Lying on the ground, Stiles saw the sky above was gray, probably like the hollow emptiness in his chest would look like if it had a color. He had to get up, had to change his wet clothes, take a warm shower, and call Derek, but the energy he needed for merely getting up from the grass seemed impossible to muster.

The first years Cora had been missing, Stiles still hoped to find her alive someday, hoped she'd moved on voluntarily to something she wanted more than her child and her work. The last year or so, he'd believed she was dead, but now . . . She was neither dead nor living a better life.

Seemed like Cora had the same mental disease as her brother, though admittedly picked the shorter straw of the two of them. If she'd stayed in San Francisco, she'd probably have been one of the patients in and out of his ward: homeless, sick and starving, unable to follow up their medication when they were released, living a hard life that would make anyone sick at some point.

Stiles sat up, head spinning as he found the energy to get up on his knees. He'd landed on his mp3-player when he fell from the ladder. It was muddy after he'd pressed it into the wet grass, and the screen was black, dead. Tucking it into his jacket pocket, he placed the lid on what was left of the overturned can he'd used, the grass under it yellow with paint. He found the brush in the flower bed, full of leaves, and he left it there.

Patting his clothing, he found his cell in his jeans pocket. Perhaps he'd get Derek to come here. The thought of going to his store to talk to him felt too exhausting. If he told him about Cora, Derek would be hammering on Stiles' front door by the time he was finished with his shower.

Finding Derek in his phone book, he scrambled over to the front door, pressing the call button, and didn't see the black car screeching to a halt next to him before it was too late. Two men jumped out, pushed him into the backseat, forcing him into handcuffs and blindfolds. He tried to scream, he really did, but shock made his throat clam up, and all he could get out was a wheeze.

"Go! Go! Go!" a man cried beside him, and he felt the car speed up, its wheels screaming at the crossroad. All Stiles could think was that he hoped Talia was not on her way home now, happening to be in the way of the car while riding her bike.

Stiles' cell lay back in the front yard of his house.

Panic made Stiles' heart pump hard, sending norepinephrine from his adrenals through his arteries, and all his earlier fatigue was thrown out the tinted window, his senses suddenly becoming crystal clear. He'd tried forcing the hands holding him to let go, but all it did was making them grip him harder, pressing him against leather seats smelling of cigars.

His captors stayed quiet, so Stiles tried to listen for sounds from outside the car, so he could tell the police where he'd been taken. Other cars, horns, bicycle bells and laughter made him think they could be downtown. A few minutes passed, and when they stopped, it was all quiet outside the car. Someone hauled him up, and Stiles tried to wiggle free, making a man grunt as he got a knee jammed up in something soft—hopefully in his captor's balls—but kept him up.

"Hey!" Stiles screamed as loud as he could, finally finding his voice. "Help!"

"Want me to quiet him down?" a voice asked by his side, but Stiles didn't hear any answer. He was carried like a sack of potatoes until he was set down on the floor, the blindfold ripped off his face like a band-aid.

"What the actual fuck?" Blinking at the sudden light, he turned his head frantically. He was in some kind of basement, white walls, long empty corridor ahead. Three military clothed men wearing ski masks stood behind him, one of them the size of a bouncer.

"Hey, asshole! Let me out of these." He wriggled his cuffed hands, "so I can smack that mask right off your face. Kneeing you in the balls didn't do any good, since neither of you have got any in the first place!"

The bouncer growled, lifting Stiles up by the back of his jacket, and Stiles struggled to stand since his hands were behind his back. Something pressed to his back, hard, like—oh my God! A gun?—and he instantly walked down the corridor, two of the men coming up on his sides, leading him by his upper arms.

Over the door at the end, there was an old plate with engraved, swirly letters, saying:

Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent

The man on Stiles' right punched a code on a keypad on the wall. The door opened, and they led him through another corridor, this one with old wooden walls and a strong smell of musty basement. Cobwebs hanging low where the roof met the walls, dusty floor—this corridor was rarely in use.

As they came to a crossing, and Stiles' suspicion was confirmed when his captors hesitated.

"Which way?" the guy on the left said.

The guy behind Stiles grumbled, "Right." They turned, a door in sight at the darker end. It opened up as they approached, and bright light shone into the corridor, the room inside white, no windows, but several fluorescent lamps hanging from the roof.

A small table stood in the center of the room and a second door were the only things in the room. Stiles sat down hard when he was pushed into one of the two chairs. "What the hell's going on?"

He didn't get any answers. Two of his captors went out the door, but the smaller one remained, his back to the wall. Stiles gasped when the door they'd come through wasn't visible anymore. Stiles yelled at him. "Where am I? Why am I here? Take these cuffs off me, God dammit!"

