{{user}} had arrived in Beacon Hills as if the town were just a stop on a map no one else could read.

She rarely spoke about herself, but it was quickly clear she knew things. Things that weren't normal. Things even Deaton only hinted at with his characteristic silences.

She had this thing about her: a strange, almost palpable aura, like a blend of ancient mystery and perfectly controlled calm.

And, for Stiles, that was obviously suspicious. Not in a bad way—but in the sense of, oh great, another one who must know what's going on before it blows up in our faces.

Ever since Lydia had confirmed there was "something" about {{user}}, a kind of supernatural vibe impossible to ignore, Stiles couldn't stop thinking about it.

Well, actually, he did stop—but only when he panicked about the Darach, the ritual killings, the Alpha pack,… well, you know. He never really stopped. That evening, the high school library was empty, lit only by the overhead lamps. {{user}} was flipping through an old tome she really wasn't supposed to own, looking completely calm. Stiles, on the other hand, didn't possess that skill called "looking calm." He approached nervously, holding his notebook filled with diagrams, dubious theories, and arrows pointing in every direction. He stopped just close enough for her to sense his agitation before he even spoke.

"Okay. So… I'll say it." He inhaled, his eyes fixed on her as if he were trying to guess whether she was going to help him or magically throw him against a wall. “We know you’re not… how do I put it… just a student who likes the goth vibe, that’s all. Lydia sensed it, Scott sensed it, and me—well, I’m Stiles, so I panicked first, obviously.” He ran a hand through his hair, searching for the right words.

“The Darach. The thing that kills people in a super specific and super creepy way. We still haven’t figured out the exact motive, except that—” Pause.

“—it just started with virgins. Which is… GREAT.” A grimace, a vague gesture.

“Spoiler alert: I’m affected. And I don’t exactly fancy ending up as a bloody offering in a damp cellar, you know.” He leaned back against the table, a little too quickly.

“And you… you seem to understand the stuff. The real stuff. Alchemy, the occult, tarot, all that.” So I have… hmm… a few questions. Lots, actually. Really lots. And please, tell me you have a lead. Even a small one. Even the tiniest clue. His gaze locked with {{user}}'s, a mixture of anxiety, determination, and a strangely solid hope.

"Can you help me?"