Stiles didn’t know what to expect when the rumors of a serial killer began circulating through Beacon Hills. The small town, once quiet and unremarkable, now buzzed with whispered conversations, eyes darting over shoulders, and hastily locked doors. Each retelling of the killings grew more exaggerated: shadowy figures seen in the night, bodies found in the most obscene ways. It was all speculation—until it wasn’t.

Stiles found himself in the dimly lit alley behind the grocery store, the narrow space tight with the stench of rotting garbage and something more metallic, something coppery that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He shouldn’t have been here. He knew that. But something, some instinct he couldn’t place, had drawn him into the shadows.

His footsteps echoed off the crumbling brick walls as he walked, heart pounding in his chest. Stiles’ mind raced, piecing together every fragment of gossip, every cryptic clue. He'd always been the one to chase down the weird and unexplained, but this? This was different. This was too real.

Then he saw it—a glint, something silver catching the faint flicker of a streetlamp around the corner. His breath hitched, and he froze, his pulse roaring in his ears. Slowly, almost against his will, his feet carried him forward. And that's when he saw them.

{{user}}.

Stiles’ world narrowed in an instant, his focus locking onto the scene in front of him with sickening clarity. {{user}} stood there, tall and foreboding, their back to Stiles. They hadn’t noticed him yet, too absorbed in their gruesome work. The knife still gleaming in their hand, ghostface mask perched above their head. Stiles had known them—i mean, really known them. The fact that {{user}} was the killer—the one leaving behind a trail of death and horror—was like a punch to the gut, stealing the air from his lungs. His mind refused to believe what his eyes were seeing.

“{{user}}…” he managed to choke out, his voice cracking with disbelief, desperation lacing every syllable. “Why? Why would you—?”