Gerard stood triumphant, the bite mark on his leg already beginning to darken as the transformation stirred within him. His cold eyes focused on Derek.
But while Gerard was fixated on him, Derek, Scott, and the others were concentrating on the people they'd heard outside the warehouse.
Gerard's lips curled into an evil smirk. "You don't think my plan was just to get the bite, do you, Derek?"
Derek's focus snapped back to Gerard, his eyes wary.
"No, no, no." Gerard shook his head slowly, savoring the mont. "I want everything from you. Your life. The lives of your pack. And most importantly… your Alpha spark." He sighed theatrical. "But I can't take it yet. I need to wait until my transformation is complete tomorrow. So none of you are leaving here tonight. I'll capture you, and you'll watch helplessly as I kill your pack one by one. Then tomorrow… I'll take your spark and end you myself."
He laughed—a cold, triumphant sound—and reached into his pocket for a small remote. A gas made of concentrated wolfsbane waited in the vents above, ready to weaken the werewolves and leave them defenseless.
But before his finger could press the button, the main entrance doors creaked open.
A man walked in.
He was old, but built like a warrior who had never stopped fighting. A scar ran from his temple to his jaw, and his cold eyes swept the room with predatory calm. Behind him walked two hunters, swords ready. And behind them, nine more filed in, fanning out to surround the space.
Stanisław Zima had arrived.
Scott instinctively pushed Tracy behind him, backing away from the advancing hunters. Derek and the others followed suit, retreating toward the corner of the warehouse, watching, waiting.
Stanisław's cold gaze flicked over them for a brief mont—acknowledging their presence, deeming them irrelevant for now—then settled on Gerard.
"So," Stanisław said, his voice deep and calm, "this was your plan, old friend."
Gerard didn't panic. He t Stanisław's gaze with equal coldness. "Why are you here?"
Stanisław shrugged. "Because I know what kind of man you are. I don't trust you. But I never thought your real goal was to beco a filthy beast."
Gerard's jaw tightened. "I have cancer. Death is knocking on my door. To heal myself, I had no choice. Given the choice to live, no one chooses death. I am no different."
Stanisław's expression didn't change. "I'm not surprised. Only disappointed." He took a step forward. "You know what I have to do now, old friend. I have to kill you. Kill your entire family. Make an example of you so no hunter family ever thinks of joining the monsters again—or accepts mbers who beco them."
Gerard reached into his pocket and pulled out a small remote. "You do what you have to do. I'll do what I have to do."
Stanisław's eyes narrowed. "Kill him."
The two hunters beside him lunged forward—
Gerard pressed the button.
Massive industrial fans bolted to the warehouse walls roared to life. Black dust erupted from hidden vents, filling the air in seconds.
One of the Zima hunters near the entrance inhaled sharply—and collapsed, convulsing, choking, black veins spreading across his face.
"It's rusted iron dust!" another hunter shouted, covering his mouth. "Cover your faces! Don't breathe!"
The Bogatyrs scrambled, tearing strips of fabric to cover their eyes, noses, and mouths. But the dust was everywhere—settling on their skin, burning like acid, seeping into their lungs. They tried to use energy shields to protect themselves, but the shields flickered and died. Their enhanced strength wavered.
Gerard moved.
He crossed to a crate in the corner, throwing it open to reveal three gleaming Desert Eagles. He tucked two into his belt, raised the third, and fired at Stanisław.
The shot was precise. But Stanisław, even blinded and burning, felt the danger. He grabbed the nearest hunter and jerked him into the path of the bullet.
The hunter scread as the rusted round tore into his chest.
Stanisław hurled the dying man at Gerard with supernatural strength, then dove behind a thick tal support beam.
Gerard dodged the flying body and fired again. Soon, two more hunters died, and another two scread as bullets hit them, making them forget to cover their mouths. They inhaled the rusted dust, collapsed, and convulsed on the ground. The remaining Bogatyrs scattered, diving behind beams and crates, desperately trying to shield themselves from the relentless gunfire.
Derek and his group tried to take advantage of the chaos and run, but Gerard's wild shots pinned them down. They were trapped.
One brave hunter spotted the battery bank powering the fans. He sprinted toward it, ignoring the burning dust, and ripped the cables free with his hands.
The fans whirred to a stop.
The dust began to settle.
Gerard cursed and bolted for the exit.
But Stanisław was faster.
A dagger, coated in white energy, flew from his hand and buried itself in Gerard's arm—tearing through flesh, shattering bone. Gerard scread, the Desert Eagle slipping from his nerveless fingers and clattering to the floor.
Stanisław walked toward him, his face a mask of bloody, healing wounds from the iron dust. He showed no emotion—no triumph, no satisfaction. Only cold resolve.
"As expected from you, old friend," Stanisław said quietly. "You put up a good fight."
Gerard glared at him, pain and hatred burning in his eyes.
Stanisław drew his sword. "Let do you one last favor before you turn into a monster. Let kill you as Gerard Argent the hunter."
He swung.
Gerard's head separated from his body and rolled across the warehouse floor.
---
From above, in the shadows of the second floor, Chris watched in silence. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on the headless corpse of his father.
Victoria's hand found his and squeezed—once, hard.
Allison took his other hand. "I guess… this is a good end for Gerard," she said softly.
