Chapter 1: One Year Ago
The Last Normal Day
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September 15th
Beacon Hills High School
7:43 AM
Stiles Stilinski parked the Jeep in his usual spot—crooked, halfway over the line, because the parking brake was shot and he'd given up trying to fix it three months ago. The engine coughed twice before dying, a sound so familiar it was practically a greeting.
"Roscoe's feeling feisty today," he announced to no one, grabbing his bag from the passenger seat.
The morning was ordinary. That's the thing about last normal days—you never know they're the last. The sun was doing its California thing, all gold and warm. The quad was filled with students milling around before first period. Someone's phone was playing music too loud. A freshman was crying by the flagpole—probably dumped, probably dramatic.
Stiles loved it. All of it. The chaos, the noise, the sheer ordinary of high school life.
He was halfway to the main building when a text buzzed his phone.
Clary (7:44 AM): coffee run? i need caffeine to deal with mr harris today or i will commit a crime
Stiles (7:44 AM): already got u covered. french vanilla, extra shot, whipped cream, the works
Clary (7:45 AM): marry me
Stiles (7:45 AM): put a ring on it martin
He smiled at his phone like an idiot. He knew he was smiling like an idiot. He didn't care.
---
The Best Friend
8:15 AM
Chemistry
Clary slid into the seat next to him with thirty seconds to spare, hair still damp from the shower, smelling like vanilla and whatever expensive shampoo Emma had left in the bathroom. She grabbed the coffee from his desk like it was oxygen.
"You're a saint," she breathed after the first sip. "A literal saint. I'll name my firstborn after you."
"Stiles Martin," he considered. "Has a ring to it."
"Shut up." She elbowed him, but she was smiling.
Mr. Harris droned about the periodic table. Stiles took notes. Clary drew tiny mustaches on the elements. They passed notes folded into origami shapes—she'd taught him how to make the crane last year, and now it was their thing.
Clary's crane: did you finish the english essay?
Stiles's frog: define "finish"
Clary's crane: did you write ANY of it
Stiles's frog: define "write"
Clary's crane: i'm going to kill you
Stiles's frog: define "kill"
She kicked him under the desk. He kicked back. Harris turned around and they both pretended to be deeply fascinated by atomic weight.
This was them. This was always them. Bonnie and Clyde. Thelma and Louise. Two idiots who told each other everything.
Well. Almost everything.
Stiles hadn't told her about the way his chest tightened when she laughed. Or how he'd memorized her coffee order two years ago. Or that he stayed up late some nights just hoping she'd text him, because her name on his phone screen was better than sleep.
He hadn't told her because telling her would change things. And things were perfect.
Perfect.
---
The Other Best Friend
Lunch
The Quad
Scott McCall waved them over to their usual spot—the bench near the oak tree, the one with the good sightlines to the popular table where Lydia Martin held court and also the quickest escape route to the parking lot. Stiles had chosen it freshman year. He was very proud.
"Dude." Scott grinned as they sat down. "You miss practice again? Coach is gonna kill you."
"Coach can't kill what's already dead inside," Stiles replied, stealing a fry from Scott's tray.
Clary sat next to him—not next to Scott, Stiles noticed. She sat next to him, her knee brushing his under the table. She did that automatically. Probably didn't even think about it.
He thought about it.
"Did you guys hear about the party this weekend?" Scott asked around a mouthful of sandwich. "At Danny's cousin's place. Gonna be huge."
Clary perked up. "Ooh, I'm in. Stiles?"
"Define 'huge,'" Stiles said warily. "Because my definition of a good party involves fewer than fifty people and at least one comfortable chair to hide in."
"That's no fun." Clary bumped his shoulder with hers. "Come on. Live a little."
"For you? I'll consider it."
"For me." She smiled—that smile, the real one, the one she didn't give to anyone else.
Scott watched them. Something flickered in his eyes—too fast to read.
---
The Sister
After lunch, they ran into Emma.
Literally. Stiles turned a corner and almost collided with his sister.
