The forest floor was a blur of decaying leaves and treacherous roots beneath his pounding sneakers. Laughter, sharp and bright as shattered glass, bounced off the ancient oaks and towering pines – Scotty's infectious, slightly wheezing giggle, and Stiles's rapid-fire commentary, already peppered with words too big for his scrawny frame. Alex McCall pumped his shorter legs, chest burning, a stitch starting to bloom in his side, but a grin was plastered on his face. They were knights, or explorers, or maybe just wild things, the specific game lost in the exhilaration of the chase. Scotty, ever the natural leader even then, was a fleeting shadow up ahead, his dark hair disappearing and reappearing between the thick trunks. Stiles, surprisingly agile for all his flailing limbs, was a chaotic burst of energy just behind him.
"Can't catch us, slowpoke!" Stiles yelled back, his voice already carrying the teasing affection that defined their bond.
"Am too!" Alex gasped out, pushing harder, the scent of damp earth, pine sap, and something uniquely wild filling his lungs. Sunlight dappled through the dense canopy, creating an ever-shifting mosaic of light and shadow on the forest floor, making the ground ahead a deceptive, moving target. He stumbled, catching himself on a low-hanging branch, the rough bark scraping his palm. A minor sting, instantly forgotten. Keeping up was all that mattered.
He pushed through a curtain of ferns, their feathery fronds cool against his heated skin, expecting to see the others just beyond. Instead, he saw… nothing.
Or rather, he saw fog.
It wasn't there a second ago. It rolled in silently, unnaturally, a thick, pearlescent wall that swallowed the familiar woods whole. It wasn't the wispy morning mist he sometimes saw from his bedroom window; this was dense, opaque, like stepping into a cloud that had inexplicably fallen to earth. It clung to the trees, muffling their vibrant greens and browns into muted, ghostly shapes. The air grew heavy, damp, and a peculiar stillness descended, swallowing the chirping of birds, the rustle of unseen creatures, even the distant hum of civilization.
"Scott? Stiles?" Alex called out, his voice sounding small and strangely flat in the oppressive silence. The fog seemed to drink the sound. He took a few hesitant steps forward, arms outstretched, feeling his way. The familiar landmarks – the lightning-scarred oak, the mossy boulder shaped like a sleeping bear – were gone, replaced by an eerie, uniform grey.
Panic, cold and sharp as a shard of ice, began to prickle at the edges of his bravado. "Guys? This isn't funny!" His voice trembled now. He spun around, trying to retrace his steps, but every direction looked the same, a swirling vortex of white and grey. The scent of pine was still there, but it was fainter now, overlaid with a damp, almost metallic tang.
He was alone. Utterly, terrifyingly alone.
Tears welled, hot and stinging. He choked them back. Crying wouldn't help. He had to find them. But which way? He shouted their names again, louder this time, the sound swallowed almost before it left his lips.
Then, through the suffocating silence, came a different sensation. Not a sound, not a smell, but a… pull. A deep, resonant thrum that seemed to vibrate from the very ground beneath his feet, up through the soles of his worn sneakers, settling low in his belly. It was insistent, a silent song only he could hear, drawing him forward. Fear warred with a strange, inexplicable curiosity, a sense of being beckoned.
He walked, one tentative step after another, the fog parting slightly before him as if acknowledging his passage, then closing in just as quickly behind. Branches, unseen until the last second, snagged at his t-shirt, their touch like skeletal fingers. He stumbled, his hands landing on something rough and solid.
It was the stump. Colossal, ancient, its surface a roadmap of time, etched with scars and whorls like the skin of some primeval beast. The air around it felt different, charged, and the strange pull intensified here, a silent vortex in the heart of the whispering fog. It felt immensely old, powerful, like the heart of the woods itself.
Hesitantly, almost reverently, his small, trembling fingers reached out, touched the rough, surprisingly warm bark.
Agony.
It wasn't a simple pain; it was an invasion. A blinding, white-hot detonation behind his eyes, as if his brain were being split open. His small body arched, every nerve ending screaming, a silent, contorted rictus of a scream trapped in his throat. Images, fractured and terrifying, seared themselves onto his retinas – darkness swirling like malevolent ink, eyes glowing with predatory light, the glint of fangs, a snarl that ripped through the fabric of reality, primal and utterly inhuman. His world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of torment and alien sensations.
Then, through the flickering, agonizing chaos, a new image fought its way to the forefront, coalescing atop the ancient wood of the massive tree stump. A lion. Not just any lion, but a creature of mythic proportions, its mane a corona of midnight and gold, its body radiating an almost visible power. Its eyes, the color of molten amber, locked onto his, seeing not a lost child, but something else entirely. The great beast opened its massive jaws, and a roar tore through the dreamscape, a sound that wasn't just heard but felt, vibrating his bones, shaking his very soul apart—
Alex's own gasp ripped him from the suffocating depths of the dream.