Chris exhaled slowly. "I guess." Then his gaze shifted to Stanisław, cold resolve hardening his features. "But I'm going to kill that old bastard."
---
After killing Gerard, Stanisław walked to his injured hunters. They lay on the ground, rusted bullets in their chests, their faces burned and blistered from the iron dust. Their supernatural healing wasn't working—the rust had poisoned them too deeply.
Stanisław showed no emotion. He drew his sword again and stabbed each one through the heart, ending their suffering efficiently.
Then he turned his cold gaze to Derek and the others, who were trying to slip away in the chaos.
"Kill the wolves," Stanisław ordered.
The six surviving Zima hunters focused on Derek's group, hatred and disgust twisting their features as they advanced.
Stanisław himself held back, his eyes locked on Scott. 'Sothing about that boy feels wrong. Dangerous. Better to keep my distance.'
Derek shifted, fur sprouting along his jaw as his eyes blazed red. He roared and prepared to attack—
Scott's hand clamped down on his shoulder. "Protect Tracy. Leave the rest to ."
Before Derek could argue, Scott stepped forward to face the hunters. He looked at Stanisław, his voice calm but firm. "I don't like to fight. And I don't want to kill. So walk away. Leave this town while you still can."
Stanisław's eyes narrowed. "Be careful. Sothing's off about that kid. Kill him quickly."
The six Bogatyrs coated their swords with white energy and attacked.
Scott's eyes flashed red. "You brought this upon yourselves."
He moved.
The Bogatyrs couldn't follow his speed. He flowed between them like water, dodging their energy-coated blades with contemptuous ease. Each punch he threw landed with devastating force. When they raised energy shields, his fists punched through them like paper.
Within seconds, all six hunters were on the ground—legs broken, arms shattered, ribs caved in.
But they were Bogatyrs. They soon healed and stood.
They exchanged glances, then nodded. Four turned back to Scott. Two broke away and charged toward Derek and the others.
Scott raised his hand. Fire gathered in his palm, then shot out at blinding speed—a Firaga spell. It struck one of the two hunters charging past him square in the back and exploded, burning and sending both n flying past Derek's group to smash into the far wall.
The warehouse fell silent for a heartbeat as everyone stared in shock at Scott.
Derek recovered first. "Peter! Finish them before they heal!"
Peter's lips curved into a cruel smile. "With pleasure." He walked to the two severely injured Bogatyrs and drove his clawed hands into their chests, ripping out their hearts.
The four hunters still facing Scott charged again. Scott t them without flinching. Within monts, they were back on the ground—alive, but broken.
Stanisław's face paled. Fear flickered in his cold eyes, though he fought to hide it. He raised a hand. "Stop."
The four hunters dragged themselves to their feet and limped back to him.
Stanisław studied Scott, his voice carefully controlled. "What are you?"
Scott smirked. "I'm a werewolf."
Stanisław didn't believe him. But he wasn't stupid enough to argue. "Fine. You win. We're leaving."
Scott nodded. "Leave. And never co back to Beacon Hills."
Stanisław exhaled slowly, relief hidden beneath his stoic mask. He turned and gestured for his hunters to follow.
They were halfway to the exit when a voice cut through the silence.
"Going so soon?"
Everyone froze.
Beside Gerard's corpse, four figures materialized out of thin air.
Jacob crouched down and picked up a gun from Gerard's jacket—the one loaded with Nordic Blue Monkshood bullets. He examined it casually, as if he had all the ti in the world.
Chris walked to his father's body and removed the jacket, draping it over Gerard's head and torso. A small, final act of dignity.
Stanisław stared at the newcors. He recognized Chris and Jacob—but what puzzled him was that he sensed nothing from Jacob. No supernatural energy. No aura. Nothing. Jacob felt like the most ordinary human he'd ever encountered.
And yet, he felt extre danger radiating from Jacob and the young woman beside him—Allison.
Jacob walked past Stanisław and his hunters without sparing them a glance. He approached Scott, his tone filled with disappointnt. "You're too soft, Scott. If you let them leave now, they'll just gather more people and co back for revenge."
Scott scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "I'm not stupid. I just didn't want to kill them. I knew you wouldn't let them leave Beacon Hills alive."
Jacob snorted, then turned to Derek. He tossed the gun he'd taken from Gerard. "Here. Your leg doesn't look too good."
Derek caught it one-handed. "Thanks." He bit the head off the remaining bullet, pouring the Nordic Blue Monkshood powder into his palm. "Scott, can you burn this for ?"
Scott shook his head. "No way. I'd probably make your hand explode."
Jacob walked over, a tiny fla flickering on his fingertip. "Let ."
Derek extended his palm. Jacob burned the powder with surgical precision. Derek dug the bullet out of his leg with his claws—screaming through the pain—then shoved the burned powder into the wound. The black veins receded. The wound closed.
Chris stepped forward, his eyes locked on Stanisław. "Gerard was a monster. But he was still my father." His voice was cold, controlled. "And I heard you want to make an example out of my family."
Stanisław t his gaze. "Christopher. Your father took the bite and killed one of my own. I had no choice but to execute him. And I was speaking of Kate—not your entire family. She is a monster now. She needs to be put down."
Chris shook his head. "You can't talk your way out of this, Stanisław. You and your hunters aren't leaving this warehouse alive."
To be continued… 😊
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