Author's Note: Chapter 17 is here everyone. This chapter was particularly exciting to write, because it delves more into the supernatural side of the story. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed to write it. And as always stay safe and thanks for reading! :) *edited- 08/24/2020

Dick went to the house the next morning. It was abandoned and rundown- the windows were boarded up, the siding was rotted in places, and the lawn was overgrown from years of neglect. He walked up the crumbling sidewalk to the front door. His hand traced the edge between the door and the frame. The wood was splintered around the lock like it had been kicked in, consistent with a breaking and entering. Whoever ambushed John went to great lengths to cover their tracks.

"Seems to be a forced entry," Dick spoke into his recorder. It was an old habit he picked up from Bruce to help keep his thoughts in order.

The door creaked as he pushed it in. The inside of the house was pitch black, a stark contrast to the bright morning he walked in from. He clicked on his flashlight and looked around what appeared to be the living room. Or, at least, what was left of it. Everything had a thick layer of dust, from the moth-eaten furniture to the floorboards that creaked under his weight. Graffiti covered the walls. And to top it off, there were piles of trash that seemed to litter the whole place.

Now all Dick had to do was find the basement. He stepped further into the house, using his arm to brush away the cobwebs hanging down from the ceiling. His light flashed over room after room, but none of them revealed what he was looking for. By the end of his search, he found himself in the kitchen and at another dead end.

"No basement. Either Mason's lying or I'm not looking in the right place."

Dick paced around the kitchen, trying to figure out what he was missing. It was the right house. And it was unlikely that they would have taken John somewhere else after the ambush. He would have put up too much of a fight for someone not to notice.

His foot suddenly hit something, and he heard it roll across the tiles, coming to a stop just underneath the table. Dick bent down and shined his flashlight over it. To his surprise, he saw that it was another flashlight. The same one he was using to be exact- issued to him the day he joined the GCPD. It had to be John's. He went to pick it up, but his hand brushed against a metallic surface. Dick wiped off the dust and grime on top of it and sat back on his knees when he was done. There was a circular handle on the floor.

So not a basement but a cellar. He cleared the table and chairs to get to the

door. It opened upwards, revealing a set of stairs. Dick descended them into the cellar. It was a small room with wine racks along the walls. There was a broken bottle on the floor and a dark, reddish stain where the wine had dried. A struggle had taken place here. It fit Mason's story.

"I'm in the wine cellar of the house. John fought back against his captors. But from what Mason tells me, they overpowered him." Dick paused for a moment, noticing some faint scratches in the wooden floor. He had to get close to see them clearly. They seemed random at first, but as he studied them, the scratches appeared more deliberate. As if someone had used their nail to etch it into the wood. He traced it with his finger. Messily scrawled letters. N-O-T-M-E. Notme. That didn't make sense.

"Notme is scratched into the floor. It's nonsense...unless it's not one word. It could be not and me. Not me."

Was it some desperate message from John?

If it was, Dick was clueless as to what it could mean. He took a picture of it with his phone before standing up again. Maybe he could bounce ideas off with Bruce after his shift. With one last glance at the cellar, Dick went up the stairs and let the door shut behind him. His radio then crackled to life.

"Dispatch, unit 15, what's your location? I have a 10-66 at Saint Marcos Boulevard."

Dick pressed the receiver. "This is unit 15. I'm about five minutes from there, over."

As promised, Stiles was brought along to the bosses' weekly meetings. Alexei and Mooney would sit at their usual table by the stage. Stiles at the bar on 'guard duty'. It wasn't exactly what he had in mind, but it did give him an excuse to be at the club and study Mooney's security.

And from what he's gathered, it wasn't that much to begin with. Sure she had cameras and bodyguards, but other than that, it was generally unprotected. Stiles had to wonder if it was an oversight on Mooney's part or something she did by choice. Knowing her, Stiles figured it was the latter. She relied on scare tactics and intimidation to keep her enemies at bay. They wouldn't dare move against her, especially at her place of work. It would be stupid. Reckless. Possibly even suicidal. All good reasons to not try anything. Well, if you weren't Stiles.

He glanced over his shoulder at the hall behind him, the one that led to Mooney's office. It was a bad idea, but he was getting tired of just waiting for something to happen. If he timed it right, then getting in wouldn't be a problem. He'd be in and out, and nobody would be any the wiser.

"Tim," he said, "I'm going for it."

"Now? Are you sure?" Tim asked. He could hear Scott in the background voicing his own concern.

"It's now or never. Everyone's distracted. I'll be fast, promise."

Stiles left his seat and slipped into the hall. He kept his head low, making sure to walk in the blind spot of the cameras. It was one of the first things that Cat had taught him; after all, a good thief was one that didn't get caught. When he got to her office, he bent down by the lock and immediately set to work, glancing back every so often to make sure that no one was watching.

"Dammit," he cursed at his shaky hands. "Come on, come on."