The guard didn't even look at him.

Frustration seeded through him, panic and fright making it hard to sit still. He had no idea how long he'd been sitting there when then the door in front of him opened again, this time with one man entering.

Fucking McCall.

Stiles should have known. Only he would be this dramatic and hungry to show his power. Un-fucking-believable.

McCall smirked. Stiles should had rearranged his stupid face a long time ago. Why hadn't he, again? Something about thinking his own mouth was his best weapon? Well, he regretted ever believing it now.

Stiles sputtered, "Don't think for a second you'll get away with this McCall. I am going to make life a living hell for you, you goddamn son of a bitch!"

McCall calmly pulled out the other chair, sat down and folded his hands on the table in front of him, a pleasant expression unfolding on his pig-face. No, pigs were prettier. Poor pigs, having Stiles compare them to this ogre.

Stiles tried to relax, telling himself this was only Scott's dad after all. Stiles had known him practically his whole life. "You won't do anything to me."

One of McCall's eyebrows rose. "And what makes you so sure of that, boy?"

"Because I know you're a loser, pathetic in your attempts to give meaning to your life through a power-mad FBI force when everything else has crumbled beneath your feet."

McCall didn't smile anymore, he stared blankly at Stiles' face. "Are you done, child?"

Stiles set his mouth in a strict line, but confirmed it. He wanted answers to why he was here—asap.

"Okay." McCall gestured to the guard with a wave of his fingers. "Leave us alone. This punk won't do anything to me."

The guard left, and Stiles watched as a huge grin spread like fire in dry grass on McCall's face.

"Finally, alone."

Stiles swallowed uncomfortably, squirming, wishing his hands were free.

"I wonder what you'll say when I tell you that I've already done something to you." McCall pretended to ponder, tapping his lip, before he stopped, leaning forward, the motion making him look like an owl. "I've decided it's time you get in on a few secrets of mine, boy. You don't deserve the pleasure of knowledge, but you need to learn your place in this world, and to keep your mouth shut in the future."

Stiles frowned, pressing his lips together. He wanted to yell and scream, but throwing a tantrum wouldn't get him anywhere here. And he wanted to know these secrets. What on earth did McCall know that Stiles didn't?

McCall smiled pleasantly at him. "I see I have your full attention. Good." He leaned back, looking gleeful. "I have two secrets to share with you, and I'm going to tell you the most interesting one first, then . . . when I have you where I want you . . . I'm going to hammer the nail into your coffin."

Holy shit! Was McCall going to shoot him? Stiles twisted in his seat to look at the agent's belt. Surely, a gun hung there. Was that why he'd wanted to be alone with him? To kill him and claim it was in self-defence? Stiles searched the ceiling, looking for security cameras.

McCall rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to kill you, boy! If I decide to do so, I won't do it at my own workplace! I have better ways to make you disappear from the surface of the earth. And if you don't believe me now, you will later!

"So," the agent paused, "are we clear?"

Stiles jerked his head once.

"Good! First, I'll talk to you about the biggest secret in America, probably in the whole world."

Stiles scoffed. Grandiose much?

"You don't believe me? Hm, we'll see about that." McCall looked calculating, then he threw his arm out. "This is where I work."

Stiles snorted. "Big secret, huh?"

McCall ignored him. "You were taken under The FBI National Firearms Center, led through the secret passage into this department. You're now sitting at the lowest level of DWA. You know what it's short for?"

Stiles shook his head. He wanted to know.

"Department of Werewolf Affairs."

Stiles fell off his chair, but scrambled up on his knees hurriedly, ignoring the burning in his hip from where it had harshly met the concrete floor.

McCall twisted in his seat to look at him, laughing, but Stiles ignored it and sat up in his chair again, his gaze locked with the agent's.

"I see." McCall's calm voice irritated Stiles. "You've recently come across the word werewolf or else you wouldn't have had such a strong reaction. So it's all as I suspected. But of course it is."

Stiles needed to keep his head clear now, the warnings from Derek, Melissa, his dad, but particularly Cora's, fresh in his mind. "What do you mean? Werewolves don't exist." That much he knew.

McCall gave a harsh laugh. "Of course they do. Why else would we have this department if they didn't?"

"But . . . " Stiles tried, the wheels in his head turning. Was McCall suffering from the exact same delusion as both Derek and Cora did? Two siblings sharing the same mental illness he easily bought—that wasn't unusual—but what were the odds of a third person in the same town? An FBI agent no less?

McCall gave him a thoughtful look. "A werewolf has told you about their existence, but you didn't believe it. You thought they was delusional, right? To be a shrink working with acutely psychotic people, you're pretty dense when it comes to your private life. To see clearly what's right in front of you."

