𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The game was over. Stiles scored the last point but didn’t stay to celebrate his win.

He left the field, ignoring the confused looks from his teammates and slipping past the crowd. Somewhere, the bleachers full of people was cheering loudly. Somewhere, the coach was patting the players on the back for their uncommon win. But Stiles couldn’t hear any of it. His ears were ringing.

Scott hadn’t shown up. Again.

And Erica and Boyd were still missing.

By the time he reached his Jeep, the doubt in his chest had twisted into something sharper. Not nerves. Not paranoia. Just instinct. And it was screaming at him.

The Argents’ house looked like every other house in Beacon Hills. Clean. Ordinary. Unbothered. But there was something about its silence—about the stillness of the porch light, the perfect hedges—that set his teeth on edge.

He parked two blocks away and walked the rest of the distance in the dark, heart pounding with each step. He didn’t text Scott. Didn’t call Derek. If he was wrong, he didn’t want to waste anyone’s time. But if he was right…

He found the cellar doors behind the house, hidden under vines and old latticework. Locked. But not for long. He picked it open.

The stairs creaked under his weight. The smell hit him first—sweat, blood, rust. His eyes adjusted to the dim yellow light of a single bulb swaying from the ceiling.

And then he saw them.

Erica. Boyd. Chained to the ceiling like animals.

Stiles rushed to them, trying to unchain them, but the chained were electrified and stopped him.

Before Stiles could think, Gerard was already behind him.

The first hit was a cane to the ribs—sharp, fast, and meant to drop him.

Another blow landed across his back. He didn’t know what it was—cane, foot, fist—it didn’t matter. All he knew was pain. And the sound of chains behind him. And the faint, broken sound of Erica whispering his name.

It didn’t last long.

Gerard wasn’t trying to kill him. He didn’t have to. He was making a point.

By the time it was over, Stiles couldn’t stand.

But he remembered how to crawl.

He didn’t remember getting to the Jeep. He didn’t remember starting the engine. His vision was a blur, headlights and streetlamps streaking like stars. His chest throbbed with every turn of the wheel, and every breath he took.

The house was dark when he pulled into the driveway.

He sat behind the wheel for a full minute before he could open the door. Every movement hurt. But he forced himself out, one step at a time, up the porch, through the door, up to his room.

And there he was.

His dad.

“Where the hell are you, Stiles?” Noah mumbled in Stiles’ empty room.

“…Right here”

Noah’s head shot up, seeing Stiles scraped up face. He walked toward him, his lips moving with an angry look his eye but Stiles couldn’t hear anything. “Dad—!” he cut Noah off “I said it was okay,” His voice broke as he spoke before Noah pulled him into a tight hug.

Two hours later, Stiles laid stomach down on his bed, his body and head aching from the beating he took. A soft knock rang through his room. “Go away,” Stiles mumbled but was only met with another knock. “Dad, please go away.”

Another knock.

He reluctantly got up, swinging the door open “Dad—“ He stopped. It wasn’t his dad. “{{user}}…”