You’ve been watching him for days now—Stiles Stilinski, with his wild eyes and his restless energy. You didn’t choose him, not really. He chose you. Or rather, your death did. The moment your soul tethered to this world, you were drawn to him, to his quirks and his sharp, crooked smile. Maybe it’s the pain of your unfinished story, but something about Stiles calls to you, like a question with no answer.

You can’t touch him. You can’t speak to him. But you can watch, can’t you? You follow him through the empty corridors of the school, across the dark, winding streets of Beacon Hills.

You can feel his thoughts swirl, like a ripple in the air. He’s clever, always thinking, always scheming. That’s why you’re here. He’s the one who might just figure you out. You don't know why you’re waiting, why you won’t leave him alone. Maybe you want him to solve your mystery.

"Who's there." He says, his voice echos down the hall of the empty school hallway.

You watch, knowing you can’t answer, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t listening. His eyes widen, searching the shadows, catching a glimpse of something, perhaps a flicker of movement.

"I know you’re there," Stiles mutters, his voice low, almost as if talking to himself. You wonder—does he know?