To his immense relief, the door finally unlocked. Stiles quickly let himself into the office before anyone saw him. The room was styled similarly to the rest of the nightclub with Mooney's preference for red and black clearly translating into the decor. Her desk was at the far end, along with a filing cabinet and a long table cluttered with books and other paperwork. Searching through it all would be a daunting task. Stiles didn't know where to start, so he just started pulling open random drawers without the slightest idea of what he was looking for.

His search in total turned up mostly office supplies, bills, and papers pertaining to the running of a legitimate business. Nothing incriminating or out of the ordinary. Stiles grabbed his hair angrily as he paced around the room.

Mooney was careful, that much he was certain of. But even she had to keep records of her dealings somewhere.

If not in her office, then where?

Looking down at his watch, Stiles realized he would have to get back to the bar if he didn't want anyone to notice his absence. But as soon as he reached for the door, he got a strange feeling that he was being watched. He turned around quickly and was proven right when he found someone's face mere inches from his own.

A startled yelp escaped Stiles' throat as he jumped back almost instantly. There was a man standing in front of him that he had never seen before. He was wearing a grey tweed suit, a brown bowler hat, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that sat on the bridge of his nose. It was an outdated look, and Stiles was vaguely reminded of those old timey actors in the black-and-white films his dad used to make him watch.

Stiles raised his hands in the air and laughed nervously. "Would you believe me if I told you I got lost on my way to the bathroom?"

"Stiles what's going on?"

The man only continued to stare at him. He didn't speak, or make any move towards him, which Stiles found odd considering he was the one trespassing here. "Are you just going to stand there? Not that I mind, really, but it's kind of creepy."

That seemed to elicit a response. The man turned away from him and started to walk back into the office. Stiles was conflicted as to whether he should try to escape or follow after him. There was something about the man that piqued his curiosity. He felt drawn to him, as strange as that sounded, like if there was an invisible thread connecting them together.

"False alarm. Everything's fine," he finally answered Tim, his feet suddenly moving as if they had a mind of their own. The man was now standing behind Mooney's desk facing the wall. Stiles came around the other side and watched curiously as the man placed his hand on the wall, near the window.

"You're not one of Mooney's guys, are you?" Stiles asked, muffling his microphone. If he wasn't sure before, he was now. There were too many things about the man that didn't add up. His clothing, his quiet demeanor, and the fact that he didn't immediately slam Stiles's head into nearby furniture.

He looked at the man again, really looked at him, and found himself noticing other things too. His skin, for one, was a sickly grey color, and there was a cloudiness behind his eyes that made Stiles wonder if he could see at all. But what caught his attention the most was something else entirely. Specifically, the weird effect that the light in Mooney's office seemed to have on the man's body.

Instead of being able to see the man clearly, he appeared slightly blurry like if Stiles was looking at an afterimage rather than someone right in front of him. And for a split second, he swore that he could see through the man. But that wasn't possible, unless...

A chilling thought came to Stiles's mind, which he hesitantly tested out by reaching for the man's shoulder.

And to his shock, his hand went right through. A cold shiver ran down Stiles's spine as he came to the only plausible conclusion, despite how impossible and crazy it sounded.

"You're a ghost." Stiles's mouth was wide open in a mixture of fear and awe. It made sense that in a world that had werewolves and kanimas that ghosts would exist too. But he had never been much of a believer, and had dismissed them a long time ago after not being able to find any proof.

Yet, here he had a ghost- right in front of him- and he still couldn't believe his eyes. His mind was suddenly flooded with a stream of questions that he needed answered.

What did the ghost want with him? Was it's intentions good or bad? The latter he wanted to know so that he could calm the part of him that wanted to run away screaming at the top of his lungs. This was all too new-too much uncharted territory. But considering that the ghost hadn't hurt him yet soothed him at least a little bit.

As he looked at the ghost's hand on the wall, Stiles's questions took a different turn. Why show up in Mooney's office? Why this wall and this spot in particular?

Stiles felt along the wall with his own hand, ignoring the pair of eyes that he knew were watching him. It was smooth, made up of red horizontal panels, just like the rest of the wall. Nothing special about it. He was about to give up when his fingers pushed one of the panels forward. A section of the wall swung open like a door, and to Stiles's amazement, revealed a small, electronic safe.

So this was where Mooney kept her secrets. This is what the ghost wanted him to see. "Hey, thank-"

But when he looked over his shoulder, Stiles found himself alone in the office again. Where'd he go? Stiles had only turned away for a minute.

Maybe he had something better to do. Stiles could only imagine what ghosts did in their spare time, well, other than delivering cryptic messages. The man might be walking around the nightclub right now, looking for other people to haunt. It made him laugh to think that one of them could be Mooney or even Butch.

Since the man was nowhere to be seen, Stiles's attention turned to the safe. It was more advanced than the ones that Cat had taught him to break into, foregoing the usual setup for a digital keypad. He could see that this was going to be a problem. There were a few lock picks in his pocket and a stick of gum that he was saving for later, but none of the tools necessary to break into a safe of this caliber. So basically it would be close to impossible getting in.

Biting his lip, Stiles thought about his options. He could try to guess the code, but if he got it wrong, there was a chance that he might set off an alarm and that was the last thing he wanted. And using brute force was also out of the question, as it would call too much unwanted attention.