(PIC here )
He lurched upright in the king-sized bed, the ridiculously expensive Frette sheets tangling around his naked, sweat-slicked body. His heart hammered against his ribs like a wild drum, each beat a painful echo of the lion's roar. He was sixteen, nearly seventeen, the same age as his twin, Scott, back in Beacon Hills. But their lives couldn't be more different. He gulped at the air-conditioned air of the penthouse suite, the cool dryness a stark, almost painful contrast to the dream's damp, earthy oppression. The phantom pain still throbbed behind his temples, a familiar, unwelcome ghost.
"Whoa there, stallion. Trying to win a marathon in your sleep?"
The voice, husky and laced with amusement, pulled him further from the dream's lingering tendrils. Alex blinked, his gaze slowly focusing on the woman beside him. Sunlight, aggressively cheerful, streamed through a gap in the heavy blackout curtains he usually insisted remain sealed until noon. It illuminated a cascade of honey-blonde hair spread across the pillow, a bare, tanned shoulder, and the sleepy, cat-like stretch of… Isabelle? He was pretty sure it was Isabelle. Last night had been a blur of expensive whiskey and the determined pursuit of sensation that characterized his Hollywood existence.
Isabelle propped herself up on an elbow, the sheet dipping precariously low, revealing the generous swell of her breasts. Her eyes, a startling shade of emerald green that had probably cost a fortune in colored contacts, scanned him with a mixture of curiosity and something more predatory. "You were really going at it. Sounded like you were wrestling a bear."
Alex raked a hand through his damp hair, forcing a semblance of his usual charming grin. "Just an old nightmare. Nothing a shot of espresso can't fix." He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet sinking into the plush, custom-dyed merino wool carpet. Physically, he felt fine – better than fine. Years of dedicated training, pushing his body to its limits, had sculpted him into a lean, powerful machine. The weakness he so often felt wasn't in his muscles or his stamina; it was a deeper, more insidious thing, a persistent hum of emptiness that settled in his bones whenever he was too long away from Beacon Hills.
"Mmm, a nightmare that makes you look like that?" Isabelle purred, her gaze openly appreciative as it swept over his physique – the broad shoulders, the sharply defined six-pack, the lean, powerful lines of a body that screamed discipline and strength. "Some of us would pay good money for nightmares like that."
(PIC here )
He knew the image he projected: Alex McCall, the boy genius whose early insights had helped his father build a tech empire. While his father, Rafael McCall, handled the boardrooms and the day-to-day grind of McCall Industries , Alex reaped the benefits – a life of hedonistic freedom, a trail of beautiful women, and a reputation as Hollywood's most enigmatic young playboy. He enjoyed it, too, for the most part. The parties, the thrill, the endless distraction. But beneath the gleaming surface, the emptiness lingered.
"Just good genetics and a personal trainer who enjoys torture," he quipped, his voice smoother than the turmoil still churning in his gut. He moved towards the vast expanse of floor-to-ceiling windows, his reflection a fleeting shadow in the glass. With a tap on a discreet wall panel, the curtains glided open, unleashing the full, unapologetic glare of the Los Angeles sun. The sprawling cityscape stretched out below, a concrete and glass testament to ambition and illusion. His playground.
And yet, the only place that pervasive feeling of being fundamentally off, that sense of a vital part of him being missing or dormant, actually receded was thousands of miles away. Beacon Hills. Those rare, almost grudging visits to see Scott and Melissa. The air there, thick with the scent of pine and unspoken memories, seemed to temporarily ground the restless, dissonant energy that plagued him. Then he'd return to this gilded cage, and the familiar hum of emptiness would inevitably resume its thrum beneath his skin.
"Well, Mr. Good Genetics," Isabelle's voice was suddenly closer, her warm breath ghosting over his shoulder blade. He felt the light touch of her fingers tracing the line of his spine. "Since you're awake, and that nightmare is clearly over… care to create some better dreams?"
Alex turned, the practiced, charming smile clicking into place, the one that disarmed paparazzi and seduced starlets with equal ease. "As tempting as that sounds, Isabelle," he leaned in, brushing a light, meaningless kiss against her perfectly glossed lips, tasting the faint residue of last night's champagne and the thrill of the temporary. "The empire, or rather, my father's empire that I occasionally grace with my brilliance, awaits. Or at least, my Xbox does. You know how it is." He winked, already mentally moving on.
He needed a scalding hot shower, enough coffee to jumpstart a rhino, and, most desperately, a way to silence the echo of a lion's roar that still reverberated in the deepest, most guarded chambers of his soul. A roar that felt less like a memory, and more like a promise. Or a threat.