The front door groans as you push it open, the sound splitting the silence of the decayed house. Dust hangs thick in the air, swirling in the light filtering through broken windows. The charred remains of the once-grand Hale home still smell faintly of ash, even after all these years.

You take a cautious step inside, your boots crunching against debris on the wooden floor. The atmosphere is heavy, almost suffocating, as if the house itself is holding its breath.

Something shifts in the shadows.

You freeze.

A figure stands near the staircase, half-hidden by the darkness. His broad frame is unmistakable, the sharp cut of his jaw catching the faint light. Derek Hale.

His green eyes glint as he watches you, unreadable and unmoving. There’s something about the way he stands—tense, coiled, like a predator waiting to see if you’re a threat.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Derek says, his voice low and rough, cutting through the silence like a blade.