"Watch it—" Emma stopped when she saw who it was. Her expression shifted from annoyed to more annoyed. "Oh. It's you."
"Nice to see you too, Em."
Emma's eyes slid past him to Clary, then to Scott. She gave them both a once-over, the way popular girls do when assessing whether someone is worth acknowledging. Clary got a tiny nod. Scott got nothing.
"Mom wants you to actually come home after school for once," Emma said flatly. "She's making dinner."
"I come home every day."
"Coming home and locking yourself in your room doesn't count." She was already walking away, phone in hand. "Just be there."
Clary watched her go. "Wow. She's... friendly."
"She's a Stilinski," Stiles said, trying to joke. "We're an acquired taste."
"You're nothing like her."
"I know." He said it quietly, looking at the ground. "That's kind of the problem."
Clary's hand found his—just for a second, just a squeeze. Then she let go and kept walking like nothing happened.
Scott was watching again. That same flicker in his eyes.
---
The Party
Saturday, September 18th
9:47 PM
Some Senior's House
Stiles didn't want to go.
He went anyway, because Clary wanted to, and because Scott kept texting him about "getting out more," and because sitting at home watching his dad work cold cases sounded sad even for him.
The house was packed. Loud music. Red cups. People grinding in corners. Stiles got separated from Clary within ten minutes and spent the next hour lurking near the kitchen, nursing a single beer, watching the door.
He saw Emma across the room, laughing with her friends, never once looking his way.
He saw a thousand faces he didn't know, in a house he didn't belong in, at a party he shouldn't have come to.
Where's Clary?
He texted her. No response.
He texted again. Nothing.
He pushed through the crowd, checking rooms, checking the backyard—
He stopped.
Scott was heading upstairs. Alone. He looked back once, toward the kitchen, then kept going.
Stiles almost followed. Almost asked if he'd seen Clary.
But then someone bumped into him, spilled beer on his shirt, and by the time he'd dealt with that, Scott was gone.
Whatever. Scott probably just needed a bathroom. Or a quiet room. Parties were overwhelming.
Stiles checked the backyard. No Clary.
Checked the living room. No Clary.
He was tired. Bored. Over it.
He texted her one more time: heading out. you good?
No response.
He shrugged, grabbed his keys, and left.
---
The Walk Home
The Jeep sputtered and coughed but eventually started. Stiles drove home with the windows down, letting the cool night air dry the beer stain on his shirt. He wasn't even mad. Parties just weren't his thing. Clary would find her own way home, or crash at someone's place, and tomorrow they'd laugh about it.
You left early? Lame.
I know. I'm the lamest.
Yeah, but you're my lame.
He smiled at the imaginary conversation.
At home, his dad was asleep on the couch, case files spread across the coffee table. Stiles covered him with a blanket, turned off the TV, and went to his room.
He didn't check his phone again.
Didn't see Clary's text at 2 AM: sorry got caught up! u leave?
Didn't see Scott's text at 2:30: hey man you still at the party?
Didn't know that upstairs, in a bedroom at that party, his two best friends were tangled together, breathless and secret.
He slept like the dead.
---
The Monday After
September 20th
Chemistry
Clary slid into her seat. "Hey! You disappeared Saturday. You okay?"
Stiles shrugged. "Was tired. Parties aren't my thing."
"You could've told me. I would've left with you."
"Nah, you were having fun. I didn't want to ruin it."
Something in his voice was genuine—he meant it. He really hadn't wanted to ruin her night.
Clary smiled, relieved. "You're sweet. But next time, just tell me. I'd rather hang with you than a bunch of randos."
"Even randos with good music and cheap beer?"
"Especially them." She bumped his shoulder. "You're more interesting."
And just like that, things were normal again.
Stiles didn't know that Clary was hiding something. Didn't see the way her eyes flickered to Scott when he walked into class. Didn't notice the almost-imperceptible tension between them.
He was just happy to have his best friend back.
---
The Secret
But secrets have a way of surfacing.