He clenched his hands, feeling the fire inside his chest spark as his frustration made itself known.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Stiles repeated the mantra in his head.

Losing control here would be a bad idea, especially since Stiles didn't want to blast a hole in the wall again. He was still learning about his powers- as well as how to control them- with the help of Scott and Derek. But their training sessions in the football field had shown little progress and usually ended with something getting scorched beyond repair.

And that's when it came to him. There was an incident a few days ago where Stiles discovered an interesting side effect of his powers. Derek had been hogging the TV all day, and Stiles- being the impulsive idiot that he was- tried blasting him off the bed. Much to everyone's surprise, every electronic in the vicinity had gone haywire like if a large magnet had been dropped in the motel room.

Stiles wondered if it would work on the safe. He'd have to be careful though, too much energy would fry it and make it completely unusable. And then he'd never get inside.

Taking a deep breath, Stiles tried to clear his head. He needed to focus, guide the energy where he wanted it to go. Seconds passed before a warm, blue light flickered to life over his hands, almost like a second skin. He placed them near the keypad and waited. The numbers on the screen shifted rapidly, going through various combinations faster than his eyes could keep up with. Then, there was a sudden click, and the safe door opened.

"Whoa," Stiles said, staring at his open palms. He wasn't sure he'd ever get used to that. It felt so unreal and familiar at the same time, like a dream that he's lived out over and over again. The light died down after a few seconds, and he looked up from his hands and towards the safe.

It had various documents, a leather bound notebook, and quite a bit of cash. Stiles flipped through papers first, taking pictures with his phone so that he could look at it later. Then, he grabbed the notebook.

All the pages were separated into three columns. The first had dates that went back almost three years. The second was reserved for names- people Stiles assumed Mooney did business with, since Alexei's name showed up more than once. The last had dollar amounts scrawled in red ink.

A ledger. Stiles flipped to the October entries, going down the list of dates with his finger until it landed on the day his dad was arrested. Only one entry was written for that date, one million, to someone named Outis. It was a hell of a coincidence. There had to be a connection between this person and Tom Dougherty's murder. Mooney wouldn't have paid a fortune for just anything, and protecting her boss seemed like a good enough reason.

The longer Stiles looked at the entry, the harder it was to control the anger bubbling in his chest. His dad was just a business transaction to them. A number to be written down and forgotten once the deal was done. The lights started to flicker around him, and this time, he had to dig his nails into his palms to get it under control again.

Stiles put the book and everything else back in the safe. At least he had a name- Outis. It was better than what he had a few months ago. He'd find a way to search the GCPD database for some leads and-

There were voices coming down the hallway. "Shit, it's Mooney! What do I do? What do I do?"

"Get out of there!" Tim yelled.

The problem with that was that Stiles didn't know how. With only one door that led in and out of Mooney's office, his only other option was the window behind her desk. But when he tried to pry it open, he discovered that it was sealed shut. "I can't!"

"Hide!"

"Hide, right."

Stiles searched the room for a hiding spot, his eyes falling on the couch in the corner- perfect. He closed the safe and raced over to the couch, squeezing into the space between it and the walls. Honestly, he didn't think he would fit, but Scott always said he needed to eat more.

The sound of keys opening the door made him crouch down even lower until his face was pressed against the floor and he could see out from underneath the couch. Two sets of feet walked past him, one with red heels which was clearly Mooney's, and the other wearing black boots. He could hear them walk over to the desk and then settle into their respective chairs.

"I thought I told you to never come here, Debra," Mooney began, clearly irritated.

"You did, I know. But I wouldn't have come if it wasn't important." There was a hint of urgency in her voice as she tapped her foot anxiously on the floor. It made Stiles think that whatever she had to say wasn't going to make Mooney happy.

"Then what is it?"

"My new partner, he's been digging into the Dougherty case. I caught him coming back from the records room one day with a stack of reports, and when I asked him about it, he shrugged me off. But I read the top page, it had Dougherty's name on it."

Stiles couldn't believe what he was hearing. It confirmed some of his suspicions, like Falcone's involvement in Dougherty's murder. It also told him that there was more than one cop on the mob's payroll, which explained how Falcone was able to cover everything up.

"That's it?" Stiles could only imagine Mooney's raised eyebrow at the woman's news. "You almost had me worried. He has nothing. Everything was taken care of."

"Not everything. I saw him outside the pub talking to Mason Hicks. Mason seemed upset and practically bolted when I got there. I think that he might have said something to my partner. "

Stiles tensed at the mention of Mason's name. He had never met Mason in person, but from the stories his dad told him- he wasn't exactly a model cop. But even then, Stiles never thought Mason would betray his dad. They were partners. They were supposed to have each other's backs.

"You think he's a snitch?" Mooney asked her.

"Mason's been acting differently since the arrest. He's moody, drinks till he passes out, and misses most of his shifts. I think he feels guilty, and that makes him a liability."

Mooney paused, and he could hear her tapping her fingers on the desk. "You're right. He's become a problem, and he needs to be dealt with. I'll have Butch get in contact with Outis. As for your partner-"

"I'll get Grayson to come around."