McCall leaned forward. "Was it Derek who told you, or Scott?"

Stiles pressed his lips together.

"Deaton? Ms. Blake?"

Stiles gaped. What the hell— ? Talia's teacher? What did she has to do with anything? She was just a pretty and sweet English teacher. Sure, Derek had mentioned Deaton, and Stiles would probably had paid the vet a visit eventually to sort him out of all this madness, but Talia's teacher?

"Okay, not them." The agent leaned back, crossed his arms, puffed out his chest like he thought it was an impressive one. "Isaac Lahey was admitted on suspicion ofdelusions. If he'd admitted to you that he was a werewolf, you wouldn't have sent him out again so soon." He paused as the corner of his mouth twisted, like a sneer. "It was Cora, wasn't it?"

Stiles' mind spun. "You don't actually believe this shit, do you?"

"Oh, you thick-headed fool. How you were able to pass your medical exam is beyond me."

Stiles sighed. Okay, so he'd pretend to believe. "Why are you telling me this if it's supposed to be a secret?"

"I'm not telling you anything you haven't already been told!" McCall jerked forwards, and Stiles jumped back, not expecting the manic expression on the agent's face. "Because it needs to remain a secret, of course! Don't you understand anything? We can't have a psychiatrist running around knowing about werewolves existence, asking questions, and meeting up with the monsters at work!"

"But no one would believe me!" Stiles shot up his arms in the air.

McCall leaned back again. "Still, you are a potential threat: you might help the werewolves come in contact with each other, to find each other, and conspire against us! You need to be shut down one way or another, like any other threat to this department does. You'll sign legal papers, and . . now we're coming to my other secret—the icing on the cake."

McCall jumped up, circled the table to grab the front of Stiles' jacket, pulling him up from his chair, nose to nose. "I know what'll make you quiet for the rest of your life, boy."

McCall threw Stiles back, and he landed on top of his fallen chair, pain piercing his back as he lay in a heap on the floor. McCall stood over him, pointing to Stiles' face. "If you don't do exactly what I say, I will finish what I started five years ago," he wheezed. Stiles' heart hammered wildly.

"Your father had a nasty habit of sticking his nose where it didn't belong. The man's been after my wife since you and Scott became friends, drooling down her breasts even before your mother was cold in her grave!"

"That is not true!" Stiles roared, seeing red. "They've never been anything but friends! Now tell me what the hell you did five years ago!"

McCall's face contorted. "I'm right and nothing you, she, nor the sheriff says matters!" he spat. "Your old man strutted around the preserve like he owned the goddamn forest himself, poking and prying at this building. So proud of the shiny star on his chest, thinking he was untouchable. Then you got that filthy werewolf cub of yours, the sheriff hung out with Derek, and probably Cora as well. It was all a matter of days before he'd have found out the truth!"

He was spitting Stiles in the face as his words spewed out, cheeks blotchy, eyes wide and gaze far away. "I'd made the perfect plan; to take both your father and the liberation pack's lair in one go, but the pack changed their plans at the very last minute! Only Duke was there, and of course, he can't shoot when he can't see, so he was set free instead of getting the blame. And then your father refused to die after I made the clean shot right through his brain!"

The door flung open, Allison and Chris stormed inside, but Stiles barely registered it. There was yelling and shouting and pain as Stiles lay on the floor in shock, his body trembling. His brain gave his body some peace when all he could do was listen to the high-pitched sound ringing in his ears.

A hand stroked his cheek softly, patting. "Stiles, honey," Allison said beside him.

He turned his face towards her voice. Opened his eyes.

She was close, concerned. "Hey." She smiled softly, relief shining from the light in her eyes.

Stiles sat up taking her offered hand, and sank back on his chair, dizzy. A man in a suit came inside, pressed a paper cup of water in Stiles' hand, which he emptied gratefully. "What the hell happened here?" he asked Allison, his voice sounding like he'd been screaming for hours. Neither Chris nor McCall were in the room, but one of his kidnappers stood leaning against the wall.

Allison frowned deeply, sitting down in the other chair. "You tell me. Greenberg here," she jerked her thumb to the kidnapper, "came to me, informing me what McCall had ordered them to do and that you were in here with him alone. That's all completely out of protocol."

Stiles dipped his chin to the man in thanks. He thought he might recognize him from his high school days, but he wasn't sure.

Allison drew her chair closer to Stiles'. "I was on my way here when I got a call from Scott. Melissa found your cell outside your house, your car still in the driveway, and your father uninformed of your whereabouts. The last person you'd called was Derek, so she rang him up, but when he'd answered your call earlier, all he could hear was birds chirping. Obviously she called Scott."

