For the second time in his life, Scott McCall woke up to find himself in the middle of Beacon Hills' preserve. He sat up from a pile of leaves and tried to get his bearings.

Though it was still night by most people's standards, he saw the first fingers of the sun's light steal over the horizon's edge. Birds stirred, ruffling their feathers in preparation for their morning songs. He felt the chill in the air give way to summer's warmth as night yielded to day. His keen nose detected a metallic edge to the air. Like the last time he'd woken up on the forest floor, he had no idea how he ended up at his current location.

But this time, he was covered in blood.

A sticky layer coated his hands and forearms. He realized with horror that he had a trail of it trickling from his mouth down to his throat, staining his torn t-shirt red.

What had he done?

Desperate, Scott tried to recall the night before, but he could only retrieve fragments. Running through the woods. Chasing someone. No, hunting. Cornering his prey. Using his claws to rip open a throat.

This must be a nightmare.

He pinched himself, hoping to find himself back in the familiar comfort of his bedroom. But his surroundings refused to budge. He succeeded only in leaving a crimson smear on his arm.

This was no dream.

He glanced to his left. There, lying face-down on the dirt was Isaac. The other boy's head was turned away and blood pooled beneath his upper body.

Scott's stomach lurched. He understood that he'd finally lost the battle to instinct. All the self-control he'd cultivated so carefully had failed him. The Other had won and he'd savagely taken the life of another person. A friend.

Panicked, he began to hyperventilate. This couldn't be happening! He pinched his arm again, willing himself to wake up for real this time. It wasn't working.

Suddenly, the other boy groaned. Isaac rolled onto his back, mouth half-open and emitted a soft snore. Relieved, Scott offered up a prayer of thanks and his breathing returned to normal.

Isaac's mouth was also streaked with blood and Scott was no closer to discovering the source. He stood up and slowly turned in a circle, taking in every detail of the clearing. Broken branches and tree trunks scored with claw marks spoke of an intense struggle.

After turning nearly 180 degrees, his eyes finally landed on the corpse. What was left of it.

The victim's head bowed backwards, as if silenced mid-scream. His stomach had been sliced open by a single, long incision, spilling innards and gore across the leaves. His throat had been violently torn out, along with what seemed like a fair share of his internal organs.

Scott retched, sickened by the sight.