"If he doesn't, you know what to do," Mooney said in a clipped tone.

This was really bad. If Outis was some kind of hitman, then Mason was in serious trouble. As for Grayson… he only knew one person in the GCPD with that name. If they were planning something for Dick, then he needed to warn him.

Debra scooted her chair back and stood up. "I have to go, my shift's about to start."

"I'll show you out."

Both Mooney and Debra started walking back to the door, their conversation drifting out of hearing range. Not that it really mattered, Stiles had heard everything that he needed to hear. He got out from behind the couch and quickly followed their lead. But instead of going to the bar, he went directly to the Jeep, giving Sergei some half-assed excuse about needing to change his clothes.

Tim rolled down his window as he approached, "What happened in there? You went dark for ten minutes."

"I found a name in Mooney's ledger. Outis."

Tim looked at him oddly. "You're leaving something out."

Stiles grimaced. "They know about your brother- about him investigating my dad's case. His partner was just here. She saw him talking to Mason Hicks, and I don't know how he's involved in all of this, but it was enough to convince Mooney that they're both a threat."

"What are they planning?" Tim asked.

"Killing Mason, for one. And I don't know about Dick, but it isn't good."

Scott leaned forward in his seat. "Should we call the cops?"

"No, we don't know who we can trust. We should split up. Tim, you go tell Dick about his partner. The three of us will go to Mason's house to warn him."

"I don't know," Tim said, shaking his head. "What if you run into trouble?"

"I'll have Scott and Derek with me. I won't be alone."

"We'll take care of him," Derek said resolutely. They shared a knowing look. If Outis did show up, Stiles had two werewolves to protect him. And even then, he hoped his newly discovered powers would give him an edge.

GCPD

Dick replayed the security footage on his computer. He had watched it before, but this time he was looking for something specific. A mistake in uniform, a facial feature that didn't seem quite right, or even a grey hair that appeared out of place- anything that might point to the man in the video not being John Stilinski. But no matter how many times he watched the footage, the perpetrator was unmistakable. John was the person who walked up to the patrol car that day.

Not me.

Maybe he was looking at this wrong. Was it possible that there was someone else in Gotham walking around with John's face? It was a far-fetched theory, but it explained how somebody could be seen at two places at once. Dick's mind immediately thought Clayface, but he quickly discarded that idea because Bruce had locked him up way before the arrest.

That left his suspect pool basically nonexistent. Dick leaned back in his chair and scrubbed at his eyes tiredly. With the amount of metahumans popping up in the world, any number of them could have the ability to shapeshift.

"What are you doing, Dick?" Debra asked, suddenly appearing behind his computer.

Dick closed out of his browsers. "Just checking something for Gordon."

"Well, hurry up. We're going out on patrol," she said. Debra sounded off for some reason. She was still ordering him around, but her demeanor felt a little more... subdued.

Dick was about to ask her what was wrong when his phone rang. He picked it up off his desk and checked the caller ID- it was Tim. Tim almost never called him while he was working. Dick went to answer it, but Debra cleared her throat drawing his attention away from his phone. She was giving him an incredulous look.

"It's my brother."

"Call him back later on our break. We have work to do," she snapped at him.

"You're right, sorry."

Dick silenced his phone and tucked it into his coat pocket. If it was really an emergency, Alfred would have called instead. The thought reassured him somewhat. But still, he felt bad ignoring Tim all together. He'd give him a quick call the first chance he got.

When they were finally settled into their patrol car, Dick noticed that Debra was being uncharacteristically quiet. Now he was almost certain that something was bugging his partner. But seeing the tight frown on her face, Dick thought it was best to keep his mouth shut for the moment.

With the turn of the key, the engine roared to life and they pulled out of the garage and onto the streets of Gotham. Dick gazed out the window, his mind still mulling over everything that he had discovered. This case just kept getting stranger and stranger- which was saying something considering all the things he's seen over the years. But he'd get to the bottom of it, for Stiles's sake. Debra and him drove in silence for a couple of blocks until she asked him in a serious tone, "What were you talking about with Mason?"

"I thought I already told you."

Debra's grip tightened on the steering wheel. "Not that bullshit lie you told me at the bar. Mason isn't your friend, you guys barely even know each other. What were you really talking about? Was it the Stilinski case?"

Dick stiffened at Debra's accusations, but tried not to let her see how much it caught him by surprise. He met her eyes through the rearview mirror, masking his emotions like Bruce had taught him. "Why do you say that?"

"Because I've been watching you. Your trips to the records room, your meetings with Gordon. I know that you've been investigating the case. And take it from me, it's going to get you in a lot of trouble, Dick."

Dick calmly placed his hand on his holster but continued to stare ahead. "Trouble with who?"

"Fish Mooney." The car suddenly turned on a street he didn't recognize and started

driving away from their patrol area.

"As in Falcone's underboss. What's she got to do with all of this?"