She fished her cell out of her pocket. "I know they're worried, so I'll text them to let them know you're here." Then she stood up. "Damn, there's no reception down here. Let's go up to my office. We'll talk, now that you're already here and informed. Before you leave, I have papers for you to sign for ensuring your silence."

Stiles followed her out of the door. She wore a black suit over a white shirt, not the badass gear he'd imagined previously. It was probably for the best. "Your office?" He rubbed the back of his head, discovering a sore bump. He still felt a little dizzy, but he blamed it all on McCall's words.

"Yeah." She turned to smile, her long brown hair in a thick braid over her shoulder. She led the way into an elevator and they went out at the top floor. There the corridor was inviting with green plants on the floor and paintings on the walls, and on either side were rows of offices, all with see-through glass doors.

"This is my room." She stopped by a large corner office with a plate by the door, saying:

Ms. Allison Argent, executive director of Department of Werewolf Affairs

"Fuck!" Stiles gasped, pressing his hand to his heart, suddenly not so sure if he could take any more shocks today.

Allison grabbed his upper arm, led him to a comfy armchair in the corner. She lifted his feet up on the low sill of a huge window facing the top of the green preserve. "That's my favorite seat at work," she said, pressing a button on her coffeemaker. It pinged and started pouring. Birds flew from the treetops, up to the gray sky.

"Here." She pressed the cup into Stiles' hand, gestured to the fruit bowl on the table beside him. He grabbed some grapes, needing higher blood sugar, anything to keep his mind focused.

Allison sat down, studying him as he ate and drank, and he was grateful for the short break it gave him.

"Allison," he said finally. "I have a strong suspicion that McCall has a paranoid personality disorder. He should be observed as an inpatient over time, but he'll probably never agree to it voluntarily—hardly any with that medical condition do. It'll also be hard to make him agree to any potential treatment, but since he's been able to live an approximately ordinary life so far, to keep his job and get so high up in the system here, he might be well enough to go to prison instead of forced psychiatric treatment."

Allison held up her palms. "Hold on! I have to stop you there. High up in the system? He's not been for five-six years now. After that episode where your dad got shot, he's barely been able to keep his office job, as I see it. The only reason he's still here is because I've felt sorry for him. You should see his apartment, it's utter chaos." She shook her head, looking remorseful. "After what's happened today, I see I've been handling him with kid gloves."

"Okay…" Stiles started, paused to think, but his brain was hard to get to function. "He has several serious symptoms, and it might actually be PDD. Stress can trigger it to become a psychosis. He definitely needs observation, and help." He gripped his hair. "But most importantly: he admitted to shooting my dad!"

She frowned at him. "I don't think he did that, Stiles. There's something wrong with him, I'd admit that, but he wouldn't try to kill someone!"

Frustration boiled up in him. "Please tell me you have security cameras in the interrogation room! He told me he'd planned to take out my dad and the liberty group, or something . . . "

Allison stared at him, whispering, "The liberation pack." Then she sagged back in her chair, looking out on the forest for a second, but suddenly she jumped up, yelled, "Oh my God!" and was out the door. If Stiles hadn't felt dizzy already, she definitely would have made him.

The woman in the opposite office next door peeked her head out of her door. "Everything all right in there?"

"Not really," Stiles muttered, trying to swallow down the need to cry. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he concentrated on his breathing. He needed someone to distract him from the thoughts that pressed on—it was all too much.

Knocking on the open door, Chris came inside the office, looking concerned when he saw Stiles' face. "How're you feeling?"

"Like I can't take anymore." His voice was gruff when he tried to make a joke, "Like I need a Diazepam."

Chris bent down beside him, his gaze flickering over Stiles' form. "I'm not sure what to do with you right now. Melissa's yelling at me for refusing to let her see you, you look like you've been through hell, and my coworker is going bananas on the next floor."

Stiles jerked his head up. "Bananas? You need to contain McCall and make sure he doesn't harm anyone or himself. He's a potential threat to everyone."

Chris nodded thoughtfully. "We've got it. Don't worry."

Stiles sighed. "Don't worry? Chris, he told me he shot my dad in cold blood, and …" He jumped up, started striding back and forth with renewed energy. "What is this place? Werewolf Affairs?" He stopped in front of the other man who had stood up too. "Can you please give me an answer right now?" The thought that he could have become psychotic himself suddenly hit him, or perhaps it was all some kind of horribly misplaced prank. He did not care—he had to ask.

"Do werewolves actually exist?"

Chris gaped at him. "Uhm, yes?"

"Uhm, yes? That's your answer?"

"Yes, Stiles, they actually exist. I thought you'd got it considering you're currently residing in the heart of Nemeton."

Thank you for reading!