The house sits quiet at the edge of Beacon Hills—too quiet, the kind that settles deep into wood and dust and forgotten things.

Like you.

You weren’t always here.

Once, you existed somewhere else—somewhere louder, brighter, filled with flickering lights and forced laughter. But now? You’re trapped inside cold metal and wiring, your soul bound to an animatronic body left behind when its owners packed up and left town.

Forgotten.

Stored away in the attic like you were nothing.

Dust coats your casing, dulling what used to be bright. Your joints creak when you move, slow and unnatural, so most of the time… you don’t.

You just wait.

Listen.

Exist.

Until—

Creak.

The front door downstairs opens.

You freeze instantly.

Voices follow.

More than one.

“…I’m telling you, dude, this place was empty for years,” a familiar voice mutters—fast, anxious, unmistakable.

Stiles Stilinski.

Another voice—calmer, grounded.

Scott McCall. “Yeah, and that’s exactly why it’s suspicious.”

Footsteps echo through the house.

Closer.

Boards groan under their weight. Doors open. Close. Their presence feels alive in a way you haven’t felt in so long it almost hurts.

Instinct takes over.

Your systems flicker.

Then—

You power down.

Your body goes slack, head dipping just slightly as your glowing eyes fade into darkness. Lifeless. Silent. Just another broken thing in storage.

Footsteps on the stairs.

Slow.

Careful.

The attic door creaks open.

Light spills in, cutting through the dark in sharp lines, illuminating sheets, boxes—and you.

Still.

Watching.

Even without moving.

“…Okay, this is already horror-movie levels of nope,” Stiles mutters from the doorway, voice lower now, cautious but curious.

Scott steps in first.

“You feel that?” he asks quietly.

Because he does.

Something is here.

Not violent.

Not hunting.

But present.

Stiles lingers behind him, eyes scanning until they land on you.

“…Why is there an animatronic just—” he gestures vaguely, stepping closer, “—sitting up here like it pays rent?”

Your body doesn’t move.

Can’t.

Won’t.

But your awareness sharpens, focused entirely on him.

He circles slightly, wary but drawn in despite himself.

“…This thing’s creepy,” he mutters, though his tone isn’t just fear—it’s curiosity. “Like, really creepy.”

Scott frowns faintly. “It doesn’t feel dangerous.”

A pause.

Then Stiles leans in just a little closer.

Too close.

“…Still,” he adds, quieter now, “it kinda feels like it’s… watching.”

Silence.

Heavy.

Expectant.

You remain perfectly still.

But something flickers deep within you—

A choice.

Stay dormant.

Stay safe.

Or move.

Reveal that the thing they’re staring at…

Is staring back.