I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Breakfast wrapped up quietly—no drama, no tension, just the gentle clinking of silverware and the melodic hum of conversation around the table. Jenny, seemingly energized after eating, began incessantly detailing her plans for my first day. She rambled about introducing me to her friends, showing me every hidden corner of Beacon Hills High, and, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, probably plotting to embarrass me a little before the first bell even rang. Susan, sitting across from us and looking more relaxed than usual, met my gaze a few times with a soft smile that radiated quiet pride. To her, simply sharing a meal together probably felt like a small victory in itself.
Not long after, Patrick arrived outside—his presence impossible to overlook. A graying man with an air of faded authority. He maneuvered another glistening, armor-plated luxury car in front of the house. Jenny immediately bounced out the door, with me only a step behind. The car's interior smelled faintly of leather and new polish—a sharp contrast to my morning nerves. The ride itself was brief, no more than ten or fifteen minutes, with Jenny never pausing her commentary about Beacon Hills High's confusing rules and the even stranger personalities of its students and teachers. My contributions were sparse: a few nods, a grunt or two—just enough to keep her happy.
When we rolled into the school parking lot with about ten minutes to spare, clusters of teenagers congregated near the entrance, animated and wide-eyed, fueled by coffee and adolescent hormones. Before the car had even fully stopped, Jenny was halfway out the door, calling to her friends in a voice that made her sound part ringmaster, part trickster. "Catch you later, nephew!" she called, hitting that perfect balance between endearing and mischievous.
I let out a small sigh, slung my backpack over one shoulder, and started for the principal's office—alone, now, and oddly aware of it.
The office, when I found it, was practically a cliché: cheap faux wood furniture, a neglected plant wilted in the corner, and a plaque on the wall boldly declaring "Excellence" in bright Comic Sans. Everything screamed "attempt at professionalism," but the effect was more comforting than impressive.
Inside, the principal awaited—a weary man whose tired eyes and outdated tie suggested he'd been doing this gig for far too long. He offered me a seat and a handshake. "You'll be starting today, Mr. Astratides. Welcome to Beacon Hills High. We're just waiting on one more new student, then I'll walk you both to class," he said, the words rehearsed but the effort genuine.
I took a seat, nodding. "Sure."
Minutes started ticking by. I shifted on the hard, creaky chair. Every now and then, the principal would check his watch, then flip idly through a stack of paperwork, pretending not to notice the silence settling between us.
Three minutes passed, maybe a bit more, when I heard a voice—a girl's—clear and distinct. My hearing brought it to me seamlessly, as if she were only inches away.
"No, Mom, it's fine. I just forgot the pen. It's not the end of the world."
Her tone was carefully measured: tinged with irritation, but still unfailingly polite. It had the clipped cadence of someone used to being watched, and occasionally judged.
A few minutes later, the door swung open. In walked a girl with sleek brown hair, striking brown eyes, and the kind of posture drilled into you from a lifetime of discipline. Her outfit was effortlessly stylish—a quiet display of wealth that managed to look both casual and expensive. She crossed the room gracefully, then paused at the receptionist's desk.
"Allison Argent," she announced. "I'm supposed to start today?"
The name hit me harder than it should have. In a split second, it clicked.
Allison. Argent. Beacon Hills.
My heart didn't race, but my mind did—connections firing, memories sparking. Suddenly everything about this place made sense: the strange charge in the air, the subtle pressure that had pulsed tighter and tighter since arriving. I wasn't just in some arbitrary, unfamiliar town. I was in a world I knew—a world built on myth and monsters.
Beacon Hills was their territory. This was the universe where Scott McCall tried to live a normal life, where Stiles Stilinski supplied endless sarcasm, where hunters and werewolves crossed paths and destinies. Names and faces flashed through my head: the Argents, Derek Hale, werewolves, actual berserkers, even the sinister Nogitsune. And yet my face betrayed nothing, my features locked in practiced neutrality.
Meanwhile, Allison strode over and took the chair beside me, her smile polite but reserved. "Hi."
"Lucas," I replied, carefully modulating my voice. "Nice to meet you."
The principal—oblivious to my inner storm—finished arranging his paperwork and stood. "Alright, let's get you both to homeroom. Your teachers are expecting you," he declared, beckoning us to follow.
We set off down the antiseptic hallways, the principal leading the way with a running monologue about locker assignments and scheduling quirks. I tuned him out, studying Allison instead. She didn't carry the nervousness I'd expect from a new student. Instead, there was poise—deliberate, almost military in precision. Her every movement seemed calculated.
As we walked, a faint trace of perfume and laundry detergent wafted off her, mingling with something sharper—a scent only I could sense, the telltale mark of a hunter.
She knows, I realized instantly. This isn't the Allison who stumbles blindly into the supernatural chaos of season one. She's already initiated, already carrying the secrets and burdens of her family legacy.
Okay, I thought. This iteration of the story isn't following the script I remember.
This isn't the show. It's a remix—familiar, but with crucial details scrambled or bypassed entirely.
Eventually, we arrived at our new classroom. The principal tapped on the doorframe before announcing, "Everyone, we have two new students joining us today. Please welcome Lucas Astratides and Allison Argent."
A few classmates offered half-hearted "hellos," barely glancing up from their phones or notebooks.
That's when I started scanning the room with purpose, searching for any other familiar faces or telltale signs that the timeline I knew might still be in place.
But Scott—Beacon Hills' true alpha—was nowhere to be found. Nor was Stiles, the heartbeat of every plan and joke.
Instead, in the back row by the windows, I spotted Malia Hale. She was supposed to be a feral creature, lost to her coyote instincts and existing off the grid. Here, though, she was a regular teenager: flannel shirt, hair tied back, chewing on a pen cap like any other restless kid bored in first period.
Trying to mask my astonishment, I slid into the empty seat next to her. Allison set herself two rows ahead and, only moments after sitting, accepted a pen from Isaac Lahey with an easy, grateful smile. Isaac—another character supposed to be elsewhere.
I stared at the whiteboard, but the words might as well have been in code. My mind was spinning, flipping through everything I could remember about Teen Wolf. The cast was assembled, but not as I remembered—some present too soon, others glaringly absent. The entire story felt slippery, unanchored, as if someone had taken the script and tossed it in a blender.
Malia. Allison. Isaac. No Scott. No Stiles.
A single thought echoed: What is going on?
I didn't have an answer—not yet. But one thing was certain: I'd find out how far off script this reality had gone.