Chapter One: The Red Glint
The world screamed into existence.
It wasn't a sound, not exactly, but an assault of smells, so sharp and distinct they might as well have been sirens. The stale, metallic tang of my own sheets, a ghost of old blood. The cloying, cherry-scented cleaner from downstairs, trying to mask something earthy, animalistic, that lingered in the very air of the house. Beyond the window, the faintest hint of pine and damp earth, punctuated by the startlingly crisp scent of the neighbor's freshly mown lawn. Every inhale was a database of scents, each vying for my attention, demanding recognition. My head throbbed, not with pain, but with the sheer, overwhelming volume of it all.
My eyes snapped open, a groan catching in my throat. Sunlight, unforgiving and sharp, lanced through a gap in the curtains, painting stripes across the familiar ceiling of Scott McCall's bedroom.
Scott McCall. The name slammed into me, a tidal wave of borrowed memories crashing against the bedrock of my own. Childhood scraped knees, the sticky sweetness of first crushes, the exasperating, comforting drone of Stiles Stilinski's voice. They were vivid, immediate, yet utterly foreign, warring with the stark, cold reality of my original life. That life, the one where I'd sat on a worn couch, remote in hand, devouring every episode of Teen Wolf, now felt impossibly distant, a phantom limb.
Panic, cold and sharp, seized my chest. I tried to sit up, but my body felt… wrong. Not weak, but intensely different. Lighter, coiled with a restless energy that hummed beneath my skin. My lungs, the ones I knew had been burdened by asthma, drew in air effortlessly, deeply. Every breath was full, clean, without a hint of resistance.
Then I felt the ache. A deep, persistent thrumming in my side, just below my ribs. My hand went to it, pulling up the oversized t-shirt. Dread coiled tighter in my gut, twisting into a sick knot. Two small, perfectly symmetrical puncture marks, angry red against pale skin, were already closing. As I watched, mesmerized, a thin, almost invisible scar tissue formed, knitting together with impossible speed.
The bite.
My breath hitched. Not just a bite, but the bite. Peter Hale's mark, etched into Scott's flesh less than twenty-four hours ago. The literal starting gun of a saga I knew intimately. My mind, the one that had absorbed every detail, every character arc, every tragic twist, screamed in silent disbelief. No. This isn't real. I'm not supposed to be here. This is a show, a story, not… my life.
But the smells, the crystalline sharpness of my vision that picked out individual dust motes dancing in the sunbeams, the sudden awareness of Melissa's heartbeat – steady, rhythmic, a comforting anchor two floors below – it was all too real. I wasn't just in Scott McCall's body; I was Scott McCall. And the timeline… I was living Season 1, Episode 1. Day two. The morning after everything changed.
A low growl rumbled deep in my chest. It wasn't a sound of pain or fear. It was something else. Primal. Powerful. A surge of raw energy that felt utterly natural, ancient, like it had always been there, just waiting for the right moment to awaken.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet hitting the carpet with a soundless weight. I moved to the cheap, full-length mirror tacked to the back of the bedroom door. My reflection stared back: Scott McCall's face, earnest and a little confused, but something new in the eyes. A quiet intensity that hadn't belonged to the original. A calculation. A subtle, almost predatory awareness.
And then, as I stared, willing it, something happened. A flicker. The familiar golden-yellow of original Scott's beta eyes, for a split second, bled into a deep, molten red.
My breath caught. Red.
Not beta. Not even True Alpha, a status that took the original Scott years of agonizing struggle, moral battles, and immense self-sacrifice to achieve. This was Alpha. Now. Right now. After one night.
A laugh, a little manic, bubbled up. It wasn't Scott's laugh; it was mine, tinged with a wild, incredulous disbelief. "Holy shit," I whispered, the words sounding strange, deeper, resonant, in Scott's throat. "I'm a goddamn Alpha."