Over the next few weeks, Stiles noticed things. Small things. Clary getting flustered when Scott's name came up. Scott finding excuses to be wherever Clary was. Inside jokes they didn't share with him.
It's nothing, he told himself. They're friends. We're all friends.
He ignored the knot in his stomach.
He ignored the way Clary's hand didn't find his under tables anymore.
He ignored the looks—the ones they thought he didn't see.
Because if he acknowledged it, he'd have to admit that something had changed. And he wasn't ready for that.
---
October 14th
11:37 PM
Stiles's Bedroom
He wasn't spying.
That's what he told himself as he stood at his window, curtains slightly parted, looking across the street at Clary's house. He wasn't spying. He was just... looking. Making sure she was home safe. It was late. He worried.
Liar.
Clary's porch light was on. Her car was in the driveway. Everything was normal.
Then another car pulled up.
Scott's motorcycle.
Stiles's stomach tightened.
It's fine. They're friends. They're just—
Scott got off, walked to the door, knocked. Clary answered. They talked for a minute—too quiet to hear, but Stiles could see them smiling. Casual. Familiar.
Then Scott leaned in.
And kissed her.
Not a quick kiss. Not a friendly peck. A real kiss—the kind that said I've done this before, I'll do it again, this is mine.
Clary kissed him back.
Stiles stood frozen, curtains clutched in his fist, and watched the girl he loved kiss his best friend goodnight.
The kiss ended. Scott said something that made her laugh. She waved as he walked back to his bike. He rode off. She went inside. The door closed.
Stiles stood there for a long time.
Then, very slowly, he closed the curtains.
---
The Walk
He didn't remember leaving the house.
One moment he was at his window. The next he was in the woods, shoes wet with dew, breath fogging in the cold October air. He'd walked two miles without noticing. Without feeling his legs. Without feeling anything except a numb, spreading emptiness where his heart used to be.
They're together. They've BEEN together. How long? Weeks? Since the party?
The party.
When I left early.
When Scott went upstairs.
When Clary stopped answering my texts.
It all clicked into place, and the click was a crack, and the crack was a break, and the break was—
He stopped walking.
He was standing at the edge of a clearing, moon hidden behind clouds, cold rain starting to fall. He looked up at the sky and waited for something—tears, anger, something.
Nothing came.
Just emptiness.
The rain got harder. Stiles started walking again, blind, lost, not caring. His foot slipped on wet rocks near a cave entrance. He fell. His head cracked against stone.
Darkness.
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The Awakening
He woke to pain.
Not the pain of the fall—that was distant, unimportant. This pain was inside, tearing through him like something was clawing its way out of his bones. His back arched. His mouth opened in a scream that didn't come out. Something moved under his skin—multiple somethings—writhing, pushing, breaking.
And in his mind, voices.
Three of them.
One laughing—ancient, cruel, delighted. Finally.
One hungry—insatiable, ancient, patient. Feed.
One broken—screaming, human, him. What's happening what's happening WHAT'S HAPPENING—
The seal shattered.
Stiles's eyes flew open.
Crimson sclera. Black void irises. Vertical slit pupils pulsing with fox-fire.
He sat up slowly in the cave, rain hammering the entrance, blood trickling from the wound on his head. He looked at his hands. They were shaking.
No.
They weren't shaking.
They were still.
He was completely, utterly calm.
The boy is gone.
The thought wasn't his own. Or maybe it was. He couldn't tell anymore.
The cage is open.
He stood. His body felt different—lighter, stronger, more. Something shifted against his lower back. He reached behind him and felt... tendrils. Four of them. Red. Scale-like. They moved at his thought, curling around his arm, exploring his face like curious snakes.
He should be terrified.
He was fascinated.
This is what I was always meant to be.
---
The First Meal
Two hikers found him.
They'd taken shelter from the storm, flashlights cutting through the dark, and found a teenage boy sitting against the cave wall, bleeding from his head. A good Samaritan. A kind soul.
"Hey, kid, you okay? What happened?"
The boy looked up.
The hiker's flashlight clattered to the ground.