Debra turned to him, her eyes shining with steely resolve. "She pays me to keep people like you from sticking their noses where it doesn't belong. I'm only going to ask you once- let it go. Walk away, forget about the case. There's no reason to get hurt over something that has nothing to do with you."

Dick blinked at her wordlessly, trying to process exactly what she was telling him. He had always known that Debra was dirty, but this… this was something else. It wasn't just taking bribes or misplacing evidence- she was directly involved with the mob. And covering for them, too. Dick had a sinking feeling about what was going to happen next.

"And what if I don't walk away?" Dick asked cautiously.

The car abruptly pulled to a stop, but before he could unhook his gun, Debra had hers pointed right at his face. "Not an option."

"Deb-"

"Get out. And leave your gun."

Dick clenched his jaw but did as she said, tossing his gun onto the seat- despite everything telling him not to- before leaving the car.

Outside, Dick was met with a strong, salty breeze that ruffled his clothes as it blew past. Miles of ocean stood in front of him, and in the distance, he spied a freighter crossing into the bay. A sign nearby exclaimed in cheerful lettering, "Welcome to Gotham Harbor!".

Debra waved her gun towards the end of the dock. "Start walking."

"You don't have to do this."

"I said start walking," she repeated forcefully.

Dick slowly made his way across the dock. He could feel the gun trained on his back like if it were boring a hole through his jacket. When he reached the end, Dick turned around to face Debra with his arms raised. "What's your plan here? Kill me, and then what? You can't expect to get away with it. You'll be the first person they suspect."

Debra's face contorted, as if what he said was the craziest thing she had ever heard. "Kill you? Dick, I like you. I don't want to do this. And I won't, if you just stay away from the case."

"You know that I can't do that, Debra."

She cocked the gun in her hand. However, there was hesitation written across her face that he hadn't noticed before, making Dick wonder if she'd actually shoot. But then it disappeared and she spat out, "Turn around."

"No."

"Turn around!" She brought the gun closer to his chest, her nose flaring angrily.

Dick quickly thought about his options. If he turned around, he was as good as dead. The same thing was true if he didn't. No, what he really needed was to get the gun away from Debra, which would level the playing field in his favor. And when it was all over, he'd bring her in himself.

He looked at the gun and readied his hands, trying to time everything just right…

It all happened in a matter of seconds. Dick grabbed ahold of the gun and pushed it up towards the sky. There was a deafening shot that went off by his head, leaving his ears ringing with a hollow sound that reminded him of glass being struck. Dick staggered backwards and watched as Debra's eyes widened in shock. The gun was still in her hands, but she seemed frozen in place.

Dick took advantage of her lapse in attention and rushed forward, slamming his body into her midsection and throwing them both to the ground. The impact left him out of breath, but it succeeded in knocking the gun a few feet back, out of Debra's reach.

Pinning her arms against the ground, Dick said, "That's enough."

Debra stopped fighting for a moment, and Dick thought that she had finally given up. Then without warning, she smashed her head into Dick's face. He grabbed his nose, disoriented by the blow, while Debra scrambled towards the gun.

Dick crawled after her, reaching for her legs so that he could pull her back. But she kicked him off and kept going, turning around when she finally had what she wanted. All he could see was the barrel of the gun, and the world- and even time- seemed to come to a grinding halt.

Bam!

The shot was so quick that Dick had barely enough time to register it. Pain blossomed in his shoulder and he let out a gasp as he fell onto his side in an ungraceful heap. Footsteps approached him cautiously. Then Debra's face came into view.

"It's nothing personal," Debra said. She bent down and grabbed the collar of his jacket. Dick wanted to fight back, but every movement aggravated his wound. He could only watch helplessly as she pushed him over the dock's edge and into the water.

Stiles's hands were shaking as he drove to Mason's house. It wasn't because he doubted Scott and Derek's ability to protect him- he was certain that they would both do everything in their power to keep him safe. What really bothered him was the lack of information they had on Outis. Stiles lived for the facts, and going there without a clue about who or what they might meet left an uneasy feeling in his stomach.

He parked the Jeep down the street with a clear view of Mason's house. Mason himself pulled into the driveway a few hours later from his shift.

Stiles turned to Scott, who was sitting in the passenger seat. "Wait for me here. I won't take long."

Scott's eyebrows furrowed in concern. "Don't you want back up."

"I'm just going to talk to him. If we all go, he might freak out," Stiles jabbed his thumb in Derek's direction, "especially with Mr. Broody over there."

Derek huffed but didn't say anything in response. Stiles smirked cheekily at him and then opened the car door, stepping out onto the street. It was a little chillier than it was earlier in the day. The sun was setting, and it was now only barely visible above the horizon.

Stiles hugged his hoodie closer to his body. The darkening sky left an ominous air around Mason's house, which filled him with trepidation as he walked up the steps of the porch and rang the doorbell.

There was no answer at first. Then he heard heavy footsteps approach, and the door swung open. Mason towered over him, almost a foot taller than Stiles, holding a beer bottle in his hand. His eyes were red-rimmed and his hair was tousled like he hadn't had a good night's sleep in a long time.

Mason took a drink without really looking at Stiles. "If you're selling something, I'm not buying."

