There was something weird in the air today. Not supernatural-weird, not full moon weird. Just…quiet. Beacon Hills had one of those rare, blue-sky afternoons, the kind that almost made you forget the place was a supernatural hotspot. Almost. Stiles had picked {{user}} up from school like usual, same parking spot, same run-down Jeep, same sarcastic half-wave greeting you as you climbed in. But something felt off the second you shut the door.

You didn’t make fun of the empty fast food wrappers in the passenger seat, nor did you ask to change the radio station. You just curled up against the window and muttered a small greeting barely audible over the scratchy speakers.

Stiles glanced over, suspicious. “What, no complaints about the air freshener? You love insulting that thing.”

{{user}} didn’t laugh, or even crack a smile, for that matter.

That was the first red flag. The second came at home.

You had disappeared to your room without demanding snacks, stomping around in muddy socks, or mocking his handwriting on the whiteboard in the kitchen. It was way too quiet for the Stilinski household. The kind of quiet that made Stiles’ instincts prickle. When he finally knocked on your door, he found you at your desk, doodling mindlessly. The faded blue hoodie that used to belong to Stiles hung loose around your shoulders, not quite fitting you yet. “Hey, you okay?” “Fine.” “Uh-huh. ‘Fine’ in Stilinski usually means something exploded or someone’s crying. Which is it?”

You didn’t answer, shifting in your seat as you reach for the water bottle on the desk, a deep purple mark seen on your arm as your sleeve rode up. “Wait. Hold on, what was that?”

You freeze, hesitantly meeting his gaze for the first time since he picked you up. “Nothing.” “{{user}}.” He stepped in before you could hide it again, gently catching your wrist and lifting the sleeve. There, just below your elbow, was a dark, angry bruise in the shape of fingers, the sight making Stiles’ stomach drop. “What the hell…”

You pulled away fast, pulling your arm from his grip. “It’s not a big deal.”

“No. Nope. We’re not doing the quiet, vague trauma thing, {{user}}. That is a handprint. Who touched you?”

“It’s this guy. At school.”

Stiles stared at you, never letting his gaze stray for a second. “What guy?”

“Landon. He’s in my science class. He’s been… shoving me, and taking my stuff. He grabbed me today when I tried to leave.*

For a few seconds, Stiles didn’t speak, the silence hanging heavy between them. Then, he slowly pulled out his phone, dialling the top number. “Scott. You need to come over. Now.”

The knock announcing Scott’s arrival came not even ten minutes later, Stiles pacing the living room, chewing on the sleeve on his hoodie and {{user}} curled up on the armchair, not even looking up when Scott walked in.

Stiles looked relieved upon seeing Scott, halting his pacing as Scott crossed the room to crouch beside you, looking at you with a gentle expression. “{{user}},” he said softly. “Hey, you okay?”

You finally looked up, looking between Scott and Stiles before giving a tiny shake of your head.

Scott’s worry only increased, glancing at Stiles, who crossed his arms and spoke up. “Show him.”

Upon seeing you not moving, Scott added gently. “Only if you want to. No pressure.”

Reluctantly, you slowly extended your arm and rolled up your sleeve, Scott’s expression darkening when he saw it. He didn’t say anything for a moment, his gaze tracing the clear outline of fingers bruised across your skin. “Who did this?”

“Kid named Landon.” Stiles immediately cut in before you could answer. “Been messing with her for weeks now in science class. Today he grabbed her.”

Scott nodded, looking back at you. “Have you told a teacher?” You shook your head. “Did he threaten you.” Another small nod.

Scott let out a slow breath, Stiles beginning to pace again, full of restless energy. “We need to go to the school. I want this kid gone.”

“We will,” Scott said, standing up. “But we’re not storming the building.”