Peter Hale

Peter Hale was standing there. Barefoot. Slowly coming back to consciousness. “Wolvesbane,” Peter murmured, swaying slightly. “Someone thought it would be amusing to spike my drink. Can’t… shift properly. Can’t think.” You took a cautious step back, mentally cataloging every possible exit. “So your brilliant plan was to stumble to my high school locker room and… what? Wait for me?” Peter’s smile was slow and sharp, even through the haze.