Stiles laughed nervously, unsure of what he was going to say to him. But after some thought, he decided the best course of action was to be as truthful as possible. "My name is Stiles Stil-"

"Stilinski," Mason finished for him. Recognition colored his face, but it was soon followed by another expression- one of shame. It disappeared though when Mason took another drink. "John's son, huh. What do you want?"

Stiles clenched his fists by his sides. "I came to warn you that Fish Mooney's put a price on your head. She's sent someone to kill you."

Mason tensed suddenly and leaned his body out the doorway, his hands still gripping the wooden frame. He looked up and down the street, cautiously, as if he expected something to jump out at him from the shadows.

When he seemed satisfied he turned his attention back to Stiles. "Are you alone?" He asked in a gruff voice.

"Yes. Why wouldn't I be?"

Mason breathed a sigh of relief and then stepped back into the house. "Good. Then leave."

"Wha- why?" Stiles was slack jawed by Mason's reaction. He had just told him that Mooney was trying to kill him, but instead of listening to him, he was telling Stiles to leave. He would feel miffed if he wasn't so pressed for time.

"I don't think you heard me right," Stiles continued, trying to convey a sense of urgency in his words. "A cop- O'Hara- came to Mooney's club. She gave you up. Mooney's hitman could be on his way right now. You need to come with me- I can help you get out of Gotham."

Mason's face paled, but he didn't show any sign of giving in. "Look, kid, I'm grateful for the heads up but you did your part. I can handle it from here."

"But-"

"Go!" Mason yelled.

Stubborn asshole. "At least tell me why Mooney wants to kill you," Stiles pressed, desperate.

"No, and consider it a favor. Too many people have died for knowing what I know."

He began closing the door, but Stiles stuck his foot in the doorway. "You don't have to lie for them anymore. Please!"

"There's nothing to tell so get off my property!" Mason forced him out of the doorway and pushed the door closed.

Stiles banged on the door. "At least get out of Gotham! You can't stay here!"

Mason didn't answer, but he could hear frantic movement coming from inside. Stiles gave the door one last good kick and went back to the jeep.

"That went well," Scott said.

"Hardly. He's not going to talk to me. But I think he got the message. We'll just have to wait and see if this Outis guy shows up."

...

They took turns being lookout, watching the house and waiting for the hitman to arrive. It had been quiet for the most part, but Stiles knew from experience how quickly that could change.

He sat in the driver's seat, tapping the steering wheel with his hands. Scott and Derek were asleep and would be for the next-he looked at his watch-forty minutes. Stiles fought back a yawn. Stakeouts, he discovered, weren't as glamorous as cop shows made them out to be. They'd been at this for a few hours now and he was frickin' exhausted. The sheer boredom he was experiencing wasn't helping anything either.

Just wait until the next shift, Stiles told himself. Forty minutes, that's all.

Yet, that proved better said than done. Not long into his shift, sleep began tugging on his eyelids and it became harder and harder for him to keep his head upright. When Stiles couldn't fight it anymore, he closed his eyes, promising himself that it would only be for "a minute or two".

But he never got the chance.

A familiar chill ran across his body, cold and sharp, and nothing like the humid air outside. Stiles let out a violent shiver. He had felt it once before, in Mooney's office when he'd met...

Stiles jerked forward and frantically rubbed the sleep from his eyes. I hope it's not another ghost, he thought. As helpful as the previous one had been, he wasn't sure he wanted to see another one so soon.

Using his sleeve to wipe the moisture off the windshield, Stiles gazed out at the street. A car or two passed by, but other than that, there was nothing out of the ordinary. But then he turned to look at Mason's house, and that's when he saw them.

"What the hel-" he said, his mouth open in shock.

There were hooded figures gathered around Mason's front door. They glided across the porch as if they were being carried by a sudden wind, weaving between one another but never venturing further into the house.

Stiles immediately got a bad feeling. With the ghost in Mooney's office, he knew deep down that it wouldn't hurt him. Yet this time his mind was screaming danger. And he needed to know why.

"Guys, something's wrong." Stiles shoved Scott-probably a little harder than he should have- and then flung the door open. He heard him groggily get up, but by the time he asked him what the hell was going on, Stiles was already out of the car and heading over to Mason's house.

Now only a few feet away, Stiles got a better look at the mysterious hooded figures. And what he saw terrified him.

They were almost seven feet tall and wore long, black cloaks. And like the ghost he had met earlier in the day, their bodies appeared translucent in the light- almost as if they were made out of smoke rather than something solid like skin and bone.

However, none of those things scared him like their faces did- or the lack thereof. Their hoods shrouded them from view, leaving only a dark nothingness that reminded Stiles of a bottomless abyss. One that he was afraid he'd get lost in if he wasn't careful enough.

Before he could contemplate turning back, their heads snapped upwards. Stiles cursed his luck. They rushed towards him, and then circled around him on the street like predators hunting down their prey.

"Brrriiigght!" A deep, scratchy voice hissed.

"We must have it!" Another voice joined in.

