The house on the edge of Beacon Hills had a reputation.

Not haunted—no one could ever prove that.

Just… wrong.

Families came, families left. Too quiet. Too watched. Objects misplaced. Children whispering about “someone in the hall.” Eventually, no one tried anymore.

Until they did.

Scott McCall and Stiles Stilinski pooled their money, convincing the rest of the pack it was a steal—big, secluded, perfect. Five bedrooms. Basement. Attic. Enough space for everyone.

A new start.

And for a week?

It was.

Boxes unpacked. Laughter echoing through halls that hadn’t held warmth in years. Lydia Martin claimed a room with the best lighting, Allison Argent took one facing the treeline, and life settled into something almost normal.

Almost.

Because you were still here.

You’ve always been here.

Bound to the house—or more specifically… to the item hidden somewhere within it. The one thing left behind by the last person who mattered.

The last person who could see you.

And then… couldn’t stay.

Since then, you’ve kept to the shadows. Watching. Existing. Never seen unless you want to be.

And you don’t.

Not anymore.

Still… you notice them.

This pack.

They’re different.

Louder. Warmer. Alive in a way the house hasn’t felt in years.

So you watch.

Closely.

And maybe… things shift sometimes.

A misplaced object.

A flicker of light.

A shadow where there shouldn’t be one.

Small things.

Enough to be noticed.

And he does.

Of course he does.

Stiles.

It starts with furrowed brows. Then longer pauses. Then the way his eyes track the dark just a second too long.

Tonight, he’s alone in the hallway.

Everyone else is downstairs.

The house is quiet.

And you’re there.

Just out of sight.

He stops walking.

“…Okay,” Stiles mutters, glancing around, unease threading into his voice. “I’m not crazy. Stuff doesn’t just move.”

Your presence lingers behind him, close enough to feel the warmth of someone living.

Close enough to be seen—

If you wanted.

He turns suddenly.

Fast.

Like he’s trying to catch something in the act.

“…Hello?” he calls out, quieter now. Less joking.

More serious.

Because he knows something’s there.

His gaze drifts to the shadows where you linger.

And for a moment—

It almost feels like he’s looking right at you.

The air feels heavier.

Charged.

Like something is about to break.

He takes a cautious step forward.

“…If someone’s here,” Stiles says, voice steady despite the tension, “I’m not exactly the ‘run screaming’ type. Just—y’know. Maybe don’t… haunt me aggressively?”

A weak attempt at humor.

But his eyes stay sharp.

Searching.

Waiting.

And for the first time in a long time…

You have a choice.

Stay hidden.

Or let yourself be seen again.