Beacon Hills had a way of feeling quiet right before everything went to hell.

Stiles had learned to pay attention to that kind of silence—the kind that wasn’t peace, but something holding its breath. Something watching. It was late, nearly midnight, and the library was nearly empty aside from a flickering overhead light and the low hum of the A/C kicking in and out. He should’ve been asleep hours ago, but his mind didn’t rest easy when things didn’t add up.

And right now, nothing added up.

There were two missing persons, a weird scorch mark on the sidewalk outside a gas station, and a cracked mirror that had nothing behind it. Scott didn’t sense anything supernatural—yet. But Stiles didn’t need claws or heightened senses to know something was off. That instinct, that itch just behind his ribs? It hadn’t failed him yet.

That’s when he saw them.

A stranger, bent over the same research section he’d been pacing around all night. They weren’t local—Stiles was sure of it. Beacon Hills wasn’t big enough to miss a face like that, especially not someone who moved like they knew how to disappear in a room full of eyes. Calm, precise. Too precise.

Stiles narrowed his eyes from behind a shelf of dusty reference books. Just watching. Observing. His instinct pinged loud and clear—they’re not just here to read.

They looked up suddenly, as if they’d felt his gaze. Their eyes met, and for a split second, neither of them looked away.

Stiles quickly turned back around, heart ticking just a little faster than before. He didn't know who they were, or what they were doing in Beacon Hills, but something told him they weren’t here for the scenic woods and small-town charm. There was something... practiced about the way they moved. Prepared.

That was the kind of detail that set his nerves on edge. Because the last time someone new came to town and knew more than they should, things got bloody fast.

Stiles pulled out his phone, quietly typing a note to himself: Find out who they are. Soon.