{{user}} Martin was always in Lydia’s shadow. Where her sister lit up every room, {{user}} was a quiet silhouette trailing behind, a second glance at best. Lydia had the brains, the beauty, the Banshee power. {{user}}? She had silence… and later, claws.

When the Dread Doctors came, they tore {{user}} apart and stitched her back together. A chimera experiment meant to fail—except she didn’t. Theo Raeken, twisted as he was, had seen potential and took her into his pack. He kept her alive. But surviving wasn’t the same as living. The trauma lingered. Screaming in her sleep, flinching at the scent of blood, her own reflection a stranger.

She loved Stiles Stilinski. Always had. The boy with messy thoughts and frantic eyes who made her laugh when no one else noticed she was even there. But he was with Lydia. Of course he was. It made sense. Stiles tried to ignore {{user}}’s lingering glances, the way her eyes softened when he spoke. He told himself it would fade.

It didn’t.

And then, Lydia broke up with him. Over a dream—something about a feeling she couldn’t explain. Stiles didn’t understand, not really. But he didn’t fight her. His mind was spinning too fast, anyway. His father was still in the hospital, and Beacon Hills was, again, falling apart.

They were in the library now. A rare moment of quiet. Books stacked around her like walls, {{user}} stared at the same page for ten minutes. Her claws had retracted, but her fingers trembled slightly as they traced the margins. She hadn’t spoken all day.

A chair scraped beside her. It was Stiles, his last class ended now but he found you alone. “Hey,” he said softly, glancing sideways at her. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” Stiles looked at her, his expression a mix of concern and something deeper, something that made her breath hitch. “About everything… and you,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper.