."
Nordic Blue Monkshood.
His phone buzzed. Malik.
"It's Nordic Blue Monkshood," Scott whispered. "That's what it says."
There was a long pause.
Then Malik's voice, steady and serious: "You did good. You don't need to bring it. Stay calm. Be natural."
Dinner ended awkwardly.
Then came the accusation.
"Something's missing from my bag," Kate said, narrowing her eyes.
Scott's face went pale.
"Empty your pockets," Mr. Argent said.
Before he could speak, Allison blurted: "It was me. I—I took a condom. From her bag."
Silence.
Kate coughed to hide a laugh.
Mr. Argent looked mortified. "Right. Well. I think dinner's over."
Back at Malik's apartment, the moon rose as he opened a hidden case behind his bookcase. Rows of labeled glass jars lined the inside, containing rare herbs—some imported from his homeland, others found deep in the forests of Beacon Hills.
He reached for the one labeled Nordic Blue Monkshood, ground it, burned it, and mixed the ash into a salve.
He rubbed it directly into Derek's bullet wound, chanting softly in a language that was vaguely native American.
The wound started streaming as flesh stitched together and healed.
Derek's body twitched.
Then—with a gasp—he woke.
Derek looked at him, eyes cloudy but clearing. "You... fixed it?"
Malik nodded, already mixing another jar. "Always be prepared. What poisons can also heal.".