The sensation wasn't overwhelming like the smells had been. It was… an intrinsic knowing. An absolute control. There was no internal struggle, no frantic desperation to understand the burgeoning power. It was just there. The power simmered beneath my skin, fully accessible, fully mine. I felt no random urge to howl, no uncontrollable urge to shift. The typical weaknesses, the ones that plagued every werewolf in the show? They felt like distant whispers, easily ignored. Mountain ash? Just dust. Wolfsbane? Probably a bad taste, but nothing more. The full moon's pull? It felt like a gentle hum of amplified power, not a chaotic descent into madness. My new status felt as natural as breathing.
This wasn't just being reborn as Scott. This was being reborn as Scott with cheat codes enabled. Maxed out from the jump.
My mind, my own mind, began to race, processing this impossible advantage. I knew everything. Every villain, every weakness, every tragic twist. Peter Hale's entire Season 1 rampage? I knew his true identity, his motivations, his ultimate fate. The Kanima? Gerard Argent, its true nature, how to cure Jackson. The Darach? Jennifer Blake, the Nemeton. Stiles's Nogitsune possession? Allison's death? That last one was a punch to the gut even now, a visceral ache that resonated deep in this new body. But armed with this power, this control, and this devastating foreknowledge… I could change it all.
The internal conflict was immediate and sharp. How much could I interfere? The timeline, I knew, was a fragile thing. Too many direct revelations and I'd sound like a raving lunatic, or worse, someone with supernatural foresight who would attract the wrong kind of attention, the wrong kind of threats, far too soon. No, I had to play it smart. Subtle. I would 'discover' information, 'predict' events with uncanny accuracy, and 'accidentally' guide the pieces into place. I could be the puppet master, pulling strings from the shadows, twisting the narrative to save the people I'd watched suffer and die for years.
A loud, frantic rapping on the door made me jump, the red glint in my eyes vanishing instantly, replaced by a perfect human brown.
"Dude! You alive in there?" Stiles' voice, a familiar blend of exasperation and genuine concern, filtered through the wood. "You missed breakfast! Mom's gonna be pissed about the pancakes, and Coach is going to have a freaking aneurysm if you're late for practice!"
Stiles. My best friend. The loyal, sarcastic, brilliant human who would face so much. He was my anchor, my comedic relief, my strategic partner in the future. He was the one person I knew I could count on, the one person who probably wouldn't completely lose his mind if I started behaving... differently. But even with Stiles, I had to be careful. He was observant. He'd notice if his best friend suddenly knew things he shouldn't.
"Coming, Stiles!" I yelled back, my voice surprisingly steady, a little deeper than I expected. The game had just changed. Dramatically. And it was going to be one hell of a ride. I had an entire future to rewrite, and all the power in the world to do it.
I pulled on a fresh t-shirt, the fabric feeling ridiculously soft against my suddenly hypersensitive skin. My muscles felt taut, alive, ready. As I slipped on my worn jeans, I caught my reflection again. Scott McCall stared back, but the reflection was no longer just his. It was mine, imbued with immense power and a chilling, thrilling sense of purpose. This was a second chance, not just for me, but for everyone in this town.
Allison. The thought of her brought a strange, sharp pang, a mix of dread and fierce, almost overwhelming protectiveness. I knew her fate, knew the agonizing heartbreak. My new Alpha instincts, already humming beneath the surface, intertwined with the raw, familiar longing of Scott's ingrained memories and my own desperate desire to save her. I had to protect her. At any cost. And with my new, unprecedented capabilities, any cost meant any bloody cost.
A smile, a genuinely amused and darkly confident one, stretched across my face. I was an Alpha, a secret god in a high school student's body. This was going to be fun. And incredibly dangerous. But I was ready.
I heard Stiles clatter down the stairs, his usual hurried rhythm already shaking the house. Time to face the music. Time to be Scott McCall. The one who knew. The one who could control it all.
The doorknob turned cold under my palm. I pushed the door open and stepped out into the hallway