I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
Patréon/emperordragon
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The bell above the door of the Beacon Hills Animal Clinic gave a faint chi, its sound almost too delicate to herald the weight Chris Argent carried with him as he crossed the threshold. The familiar antiseptic tang of disinfectant filled his nostrils, mingling with the quiet hum of dical equipnt in the sterile air. It was calm here — unnervingly so. Too calm, perhaps, for a man who had spent the past seven days neck-deep in bloodshed and funerals, surrounded by grief, confusion.
Behind the front counter, Deaton looked up the counter, brow furrowed slightly in surprise, but not alarm. His composure, as always, was asured. Calculated. He didn't flinch — not even when his eyes t Chris's.
"Mr. Argent," Deaton greeted, his tone cool but courteous. He reached for a towel and began wiping his hands. "I can't say I expected to see you here. What brings you to my door?"
Chris didn't waste ti with pleasantries. From the inside pocket of his dark jacket, he drew out a folded docunt — already creased, smudged, and clearly well-read. He held it out as he stepped closer.
"It's the autopsy report on the John Doe found a few days ago in the forest, near the state line," he said. "The one that didn't fit any known profiles — human or otherwise." His voice was low, guarded. "There's a detail in the toxicology that doesn't make sense. A foreign organic compound was found in the spinal fluid — sothing synthetic, but not man-made. Lab techs can't identify it. It's not natural."
Deaton took the paper, his expression unreadable as he scanned the top lines. A flicker of interest passed through his eyes, but he said nothing imdiately.
"I thought," Chris continued, "that if anyone in Beacon Hills might recognize what we're dealing with — it would be you."
There was a pause. Not one of hesitation, but of quiet judgnt.
"You realize what you're asking," Deaton said as he turned toward the corridor leading to the clinic's restricted back rooms. "You're coming to with this, knowing my history with the Hales. Knowing what it might look like."
Chris followed without argunt. "I know your ties to the Hales," he said plainly. "But you're also the closest thing Beacon Hills has to a scientist who understands… the supernatural."
Deaton gave a nod — subtle, reluctant perhaps — and pushed open the door to the back lab. The room beyond was dimly lit, colder, and lined with stainless steel surfaces that glead under the soft white of surgical lights. At the far end, a containnt drawer hissed softly as Deaton unlocked and opened it, retrieving a sealed tray from within.
He set it gently on the tal table between them, then released the locks on the lid. Inside the tray lay sothing withered and grotesque — a shriveled, sinewy remnant of so creature long dead. It looked almost like a bundle of blackened vines or roots, charred at the ends. Even under the sterile lighting, it seed to twitch, or perhaps that was just the trick of the light playing against its strange texture.
Chris's jaw clenched. His voice dropped an octave. "What in God's na is that?"
Deaton didn't answer right away. His eyes lingered on the specin — not in fear, but in weary recognition.
"What's left of sothing very old," he said at last, his voice hushed with both respect and unease. "It's a parasitic organism. Not human, not animal. Sothing entirely other. It burrowed into a host — a werewolf — and hijacked the nervous system. Overrode instincts. Controlled behavior. It's what caused the recent killings... and why they seed so off, unlike anything we've seen before. The violence wasn't random. It was orchestrated."
Chris stared at the parasite, then back at Deaton. His mind flashed through images he hadn't been able to shake for days — the brutal attacks, the senseless deaths, the bodies of hunters. And now, this thing. This thing had been pulling the strings.
"You're saying it manipulated both sides? That this... creature made us enemies?"
"I believe it exacerbated tensions that were already there," Deaton said. "It didn't create hatred, but it fed on it — inflad it. Pushed it past the breaking point."
Chris's fingers curled into fists at his sides. "Can you prove it?"
"Not definitively. Not yet," Deaton admitted. "But I'm running tissue analysis now. If I can isolate the compounds it uses to hijack neurological pathways — if I can demonstrate how it rewired the brain to heighten aggression — then yes, maybe. Maybe I can show this wasn't just war. It was infection."
Chris let out a long, heavy breath. "If you can prove that… if you can show what really happened…"
"I might be able to stop what's coming next," Deaton finished for him.
Chris nodded slowly, absorbing the implications. His posture softened — barely — but sothing in his eyes shifted. It wasn't trust. Not yet. But it was understanding. Recognition of a shared burden.
"You'll have my support, Doctor," he said. "Quietly. I'll tell my hunters to steer clear of this place for now. But they're on edge. So of them won't listen. They've buried too many of their own. If they catch wind that you're working with the Hales again…"
"It'll unravel everything," Deaton said, nodding. "I know the risks."
"And you're still willing to take them?"
"If we don't, then this whole town might tear itself apart."
There was a long silence between them, filled with the unspoken weight of too many dead and too many mistakes.
Chris turned toward the door. "Then we keep it in the dark," he said. "Just like the thing that started this."
As he stepped back into the front of the clinic, the bell above the door chid again. Sunlight spilled across the tiled floor, too bright for the mood hanging around his shoulders. His phone buzzed in his poicket — multiple tis in rapid succession. A cluster of ssages from his hunters. Demanding updates. Demanding answers. Demanding vengeance.
He stared at the screen for a mont before slipping it away, unread.
"They'll get answers," he murmured under his breath. "Just not the ones they're expecting."
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