Derek Hale and the Flock

The silence in the Bacon Hills Preserve is always deceptive. For most, it's simply sleepy forest paths, quiet streets, and provincial boredom, where nothing has happened for decades. But for those who know the underbelly of this world—the pack of true predators under the moon—this forest is full of teeth, claws, blood, and ancient mysticism.
And at the very epicenter of this madness was always Stiles.
A regular guy. No superpowers, no supernatural healing, no golden eyes or fangs. A man whose heart pounds with fear every time another alpha or terrifying Bestiary creature leaps out of the darkness. At least, that's what the whole pack thought. Scott, Derek, Lydia, Jackson, Isaac Boyd, Erica Alison, Peter, Malia, and Kira—they all saw Stiles as an indispensable strategist, a go-to guy, someone who could Google at three in the morning, hack police records, and plant rowan ash at the right time.
None of them realized that behind this facade of clumsy sarcasm lurked something far rarer and more dangerous than a werewolf bite.
"One in a million," Alan Deaton's words echoed in Stiles's head every time he fell asleep with a headache after a particularly difficult day. The Spark. The ancient, pure potential of magic, capable of both creating and destroying worlds. Deaton spoke the truth: those like Stiles were born extremely rarely. Those who carried the Spark possessed an innate connection to the very fabric of supernatural balance. They could sense the flow of energy, weave spells, protect and punish. But this power didn't come naturally. It required discipline, pain, bloody fingers, and hours of grueling training in a dusty veterinary clinic, hidden from prying eyes.
No one but Stiles and Deaton knew about this secret.
Every Tuesday and Thursday, while Scotty was getting ready for lacrosse practice and Derek was patrolling the perimeter, Stiles would disappear.