Carefully nestling the earbuds into her ears, she scrolled through her liked music. With a few taps on her phone screen, The Script's Breakeven began to flow into her ears, enveloping her in a cocoon of sound.
               As Brietta turned the corner into another hall, her mind still lingering in the world of music, she remained oblivious to Derek Hale's unsteady approach in her direction. 
               Unbeknownst to her, he stumbled along, his attention focused on the ground before finally lifting his gaze to Jackson Whittemore, who was engrossed in organizing his textbooks within his locker.
               "Where's Scott McCall?" Derek swallowed as he approached the lacrosse player. His skin was pale and damp from his sweat.
               "Why should I tell you?" Jackson questioned, his words laced with suspicion.
               Derek locked eyes with Jackson, his gaze unwavering, "Because I asked you politely, and I only do that once."
               Jackson chuckled haughtily, his pompous arrogance on display. "Hmm. Okay, tough guy." He took a deep breath and moved closer to Derek. "How about I help you find him if you tell me what you're selling him? What is it? Is it, uh, Dianabol?" Derek stares at him blankly, confused as to what he's getting at.
               With a snarl, he leaned forward in Derek's face. "Hm? HGH?"
               Derek frowns impatiently when he realizes what Jackson is implying, "Steroids?"
               As Derek turned to walk away, a sudden grip on his arm halted his movement. Irritated, he glanced back to find Jackson, now the one filled with impatience, holding onto him tightly, "No, Girl Scout cookies. What the hell do you think I'm talking about?"
               Then he noticed Derek's appearance—pale skin, sweaty brow, dark undereye circles, and such weakness that Derek was struggling to remain standing—and scoffed with a small smirk. "Oh, and by the way, whatever it is you're, uh, selling, I'd probably stop sampling the merchandise. You look wrecked."
               Derek's gaze shifted downward, drawn to his own hand. Thick rivulets of blood cascaded down his fingertips, staining them crimson before splattering onto the floor below. The sight served as a stark reminder of the urgency and severity of his condition.
               He clenched his fist and pushed past the teenager. "I'll find him myself."
               Jackson, not willing to lose his chance to find out what Scott's secret is, tried to grab Derek once more. "No, we're not done here—."
               The Werewolf snatched the lacrosse player's neck and pinned Jackson against the blue lockers face-first. As he felt blood coat around his fingers, he removed his hand and knitted his brows.
               His nails were sharp and clawed deep into the back of Whittemore's neck.
               He swallowed harshly and bolted away from the boy, leaving Jackson to clutch the wound and turn to the man with a frantic look.
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"BRIETTA!" Brietta instinctively cringed, her muscles tensing as she contemplated whether to keep walking down the path leading out of school or to turn around. Although she wrestled with her own emotions, she knew deep down that hurting Scott was the last thing she wanted to do.