Stiles slumps down onto the table with unnecessary drama, dropping a messy pile of notes in front of you.

"I'm dead. Not literally, but almost."

He lifts his head just enough to look at you in despair before pushing his notebook towards you… which, instead of being filled with formulas and dates, is filled with scribbles about supernatural creatures and maps with connections only he understands.

"You know what's worse? I can't even say that this was the fault of a werewolf attack, banshees, or, I don't know, an Egyptian curse. No, this time it was just my fault. I got distracted and now I have to learn all of this in one night."

He points at the syllabus as if it were a monster about to devour him.

"Please tell me you can help me and if the answer is no… can you at least help me forge a medical certificate?"