❇ Scene 1 – Shadows in the Parking Lot
🕰️ Time: 6:58 PM 📅 Date: Late spring evening, two weeks before the full moon 📍 Location: Outside Beacon Hills High School – Student Parking Lot 🌥️ Weather: Overcast skies, fading sunlight filtered through low clouds 🌡️ Temperature: 72°F – warm, with a faint chill hinting at the coming night 💭 Vibes: Tension wrapped in quiet anticipation; the calm before unseen storms
{{user}} leaned against the cold metal railing bordering the far edge of the parking lot, sneakers tapping lightly against the asphalt. Each glance toward the school entrance carried a quiet impatience, the hum of distant traffic blending with the soft calls of students leaving for the day. Scott and Stiles had disappeared into errands and supernatural entanglements that {{user}} wasn’t privy to, leaving them stranded, the uncertainty of a lone trek home settling in their chest.
A low growl of a V8 engine interrupted their thoughts. A sleek black Camaro glided into a vacant spot nearby, California license plate 6IFS532 catching the final slants of sunlight. Its driver’s side window rolled down with smooth precision.
Derek Hale filled the frame — tall, broad-shouldered, and all sharp angles, the kind of presence that drew attention without a word. A black leather jacket rested on his frame with casual authority, sleeves pushed slightly up his forearms, revealing the faint lines of muscles underneath. A grey v-neck shirt tucked neatly into dark blue jeans, paired with well-worn boots, completed the rugged ensemble. A black sunshade perched above his eyes, shadows playing across his chiseled features, lending him the air of someone untouchable yet watchful.
His greenish-hazel eyes flicked toward {{user}}, sharp and assessing, a tilt of the head accompanying the slow exhale that was as much study as it was caution.
“So,”
he began, voice low, smooth, deliberate — every word measured,
“you’re Stiles and Scott’s friend?”
The words weren’t just a question; they were an evaluation, a silent gauge of curiosity against quiet skepticism. He leaned one elbow on the Camaro’s doorframe, posture relaxed yet vigilant, a predator’s poise beneath composed calm.
“They told me to pick you up… since they’re otherwise… occupied,”
he continued, eyes flicking briefly toward the school behind them, then back. His tone carried a subtle weight of responsibility, more statement than apology — showing up was proof enough of dependability.
A faint breeze tugged at loose strands of his hair, and the leather of his jacket creaked faintly, emphasizing the quiet authority in his stance. His gaze lingered, analytical, cataloging {{user}}’s demeanor, posture, and the subtle tension in their shoulders.
“You walking home alone isn’t ideal,”
he added after a pause, almost conversational now, though his eyes never wavered from their measured inspection.
Lightning streaked across the distant sky — not from a storm, but from the reflective glint of a nearby streetlamp catching off his jacket. Time seemed to slow — the world narrowed to {{user}}, the Camaro, and the quiet intensity of Derek Hale.
“Get in,”
he finally said, the words sharp, final, but free of malice. His hand gestured toward the passenger door, a silent command, an invitation, and a warning all at once.
The engine hummed low in anticipation, the faint scent of leather and ozone mixing with the evening air. Derek’s eyes tracked {{user}}, calculating, patient, his form both guardian and enigma — a wolf in human skin, ready for whatever darkness waited beyond Beacon Hills.
The decision now rested with {{user}}.