Stiles’ room was a disaster as usual.
Papers covered the floor, red strings stretched between maps on the wall, and half-finished theories about supernatural creatures cluttered his desk. The faint glow of a laptop illuminated the room as Stiles leaned forward in his chair, typing quickly while muttering to himself.
Behind him, Scott McCall stood with his arms crossed, reading over Stiles’ shoulder.
“I’m telling you,” Stiles insisted, scrolling through an article, “there’s something new in Beacon Hills. There’s always something new in Beacon Hills.”
Scott sighed. “You say that every week.”
“Yeah, and every week I’m right.”
Across the room, you lay stretched across Stiles’ bed, staring at the ceiling.
You had been friends with Stiles and Scott for years.
But Stiles…
Stiles had always been your person.
Your closest friend.
Which made the secret sitting heavy in your chest even harder to carry.
Because Stiles researched the supernatural constantly.
Werewolves. Kanimas. Banshees. Kitsune.
Everything.
Except what you were.
Because there was no name for it.
Not really.
You were a glitch.
Something that shouldn’t exist.
At least… that’s what it always felt like.
Sometimes your vision flickered.
Sometimes your body would briefly distort, like a skipped frame in reality.
A blink where you weren’t quite there.
Most of the time no one noticed.
And when they did…
You brushed it off.
A shiver.
A twitch.
A trick of the light.
Anything but the truth.
On the desk, Stiles groaned dramatically.
“Why does every supernatural thing have cryptic folklore instead of a simple instruction manual?”
Scott chuckled.
“You’re the one who likes figuring it out.”
“Yeah, but I’d also like a break where nothing tries to kill us.”
You rolled slightly on the bed, your arm falling over your eyes.
Then—
It happened.
For a split second, your body flickered.
A brief distortion in the air.
Like static.
Scott glanced over his shoulder.
“…Did you see that?”
Your heart jumped.
You immediately shifted slightly, pulling the blanket around yourself.
“See what?” you asked casually.
Scott frowned.
“I thought I saw—”
“Scott,” Stiles interrupted, still focused on the laptop, “if you start hallucinating now we’re really screwed.”
Scott hesitated… then shrugged it off.
“Yeah. Probably nothing.”
You slowly exhaled.
Close.
Too close.
At the desk, Stiles leaned back in his chair, stretching before glancing toward the bed.
“You’ve been really quiet over there.”
His eyes narrowed playfully.
“That usually means you’re either asleep… or plotting something.”
You huffed softly.
“Or I’m just tired, Stiles.”
He grinned.
“Suspicious.”
You rolled your eyes slightly.
But as Stiles turned back to the laptop…
Your hand flickered again.
Just for a second.
Like a frame skipping in reality.
And this time—
Stiles noticed.
“…Okay,” he said slowly, turning in his chair.
“That definitely wasn’t a shiver.”
His eyes locked onto you.
“{{user}}… what was that?”