“That’s not my blood.”

Your voice sounds foreign, as if you’re hearing it from a distance. The metallic smell hangs heavy in the air, mixed with damp earth and something sweet you can’t quite put your finger on. Your hands are trembling. Red all the way to your wrists. They were warm. Now they’re sticky.

Stiles is standing a few steps away from you. Too quiet. His gaze flickers from your face to your hands and back again, as if he’s trying to piece together a puzzle he doesn’t like.

“I know” he says finally. Too quietly for someone who never keeps his mouth shut.

Behind you lies the body. Or what’s left of it. No human being, at least. The markings on the walls had worked, the circle had held until it didn’t. It had been faster, stronger. And then there had been that moment, that single breath in which you had to choose.

Stiles’ voice trembles as he speaks. “You didn’t hesitate.”

You swallow. “If I hadn’t done it, you’d be—”

“I know.” He runs a hand through his hair, frantically, overwhelmed. “I know, I know, I know.” His eyes are alert. “But this… this doesn’t just go away.”

Sirens in the distance. Your stomach clenches.

“We have to get out of here” you say. Practically. Matter-of-factly. The way you speak when you don’t want to feel.

Stiles nods, but his gaze lingers on your hands. Not with disgust. With concern. Maybe even with fear, not of you, but of what this night has done to you.

“That was self-defense” he says, more to himself than to you. You wipe the blood on your jacket.