Stiles had just shaken himself out of his own nightmare—the words of his father still echoing painfully in his mind. His heart was racing, his breathing uneven as he hurried through the dimly lit halls of Lydia’s house. The party music thumped in the background, a cruel reminder of the chaos everyone else was oblivious to. Most of the guests were too busy dancing, laughing, and drinking to notice what was really going on. But Stiles knew something was wrong—deeply wrong.

The last time he'd seen you, you were holding a cup of that damn punch—his heart clenched at the thought of what you might be going through. He didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until he turned the corner into one of the quieter, darker rooms in the house.

And that’s when he found you.

You were curled up in the corner, your knees drawn to your chest, trembling. Tears streamed down your face as you hugged yourself tightly, your sobs barely audible over the thumping bass of the party. Your entire body shook, as if you were trying to ward off some unseen terror. Stiles' stomach dropped. He could see the sheer panic in your eyes—you weren’t seeing the real world anymore, just like he hadn’t.

"{{user}}?" he called softly, careful not to startle you, though his voice cracked with worry. He knelt down beside you, but you didn’t respond—your eyes were locked onto something invisible, your breaths coming in short, uneven gasps. Whatever you were seeing had you completely trapped in fear.