Stiles gulped, putting his arms in front of his chest. "N-nope. Not for sale."

One of them bent down so that its face was mere inches from his own. Stiles couldn't see past the hood's shadow, but he knew that its eyes were staring directly at him. "Not yet. But soon."

Stiles shuddered under its gaze. He tried his best to ignore its previous comment, not really sure if he wanted to know what it meant. "What are you?" He braved.

"We collect the ssssouls of the dead." It then turned its attention back to Mason's house. "Not long now…"

Stiles eyes widened as he made the connection. "No…"

"Stiles!" Scott yelled from behind him.

He looked over his shoulder and saw him and Derek walking up to the house. The creatures seemed to notice their presence as well, as they gathered around the two werewolves, clearly interested.

"This one has cheated death many timesss," the one closest to Derek said, placing a gnarled finger on his cheek.

Another grabbed at Scott's arm. "An alpha!"

"Get the hell away from them!" Stiles growled.

He held up his hand and sent a burst of blue light in their direction. It was impulsive-and possibly dangerous- but letting those things target his friends wasn't an option either.

Still, it seemed to do the trick. An ear piercing shriek cut through the air and they recoiled away from him, as if the light burned them somehow.

"Stiles, who are you talking to?" Scott asked worriedly.

Stiles scrunched up his face, confused, and wondered why Scott couldn't see what was literally right in front of him. But then he came to a sudden realization- that he was the only one who could see the hooded figures.

"I'll explain later. Outis is here. And I have a feeling that Mason doesn't have that much time left." Stiles tried the door but found it locked. "Uh, Derek could you..."

Derek kicked in the door with enough force to rip it off its hinges and send it flying inwards.

"Thanks," he said. Werewolves, you gotta love 'em.

Stiles stepped into the house. It was almost pitch black inside, so he reached for the light switch beside him. Nothing. That isn't ominous at all, he thought. Taking out his flashlight instead, he clicked it on, illuminating the interior of the house.

Everything was in disarray. Suitcases were piled at the foot of the stairs, some empty and others only half filled. Mason's wallet and keys were sitting on the end table. Furniture was knocked over. It looked like Mason was in a hurry but something, or maybe someone, interrupted him.

Scott sniffed the air. "I smell blood, a lot of it."

"Me, too," Derek said. "It's coming from upstairs."

"Then we go upstairs." Stiles went first, shining his flashlight ahead of him. At the top, they found themselves in a hallway.

"Now where?" Stiles asked. Derek took the lead this time and led them into a room at the end of the hall.

And that's where they found Mason. In his bedroom, lying in a pool of his own blood.

"Shit, shit, shit." Stiles rushed to Mason's side, pulling off his hoodie as he did so. Mason was pale from blood loss and pressing his hands against his neck- trying to stop the blood that still spurted out of him like an open faucet. That wasn't good. It meant that the wound was deep. Or worse, that it hit an artery.

Moving his hands away, Stiles put pressure on the wound with his hoodie. It didn't help much, but at least the blood wasn't escaping so quickly anymore. "Call an ambulance, Scott!"

Scott immediately pulled out his phone and started dialing 9-1-1. As he talked with the emergency responder, Stiles returned his attention to Mason. He had seen too many people die recently, so right now, keeping him alive was his number one priority.

"Guys." Derek stood by the closet, looking through the shutters on the doors. "I think there's-"

He was cut off abruptly when the doors flew open, knocking him to the floor with a loud thud. Stiles picked up his flashlight and shone it where Derek had been standing. To his surprise, a strange man in a black overcoat had taken his place. This must be Outis, Stiles thought, finally regaining a little bit of his composure.

His head was almost completely covered in bandages. They wrapped around his nose and mouth, leaving only a thatch of unruly brown hair visible at the top. Then something else caught his attention- his eyes. Stiles had to stop himself from gasping when he saw them. They glowed in the light, the same way his dad's did in the surveillance footage.

Outis started walking towards them. Scott stepped in front of Stiles and extended his claws, as if to give the man fair warning of what awaited him if he stepped any further.

"That doesn't scare me, werewolf. I've seen alphas a lot more powerful than you."

"Try me," Scott countered.

They stood at a standstill, both waiting to see who would strike first. Scott finally had enough and lunged forward, throwing them both against the wall. Derek got up to help him, his eyes burning an electric shade of blue.

After that, it was pure chaos in the room. Stiles had a hard time following everything in the dark. Furniture came crashing down as their fight took them from one side to the other, across the bed, into walls, and even over Stiles himself.

Outis, surprisingly, was able to hold his own against the two werewolves. He threw Scott around like nothing, lifting him over his shoulder with one swift motion. Derek was doing slightly better, actually managing to land a hit or two, but he was still struggling to keep up.

It didn't take long to realize that their fight wouldn't last much longer. And he was proven right when he saw Scott get thrown into the dresser… and then not get up.

"Scott!" Stiles tried to go to him, but a pained groan from Mason stopped him in his tracks. He was going to die soon if they didn't get him to a hospital. They all might.

