Stiles brush with death at the hands of the malevolent Darach, Jennifer, leaves him teetering on the edge of the supernatural abyss. Salvation comes with a price: the bite. Now, thrust into the tumultuous life of a werewolf, Stiles must come to grip...
Watching someone you love shatter before your very eyes inflicts a deeper wound than any blade, bullet, arrow, or weapon that has ever cut through me.
In the dim recesses of the viewing room, Stiles' anguish reverberated like an earthquake. His soul-wrenching wail shattered the silence, leaving a haunting echo in its wake. Grief, raw and merciless, clawed at his being as he stared through the window, his vision fixated on the cold, lifeless form of his father.
I watched helplessly as Stiles crumbled to the floor, his body wracked with sobs. His pain cut me like a thousand knives, a cruel reminder of the day my own world shattered. I understood his agony too well, the suffocating grief that threatened to consume him.
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Stiles had always been an enigma, a kaleidoscope of personalities hidden beneath a mask of sarcasm, selflessness, and dramatic flair. But now, all the facades crumbled, leaving only the raw, broken heart of a boy who had lost too much.
He was the boy who stayed up late, anxiously awaiting his father's safe return. The boy who hid liquor bottles from his grieving father, hoping to shield him from his own despair. The boy who left his home and the only family he had to protect them from himself.
I knew that pain. I had felt it in my very bones, the day my family was taken from me. The smell of burning flesh, the desperate screams, the ash that settled like a shroud of despair. I had lost everything I loved, and now, I watched in horror as Stiles experienced the same abyss of grief.
But unlike me, who was left alone all those years ago, Stiles had me. And I refused to let him shatter alone.
"Stiles," I whispered, my voice trembling with compassion. I knelt beside him, our eyes meeting in a shared moment of sorrow. "Let's go home."
His words, choked with sobs, barely escaped his lips. "I-I can't leave him."
I reached out a gentle hand, wiping away the tears that streamed down his face. A flicker of resistance met my touch, his body weary but fighting against the inevitable.
"I know," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "Your father will be taken care of, I swear it. Please. Let me take care of you, as I promised."
I didn't want to make this about myself, but Stiles needed a reason to pick himself up off that floor. If appealing to his unwavering selflessness was the key, then so be it.
Slowly, Stiles' sobs subsided, his tears now silent as they traced paths down his cheeks. He glanced at the white sheet covering his father's body, his eyes filled with a mixture of sorrow and resignation. Then, with a silent nod, he agreed.
Relief washed over me as I helped Stiles to his feet. He hastily rubbed at his face, sniffling as he seemed to come back to himself, realizing the eyes of everyone else in the room were upon him. He quickly used me as a shield against their sympathetic gazes.
