One Year After the Porch, The Day After the Wolf Moon
The first, pale light of dawn found Stiles Stilinski motionless in his desk chair, a silent sentinel. He hadn't slept. Sleep was a human luxury, a vulnerable stillness his body no longer required. He'd spent the hours observing, listening to the two accelerated heartbeats in his room—one on his bed, one on his floor.
Emmy stirred first. A low groan escaped her lips as her hand flew to her shoulder. Confusion, then dawning horror, washed over her face as she took in his room, the torn dress, the memory of fangs.
On the floor, Scott gasped awake, scrambling up and clutching his hip. "Wh… what happened? Stiles? Why am I here? My hip… it's burning."
"There was a wolf," Emmy said, her voice shaky but clear. She looked at Stiles, her gaze accusatory and scared. "You were there. At the end."
"Yeah," Stiles said, his voice a flat calm. "I was."
"What was that thing?" Scott's voice pitched high with panic.
Stiles let the word land like a physical blow. "An Alpha werewolf."
Scott laughed, a brittle, disbelieving sound. "Werewolves? Are you insane?!"
Stiles continued, relentless. "The bite is a curse. You're changing. The fever, the aches, the senses dialing up… that's the start."
"This is a prank!" Scott shouted. "Is this about Clary?!"
A cold stillness settled over Stiles's features at the name. "This is about the fact that you're both turning into monsters. And I'm the only one who knows what that means."
"And how would you know?" Emmy cut in, her fear sharpening into a blade.
Stiles looked between them. The time for subtlety was over. "I know," he said, each word dropping like a stone, "because I'm a monster too."
Silence.
He didn't just tell them. He showed them.
He let the transformation happen visibly. Warmth drained from his skin, leaving it pale as marble. Dark, prominent veins rose like cracks under his eyes. His irises vanished, consumed by pools of absolute black, before a fiery, hellish red ignited in their centers. His lips pulled back in a snarl, revealing vicious, razor-sharp fangs. An aura of palpable, oppressive dread—Evil Aura—radiated from him, freezing the air in the small room.
It was the face of a predator. A demon.
Scott made a choked sound, stumbling back in pure terror. Emmy stared, stunned horror giving way to devastating comprehension.
As quickly as it appeared, the visage receded. He was just Stiles again.
The proof was undeniable.
Scott, babbling about his mom and Clary, fumbled for his phone and fled, calling Stiles a monster as he went.
The door slammed, leaving Stiles alone with his sister.
The ice in Emmy shattered. "A year?" Her voice broke. "You've been this for a year? And you didn't tell me? You didn't tell Dad?" The questions were wounds. Tears, hot and furious, spilled down her cheeks. "We used to tell each other everything! We used to be close!"
Stiles said nothing, watching the emotional display with a hybrid's analytical detachment.
Her tear-filled eyes locked on his. "Have you… killed somebody?"
He didn't hesitate. "Yes."
"Do you… feel bad about it?"
He tilted his head, as if considering the question academically. "No," he said, his voice devoid of any guilt. "I don't feel guilty. I kind of like it. Their pain. Their fear. It's… informative."
Emmy recoiled as if struck. The last flicker of hope died. She turned and fled to her room, the sound of her raw, ugly sobbing the only thing that pierced Stiles's controlled silence.
He listened, then retrieved a blood bag from his hidden stash. He drank the bland, processed blood, the aftertaste of her despair still hanging in the air—a vintage he was beginning to prefer.
The first day of sophomore year was here. His sister was a weeping, nascent werewolf who saw him as a stranger and a killer. His best friend was a terrified werewolf who thought he was a demon.
He looked at his reflection in the dark computer monitor. Just a boy. A hungry ghost dressed for school.
The board was set. The pieces were in play, traumatized and unstable.
Perfect.