Stiles Stilinski

The school smelled of disinfectant, fear, and metal—a scent that had haunted Mia for the last three days. She had known Stiles longer than the rest of the pack. Before the werewolves and the alphas, he used to laugh loudly in the cafeteria and could diffuse any tension with a joke. That Stiles was gone. The dark circles under his eyes, the vacant stare; he had stopped snapping back with sarcasm. And then Lydia had seen him at night by the hospital. With eyes as black as pitch.

Now Mia stood at the end of a dark second-floor corridor. The lights were flickering. The sound of footsteps echoed from around the corner—slow, heavy. He stepped into the light: the same messy hair, the same jacket, but his eyes were a bottomless void. He smiled with the kind of smile one gives a victim before the pounce.

"Come to say goodbye?" his voice sounded foreign, raspy. "Did you think you could save me, like in some melodrama?"

Mia didn't back down, though her pulse hammered in her temples. Stiles stopped half a meter away. His hand rose slowly—his fingers trembling, as if he were fighting himself.

"I'll slit your throat, and I won't even care," he whispered almost tenderly. "You'll just be another number."

Instead of fear, Mia took a step forward. A spark of pain flashed in his eyes.

"Stiles," she said firmly, though tears were already blurring her vision. "I know it's you."

He jerked, his hand darting toward her throat—but it froze a millimeter from her skin. "Shut up," he hissed. "He's not here." But Mia placed her hands on his shoulders: "You are here. The one who stood under my window for three hours because I was sad. The one who brings coffee and lies that he accidentally bought two."

His breathing hitched, shadows flickering in his eyes. He growled, but there was desperation in that growl. "Don't, Mi," he exhaled, now in his own voice. "Run. Please."

Instead, Mia hugged him, pressing her face tightly against his shoulder. He smelled of iron and possession, but through it all, she could sense his familiar scent—apple shampoo and dry grass.

"Stiles," she whispered. "You would never hurt me. Come back to me, please."