With Scott down, Derek was their last chance at getting out of there. Stiles saw him try to attack Outis from behind, but the hitman quickly turned around and grabbed him by the throat. What happened next was something he couldn't explain. Derek became deathly still, and his eyes rolled to the back of his head. When Outis let him go, he dropped to the floor like a pile of bricks, muttering something over and over again underneath his breath.

"What did you do?" Stiles whispered in horror.

"Nothing permanent." Outis tilted his head in Stiles's direction. "But if you don't move, I might not be as merciful."

Stiles could only glare at him in response. Bastard. Outis laughed, and then bent down by Mason's side. "Tell me, why is a human and a bunch of werewolves so interested in saving a washed out cop?" He sounded more amused than curious.

"I'm not. I'm here for you."

"Are you, now?" Outis was close enough that Stiles was staring directly at his bandaged face. "And why is that?"

"Because you framed my father for Tom Dougherty's murder."

"Father?" Outis studied his face and then pulled back, as if finally recognizing who he was. "Your Stilinski's son. I get it now. You thought you'd come here, and what? Get me to confess?"

"Something like that." He just didn't know how he was going to do it yet.

"Fine, if that's what you want." Outis leaned in close to his ear. But when he spoke, the voice that came out of his mouth was not his own. "I killed Tom Dougherty."

Stiles's eyes widened in shock. He sounded exactly like his father. The same inflections, the same even tone that had always managed to calm him down after a particularly difficult nightmare.

Yet, coming from Outis it felt twisted. Like if he was taking everything good about his dad and throwing it back into his face. Hearing that mock confession only worsened that feeling.

"What are you?" Stiles finally managed to choke out.

"It's not important." Outis stood up, brushing the dust off his pants. "Now that you've seen what I can do, are you sure you really want to keep protecting him? He's already dying. Why risk your life for him?"

Stiles raised his arm towards him. "Because my dad's not a murderer. And neither am I."

He let go, allowing the energy inside him to escape wildly from his body. It rushed forward in an explosion of light- hitting Outis square in the chest and throwing him clear across the room.

Wow, I didn't really think that would work.

The next thing Stiles heard was the shattering of glass and when the light died down, he saw what had caused it. His blast of light had smashed Outis right through the window.

Releasing the breath that he'd been holding, Stiles immediately looked over at Scott. He seemed to be waking up, which made Stiles smile in relief. "Scott! You good buddy?"

"Yeah." Scott answered weakly.

"I need you to take over so I can check on Derek."

It took a second for Scott to get his bearings, but he managed to make his way around the broken furniture and debris. Stiles let him replace his hands and then went over to Derek. But on his way, he had the sudden urge to go to the window. To make sure that it was really over. He peered down at the street, expecting to see Outis lying on the pavement… but no one was there.

After everything they'd been through. After everything they'd done. It made him angry to think that Outis was back on the streets. He's injured though, Stiles thought suddenly. That brought him a little comfort. They'd find him again, and when that day came, he would make sure to bring him to justice.

Hearing Derek's mutterings again, Stiles made a beeline for where Outis had left him. He was unresponsive, his eyes looking up at the ceiling with a vacant expression. As if he were somewhere else. And judging by the pained lines around his mouth, it wasn't anywhere good.

"Snap out of it!" Stiles yelled, shaking his shoulders.

"T-they're burning." Derek moaned. "Its my fault, my fault, m-"

Stiles slapped him across the face. Derek immediately jerked forward, clutching his chest as he took deep, shaky breaths. When his breathing evened out, tears began rolling down his cheeks. Stiles didn't know what to do. He had never seen the older werewolf cry before, as he always kept a tight lid on his emotions. But right now, he was vulnerable. Open. Stiles kind of wanted to give him a hug. Not that he'd let him.

He opted instead to put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You're okay, you're okay, " Stiles said reassuringly.

That seemed to do the trick. Derek visibly relaxed and retracted his claws. "It was the fire all over again. I couldn't stop seeing… them. It kept replaying over and over-I thought it was never going to stop."

"I'm sorry," Stiles said, feeling guilty all of a sudden. "I shouldn't have brought any of you here. It's my mess to fix. Not yours."

Without missing a beat, Derek replied, "We're pack. We do this together."

Stiles heard sirens in the distance. Oh, crap. He had forgotten that Scott had dialed 9-1-1. Not to mention all the noise they had made, which probably scared the neighbors. "We have to go."

"What about Mason?" Scott asked.

"You two go. I'll stay with him until they get here," Derek said.

"Won't they ask you what you're doing here?"

Stiles didn't want to leave him behind, especially since Outis was gone and Derek would be the only one left at the scene of a crime. It just wouldn't look good to anyone.

"I'll come up with something." Derek took over from Scott, using one hand to press on Mason's wound and the other to wrap around his wrist. Dark veins appeared on Derek's arm as he began to siphon off the pain. "I got this. Don't worry about me. Just go."

Stiles nodded his thanks and then he and Scott hurried back to the jeep, making it there just as the first emergency responders arrived.

Scott put on his seatbelt. "What do we do now?"

"We hunt that bastard down." Stiles said, turning on the ignition.