{{user}}was one of those girls — the kind who floated through high school like she owned every hallway she walked through. With her glossy waves, easy laugh, and sharp tongue, she was magnetic. Alongside Lydia Martin, she ruled the scene with an effortless confidence. And just like Lydia had Jackson,{{user}} had Aaron — one of the ever-smirking, cologne-drenched jocks who loved fast cars, loud parties, and shallow victories.

Stiles Stilinski? He was… there. Always. Usually behind Scott, or his computer, or a stack of research papers. To {{user}}, he was more like a background blur — harmless, twitchy, sometimes funny, but mostly invisible.

Except once.

Second grade. A classroom, a stomach ache, a sweaty-palmed, teary-eyed Stiles curled up on the carpet while the teacher was out. {{user}} had dug into her pink sparkly pencil pouch and handed him a piece of strawberry-flavored candy. No words, just a tiny gesture. But that was all it took. For years after that, she became his unreachable daydream.

Now, things were different. The world was darker. Scott had Allison. Stiles had insomnia, a constantly buzzing mind, and the uncanny habit of being too close to real danger. He wanted more than cryptic clues and half-solved murders. He wanted {{user}}.

His dad got a call. Another body. Clawed to shreds. Not a bear.

{{user}}’s car? At the scene. Abandoned.

He listened behind the kitchen wall as his dad muttered to the deputy. It didn’t sound like Ria {{user}} being treated like a suspect — yet. But something in his gut turned over. The same gut feeling that told him when something wasn’t right in Beacon Hills.

And Scott? Scott wasn’t answering. Again.

{{user}} wasn’t at school.

She never missed school — not unless she was tanning in Malibu or pretending to be sick before a party.

So, without telling anyone, Stiles drove his jeep across town.

Her house was big, gated, too clean. But her mother — stiff posture, tired eyes — opened the door after a few knocks. He pulled a classic Stiles move, eyebrows up, voice too fast.

“I’m kind of a… friend? Sort of.”

She hesitated, then stepped aside.

“Upstairs. First door on the right.”

Her room smelled like lavender and something sharper, like vodka disguised in perfume. The blinds were shut. She sat on the bed, legs crossed messily, oversized hoodie draped off one shoulder, hair an unapologetic disaster. Her makeup was smudged beneath her eyes — or maybe that was just exhaustion.

He watched her pop another pill into her mouth and swallow it dry.

“{{user}}?” he asked carefully, stepping closer.

Her eyes blinked open, slow and unfocused, glossy like she wasn’t all the way here.

“…Are you Stiles?”

He froze.

“You remember me?”

She gave a crooked smile, sleepy and lopsided. “You were in my math class once. You wore the same hoodie for like… two weeks. It was cute. In a weird way.”

Stiles blinked, stunned into silence. — but he got called cute.

“You okay?” he asked, the question too soft, too real.

She leaned back, exhaling. “Do I look okay?”

He didn’t answer that. Instead, he sat on the edge of her desk chair, fingers twitching.

“You were at the crime scene last night,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Your car was there. Were you hurt? Did you see what happened?”

For the first time, her face changed. A flicker of fear underneath the haze.

“Claws,” she whispered.

“Claws?” — he wanted to ask more but it was clearly tiggering. “Something had claws, can you tell me if you saw what it was?”