He came in to school one morning with a bruise darkening his left cheek, the color of stained blackberries. Teachers winced when they saw it, begged Isaac to tell them what had happened, but the story was always the same: I accidentally got hit by the car door. It was my fault. It was all my fault.

The other children were too young to understand what was going on in Isaac Lahey's home, and Isaac had no friends that would listen anyway. He was too quiet, too removed, and his shoulders would hunch over more profoundly every time anyone tried to talk to him – as though he wanted to disappear within himself, within his baggy sweatshirts and oversized pants.

Isaac didn't want friends. Isaac didn't need friends. He didn't need anyone.

But there was one boy, one boy who persistently tried to engage Isaac in some form of conversation. He was stubborn, and no matter what, day after day he would approach Isaac and say hello, ask him how his day was going. His best friend would always stand behind him, groaning ("Scott, not now, Scott, can't we go now, can't you see he wants to be left alone") but the boy with the lopsided smile and mussed black hair refused to be deterred.

Isaac always assumed he was making fun of him. He was wrong.

Scott McCall just didn't like seeing anyone frown.

It was two years later when Isaac took his first beating from someone who wasn't his father. Jackson Whittemore and his entourage of equally menacing thugs (too polished, too perfect, too well-groomed – cruelty was the result of nothing more than boredom when it came to Jackson's crowd) cornered him in the alleyway behind the middle school.

It was after a few punches had been thrown that Jackson began to taunt, his Adam's apple bouncing, his jaw clenching. "Look at little Lahey. Look at him trembling."

Isaac didn't bother trying to deny it – his shoulders were shaking beyond his control or jurisdiction. He couldn't stop. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw a different pair of fists hitting his side, a different set of nails scratching at his temple, and the images flashed one by one until all he could see was the basement, the freezer chest, the walls closing in on him until nothing existed but his screams.

Isaac never fought back. He wasn't strong enough.

He wanted to be strong enough.

Isaac Lahey craved destruction.

Suddenly, a figure appeared behind Jackson.

"Leave him alone," Scott said firmly, and Isaac groaned internally. Of course it would be Scott McCall that found him – the asthmatic nobody who couldn't defend himself, let alone Isaac.

It's fitting, really.

Jackson laughed, the sound cold and cruel. It reminded Isaac of another laugh, the laugh that haunted his nightmares.

"What are you going to do about it, McCall?"

Scott stood up straighter and held his fist up. Isaac stared at him and his eyes widened slowly. He knew that Scott was no idiot, despite what teachers always said. Obviously Scott had no deluded notion that he could win a fight against four muscular boys. He understood what he was doing.

As the boys descended upon Scott, the black-haired boy mouthed to Isaac: "Run."

Isaac ran.

He looked back after a few paces and saw blood dripping from Scott's nose and a bruise forming on his chin – the color of stained blackberries – and he couldn't help but wonder why, why this small boy would take a beating for him, why he would be so eager to jump between Isaac and Jackson Whittemore's clenched hands.

It took him awhile to figure out the answer.

Night shifts at the graveyard were always the worst. His mind would race ahead of him and all he'd be able to think about was what would happen when he got home, what kind of mood his dad would be in, what horror awaited him in the basement.

The night of the bite – the night everything changed for good – was a particularly bad one. He'd exchanged tense words with his father before leaving the house, and he knew that he'd end up paying for them with the skin he had remaining that wasn't covered in scratches or cuts. Lately, the blows had been getting harder, the swings faster, the stints in the freezer longer. He didn't know how much more he could take.

So when Derek Hale showed up and offered him a gift – the gift of destruction, wrapped up in a shiny package – Isaac wanted to jump at the chance. But he wasn't one to make split-second decisions.

"Isn't it…dangerous?" he asked Derek quietly. "With the hunters?"

"Dangerous? Life is dangerous." Derek shifted uncomfortably, his hands twitching in the pockets of his leather jacket. Isaac frowned.

"You're saying I could get hurt."

Derek laughed suddenly. Isaac flinched. His laugh was humorless. "You sound like Scott."

The younger boy froze. "Scott?"

Derek hesitated. "Never mind. Forget it. Look, if you want to—"

But Isaac shook his head quickly and clutched Derek's arm. "Scott McCall? He's one of you?"

Derek didn't respond, but Isaac knew the answer.

Somehow, it changed everything. Somehow, it made all the cons that Derek had skimmed over seem worth it, because if Scott could do it, so could Isaac. And if Isaac ended up repaying him along the way for what had happened in the alleyway all those years ago, so much the better.

"Okay," he said, his voice becoming more assertive with each syllable. "I want in."

Power is a strange thing. Once you have it, every day drags by slower, every minute seems longer, and you're looking over your shoulder constantly, wondering who might sink their claws into you next. The war between hunters and werewolves had become a long one, and Isaac realized quickly that Erica and Boyd were planning on jumping ship.

They asked him to come, to run with them.

Isaac didn't know if he wanted to run again.

In the end, there was only ever one option, only one person he could turn to. Maybe it had always been that way. Maybe the boy with the lopsided grin had always been a leader and Isaac had never noticed.

"I'm asking for your advice," Isaac said to Scott that day in the vet's office. Scott McCall turned around to look at him.

"Why?"

It was a good question. And this time, Isaac knew the answer.

The moment seemed endless as Isaac stared at the ground and thought about how best to phrase it, how to tell Scott that he was the only one of them who was unflinchingly honest even when it hurt, that he was the only one who didn't feel a thirst for blood, that Isaac felt every day like he was slipping further and further into becoming his father and remembering the way Scott had saved him time and time again was the only thing that kept him going.

But Isaac Lahey was never good with words.

"Because I trust you."

Scott understood.

Later on, Isaac would look at the decision he made to show up at the lacrosse game as a kind of turning point. But at the time, it was the only real option he saw.

Isaac didn't have anyone, it was true. Isaac didn't need friends. He didn't need anyone.

But he wanted Scott to need him.

Isaac Lahey didn't crave destruction anymore. As he slid onto the bench, he realized that this was the way it was always supposed to be, that running wouldn't have given him more than he could have right here.

He looked at Scott and saw the boy who had bloodied himself to save Isaac's skin, who had fought to make him smile when no one else cared, who had acted as a shield for everyone he cared about and asked for nothing in return – not like Derek, not like the rest of them.

"You came to play," Scott said, his eyes widening, a smile slowly lighting up his features. Isaac grinned, sitting up a little further.

He didn't hunch over as much anymore. He didn't want to disappear.

"I came to win."

Scott laughed slightly. Isaac liked his laugh. It wasn't like his father's, or Jackson's, or Derek's. It was a warm sound, and it seemed to fill in the hollow parts of Isaac.

He knew that he'd stay and help, that he'd keep fighting until the last second, because it was Scott who was leading this time, and Isaac trusted Scott.

"You saved the day," Scott said later as they dragged Jackson's body into Argent's car. His tone was joking, but the layer of truth shone through nonetheless.

But Isaac hadn't saved the day. He'd just saved him.

It was fitting, really.