Beacon Hills High – First Day, Sophomore Year
The hallways were a sensory tsunami. For Stiles, it was a manageable chaos—a thousand heartbeats, a riot of cheap perfume and teenage sweat, all filtered through the cool, analytical lens of his new nature. He moved through it unseen, a shadow among the bright, noisy living.
He spotted Scott before homeroom, pale and sweating, eyes darting like a cornered animal. Clary was at his side, her artist's eyes full of concern. Stiles's Vulpes-sharp hearing plucked their conversation from the din.
"Scott, you're shaking. What's wrong? And why aren't you speaking to Stiles?"
Scott flinched. "It's nothing. I'm just… sick." He pulled away, fleeing to the bathroom.
Clary watched him go, worry etching her face, and pulled out her phone. A second later, Stiles's phone buzzed.
Clary: You and Scott have a fight? He's acting super weird. You free tonight? Movie marathon? My place. We need to talk. About things.
The familiar ritual, now a cover for reconnaissance. He needed to see her, to read her, to understand what she knew. And part of him, the part that was still the boy on the porch, just wanted to be in her space again.
Stiles: Yeah. Fight about lacrosse. Pathetic. Movie sounds good. 7?
Clary: 7. Purple Sour Patch Kids are on me.
---
In the boy's bathroom, Scott stared at the unmarked, perfectly healed skin on his hip. The reality, cold and hard, settled in his gut. It healed. Stiles's words echoed. You're changing.
---
Stiles's History class was by the window. He watched the new girl, Allison Argent, being led across the quad. Sharp posture. Awareness. His Third Eye Perception picked up more than a pretty face. There was a latent sharpness to her, an awareness that wasn't just new-kid nerves. As she entered her classroom, he saw her lift a phone to her ear. He focused, his supernatural hearing narrowing like a scope.
Allison's voice, clear and warm: "Yeah, Mom, just getting to class… I know, I know. Be careful. Make friends. Don't talk to strange werewolves." She laughed, a sweet, melodic sound. "It's a new school, not the wilderness. Love you too."
'Don't talk to strange werewolves.' An odd, specific thing for a mother to say as a joke. Unless it wasn't a joke.
Argent. The name clicked in the True Vampire's memory-snippets. A feeling. A scent associated with silver and wolfsbane. A family name that meant hunter.
His interest, previously aesthetic, sharpened into a razor point. Beautiful, yes. But potentially dangerous.
At that moment, Scott, looking lost, was ushered into the same classroom, taking a seat right behind her. His new, uncontrolled hearing would have just picked up the same bizarre farewell.
Across the quad, in AP Chemistry, Emmy Stilinski was falling apart quietly. The smells were a physical assault. The sounds—dozens of heartbeats, a chaotic drum circle in her skull—threatened to split her head open. She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms.
Then, cutting through the noise, she heard a whisper. Not in the room. It was her brother's voice, a cool, intrusive thread in her mind.
"Emmy. Listen to my heartbeat. Find it. Tune out the rest. Slow your breathing. You can control this. It's just super-hearing. Don't let it control you."
She gasped, horrified. He was in her head. But amidst the terror, his words were a lifeline. In the storm of sensory hell, she focused desperately, searching for one steady pulse.
And there it was. A heartbeat unlike any other. Slow. So slow it was almost imperceptible. A steady, glacial thump… thump… thump. Stiles's heartbeat.
Following its rhythm, she forced her own to slow. The other heartbeats receded, becoming background noise. The edge of the panic attack faded. He'd helped her. The monster had steadied her. The contradiction was sickening.
---
After School – The Hallway
After the final bell, their paths converged. Allison was looking at her schedule, a faint line of frustration between her brows. She looked up, and their eyes met.
Stiles let a lopsided, friendly smile touch his lips—the Stiles Special. "Hey. You look lost. In both the metaphorical and literal sense."
Allison smiled back, a warm, slightly embarrassed smile that reached her eyes. "That obvious? First day. It's a maze."
He fell into step beside her. "Stiles. Professional lost person and occasional guide."
"Allison. New girl, apparently doomed to wander."
He learned she liked art and fantasy novels, that her family had moved, that her mom had given her that weird warning about werewolves as a joke. He watched her closely. Her heartbeat was steady, her scent clean of deception. The callus he'd been ready to note on her finger… wasn't there. Her hands were smooth. The hunter's posture he'd seen from a distance now seemed like just good upbringing.
A recalculation happened at lightning speed. The Argent surname could be a coincidence. The memories were fragments. This girl… she wasn't lying. She was just a girl. A pretty, intelligent, normal girl.
The potential threat level plummeted. The intriguing predator became… a potential person. A different kind of piece on the board.
When she asked for a pen, he gave her his, their fingers brushing. No unusual calluses. Just soft skin.
"See you around, Allison Argent," he said, watching her walk away, the sway of her hair, the gentle slope of her shoulders. A splash of normal color in his world of blood and shadow.
---
He drove home, the image of Allison's warm, unaware smile lingering in his mind—a distraction, perhaps. Or a reminder of what he could never truly have again.
The game board was set. His pawns were traumatized. His queen was emotionally compromised. A new, unexpected piece had entered the board, radiating normalcy.
And he, the hybrid king in the shadows, was hungry. Not just for blood, but for the next move.