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𝐏𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬.
After storming into Nova's room to find Liam tangled up with his niece, he had erupted in a fit of rage. The shouting, the threats, the way he practically hurled the poor boy out of the loft—it was like a scene from a horror movie. Nova could only sit there, mortified, watching it all unfold with a sinking feeling in her stomach. It was awkward, humiliating, and entirely expected. Because if there was one thing Nova knew for sure, it was that Peter Hale didn't do well with surprises. Especially not that kind.
From the moment she was born, Peter had made it his mission to protect her. Whether it was because he had helped raise her or because of their blood connection, his sense of responsibility toward her had always run deep. He often admitted—half-joking, half-serious—that he was closer to Nova than to his own daughter. He had promised Derek and Morgan he'd look out for her, and clearly, he intended to uphold that promise by any means necessary.
Now, with her phone confiscated and her freedom officially revoked, Nova found herself grounded. No smooth-talking her way out of this one. Her parents were still away handling the chaos surrounding the Deadpool, which meant Peter was in charge—and he took the job a little too seriously. After Liam's awkward exit, Peter had barely given her a look before ordering her to bed like she was twelve again. No discussion. No appeal.
The next morning, determined to clear the air, Nova got dressed and headed downstairs, fully expecting another lecture—or maybe even another round of silence. But instead, she found Peter by the door, slipping on his boots.
"You're not seriously leaving me here alone," she said, narrowing her eyes.
Peter didn't answer. He simply tossed a pair of Converse at her.
"Car. Now."
Nova groaned but followed him without further protest. She sulked the entire ride, thoughts swirling. She wanted to text Liam, to explain, to complain—but that was out of the question. And the idea that Liam and Mason might think she was ghosting them was killing her.
Eventually, the car pulled up in front of the Beacon Hills Sheriff's Department. Peter parked, then looked over at her with barely contained irritation.
"Out."
Nova blinked at him. "Wait—what? Who made you boss?"
Peter rubbed his eyes, clearly exhausted. "If you're gonna whine, save it for later. The sheriff wants you. They've got the benefactor. I want my damn money back."
With that, he slammed the door and strode inside.
Nova stayed in the car for a beat longer, tempted to just sit there out of spite. But curiosity—and the flicker of purpose—won out. Huffing a breath, she climbed out and followed him in.
Inside, her eyes immediately locked on Lydia and Sheriff Stilinski. The room was tense, the air thick with anticipation.
"Nova," Noah said gently, "this is Meredith Walker. She's the benefactor."
Nova's blood ran cold. The woman responsible for the hit list. For endangering the people she loved. Being this close to her was unsettling, but Nova forced herself to stay grounded.
"She won't talk to us," Lydia added urgently. "But maybe she'll talk to you. Your... ability."
Nova hesitated. Her powers weren't what they used to be. They were slipping. Fading. But something in Lydia's voice pushed her to try anyway.
Peter was visibly reluctant. But the thought of the stolen cash was all it took for him to wave her through. As Nova stepped into the small interview room, the air seemed to shift. Meredith sat silently, eyes distant, the weight of her choices heavy in her expression. The room felt suffocating.
Nova forced a nervous smile, trying to lighten the tension.
"I don't blame you for not wanting to talk," she said, folding her arms. "Honestly, sometimes even I get tired of hearing my own voice."
The attempt at humor fell flat, but she pressed on. She couldn't reveal her powers were faltering—not yet. So she relied on instinct. On empathy.
She crossed the room slowly and sat beside Meredith on the couch, careful not to get too close. She needed to bridge the emotional gap, if not the physical one.
"You know," she continued softly, "you might've done me a favor. I couldn't finish my art project thanks to all this murder drama. Which is probably for the best—Van Gogh would've rolled over in his grave if he saw my sketches."
The room remained silent. Noah and Parish exchanged puzzled looks, clearly unsure of where this was going. But Nova pressed forward.
"Lydia says you want to help," she said, her voice quieter now. "If that's true... please. Just talk to us."
For a second, nothing happened.
Then Meredith spoke.
"I do," she whispered. "But only to one person. Peter. Peter Hale."
Nova's breath caught—not because of what she said, but because she had said anything at all. She hadn't used her siren powers. There had been no glow in her eyes. No hum of influence. And yet Meredith had responded.