Those weren't human eyes.
"What the—"
Red moved in the darkness.
Fast.
Too fast.
The last thing the hiker saw was a smile—childlike, curious, utterly wrong.
---
The Tribrid fed.
Not like an animal—animals kill to survive. This was something else. This was enjoyment. The blood was warm, rich, powerful. The flesh was sustenance for the ghoul. The souls... the souls were delicious. He drank them down like fine wine, felt their memories, their fears, their essence becoming his.
And the fear—god, the fear they felt in those last moments—it sang to the Nogitsune inside him. A feast within a feast.
When it was over, he stood over two empty bodies and felt... good.
Full.
Powerful.
Alive.
He laughed. It started as a chuckle, then grew, echoed off the cave walls—wrong and dark and joyful.
"One," he counted, voice too calm. "Two."
He tilted his head, listening to nothing.
"That's not enough, is it?"
Never enough.
He stepped out of the cave. The rain had stopped. The moon was rising. Somewhere in town, his father was probably worried. Clary was probably asleep, dreaming of Scott. Scott was probably home, satisfied, loved.
The Tribrid smiled.
"Let's give them something to find."
He vanished into the trees.
---
The Search
October 15th
6:32 AM
The Stilinski House
Sheriff Noah Stilinski had been up all night.
Stiles's bed hadn't been slept in. His Jeep was still in the driveway. His phone was on his nightstand—he'd left it behind, which he never did.
Noah had called everyone. Scott—hadn't seen him since the party weeks ago. Clary—hadn't seen him since yesterday afternoon. Emma—hadn't even known he was gone.
The search party was forming at the station. Volunteers, deputies, anyone who could walk a grid pattern. Noah was trying to stay calm, trying to be professional, trying not to think about Claudia, about losing her, about losing Stiles too—
His phone rang.
"Sheriff Stilinski."
"Uh, Sheriff?" A deputy's voice, shaky. "We found something. In the woods near the old caves. You need to see it."
Noah's blood ran cold. "Is it Stiles?"
A pause. Too long.
"Sir, just... just come down here."
---
The Scene
The caves were cordoned off with yellow tape. Forensic technicians were everywhere. Noah pushed through, badge out, heart pounding.
"What've we got?"
The deputy—Parrish—looked pale. "Two bodies. Hikers. Male and female, both in their thirties."
Noah closed his eyes briefly. "And my son?"
Parrish hesitated. "There's... there's blood. Not theirs. We're testing it, but... it might be his, sir. From the head wound."
Noah's knees almost buckled. "Is he—is there a body? Is he—"
"We don't know. There's no third body. But sir..." Parrish lowered his voice. "The way they died. It's not... it's not normal. We're calling in experts."
Noah stared at the cave entrance. Rain dripped from the trees. Somewhere, birds were singing, oblivious.
Stiles. Where are you?
He didn't know that his son was miles away, standing on a rooftop, watching the sunrise with crimson eyes.
Didn't know that Stiles was gone.
Didn't know that something else had taken his place.
---
The New Day
October 15th
7:15 AM
Beacon Hills High School
Clary sat in Chemistry, staring at the empty seat next to her.
Stiles was never late.
Stiles was never late.
She'd texted him six times. Called three times. Nothing.
Scott slid into his seat two rows back, looking worried. He caught her eye and shrugged—no idea.
She looked away quickly.
They hadn't talked about that night. Hadn't talked about the party, or what happened upstairs, or the texts they'd exchanged since. It was easier to pretend. Easier to be normal.
But Stiles's empty seat wasn't normal.
Emma walked past the classroom door, glanced in, saw the empty seat, and kept walking without pausing.
The bell rang.
Mr. Harris started his lecture.
Clary looked at the empty seat again.
Where are you, Stiles?
She didn't know that across town, her best friend was watching her from the tree line, eyes crimson, expression unreadable.
Didn't know that he'd been there for an hour, just... watching.
Didn't know that when he finally turned and walked away, he was smiling.
See you soon, Clarissa.
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End of Chapter 1