𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄. throughout the flow of years

THE FIRST AND ONLY TIME STILES STILINSKI AND Scott McCall set foot in Miyeon Yu's house was an accident, an unplanned detour into a memory neither of them could quite forget.

It was a warm spring evening, the kind that clings to your skin and makes the air hum with possibility, and they hadn't meant to follow Melissa McCall to a dinner invitation. But there they were, two thirteen-year-old boys standing awkwardly in the polished entryway of a house that smelled like spices and home, where everything felt too pristine and too personal all at once.

The house itself was unlike anything Stiles had ever seen, a blend of meticulous care and lived-in warmth. The walls were adorned with framed family photos, the kind that told stories of vacations, milestones, and candid moments. A faint scent of jasmine lingered in the air, mixing with the richer aromas wafting from the dining room. The entryway's polished hardwood floors gleamed under the soft light of a chandelier, and a pair of neatly arranged slippers by the door hinted at the unspoken rules of the household.

The table was already set when they arrived, a symphony of colors and textures that spoke of careful preparation.

Miyeon's parents had outdone themselves with the meal: a bubbling jjigae simmered in a clay pot, its deep red broth promising warmth and spice; delicate slices of galbi, marinated to perfection, sat on a platter garnished with sesame seeds and green onions; bowls of banchan — pickled radishes, kimchi, and seasoned spinach — were arranged with an artist's precision. The glossy sheen of japchae noodles glistened under the dining room's soft light, and a plate of golden-brown jeon rested nearby, their crispy edges begging to be tasted. Even the rice, steamed and pristine, seemed to have been served with reverence.

Every detail of the meal seemed to reflect the care and pride of the family hosting it.

Miyeon's parents greeted Melissa with enthusiasm, their voices warm and inviting as they welcomed her into their home.

The two boys had felt out of place at first, but that awkwardness quickly melted under the sheer force of Miyeon's parents' hospitality. Her father, a tall man with an easy smile, explained each dish with pride, gesturing animatedly as he described the effort that had gone into preparing the meal. His words were meant for Melissa, but Stiles and Scott listened intently, their curiosity sparked by the unfamiliar flavors and traditions laid before them.

"I hope you boys brought your appetites," Miyeon's father said with a laugh, his eyes crinkling with genuine warmth. He turned to Melissa, adding, "If we'd known you were bringing guests, we would've told Miyeon. She loves meeting new friends."

Yet, for all the warmth in the room, Stiles' attention drifted. His eyes followed the sound of footsteps descending the stairs, soft at first but growing louder, until Miyeon Yu appeared at the landing.

She was a vision of casual indifference: her school clothes still clung to her, leggings and a loose sweater, her hair swept into a messy bun as if she'd thrown it up without a second thought. Her lips had a faint sheen of gloss that caught the light, and her wide eyes darted to the two boys in the doorway, their presence clearly unexpected.

For Stiles, the moment seemed to stretch, each detail of her appearance etched into his memory with surprising clarity.

The way her sweater hung just slightly off her shoulder, revealing a glimpse of her collarbone. The way her bun was loose, a few stray strands framing her face and giving her an air of effortless charm. The way her eyes widened, a flicker of surprise quickly replaced by something unreadable.

It wasn't just how she looked; it was the way she carried herself, a mix of vulnerability and defiance that made Stiles' heart stutter for reasons he couldn't quite name.

Miyeon's mother spoke, her voice soft and encouraging, as she placed a hand on her daughter's shoulder. The gesture was affectionate, a silent nudge toward hospitality. But Miyeon's expression shifted instantly, her initial surprise melting into something more guarded.

She rolled her eyes, a dramatic gesture that made Stiles stifle a grin, and without a word, she turned on her heel and headed back upstairs, her retreat as swift as her arrival.

For a moment, the air seemed to hold its breath, and Stiles found himself staring at the empty staircase, a strange warmth creeping into his chest that he couldn't quite explain.

"She's a little shy," her mother said apologetically, though there was a trace of amusement in her tone. "She'll warm up to you boys eventually."

Scott nudged Stiles, bringing him back to the present. "Dude, you're staring," he whispered, a teasing lilt in his voice. Stiles blinked, shaking his head as if to clear it, and forced a smile.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of flavors and conversation.

Miyeon never came back downstairs, but her presence lingered in Stiles' mind, a quiet echo he couldn't shake, but the absence didn't dampen their enthusiasm for the feast laid out before them.

They had obliterated the array of dishes, now working through their third plates with no sign of slowing down. The adults were deep in conversation, Melissa's laughter mingling with Miyeon's parents' voices, their topics ranging from work to childhood anecdotes. The warm glow of the dining room light softened the edges of the scene, making it feel like a fleeting snapshot of domestic bliss.

Halfway through a particularly spirited story from Miyeon's father, her mother stood, smoothing her shirt with graceful precision. She began assembling a plate, meticulously arranging portions of the meal onto it. The soft clink of chopsticks against porcelain briefly paused the boys' ravenous eating. Turning to them with a gentle smile, she extended the plate. "Will you boys take this up to Miyeon? She's probably starving, even if she won't admit it."

The boys hesitated, exchanging wide-eyed glances. Delivering food to Miyeon, who had so clearly wanted to avoid them? It felt like being sent on a mission they weren't entirely qualified to handle. Still, they nodded in unison, compelled by politeness and perhaps a small twinge of guilt.

"Thank you," Miyeon's mother said, her voice kind but firm as she gave them directions to her room. "It's at the end of the hallway on the left. Don't mind the clutter."

Stiles grabbed the plate with exaggerated care, his fingers gripping the edges like it was some sacred artifact. Scott followed closely as they ascended the staircase, their footsteps muffled by the plush carpeting. But as they climbed higher, the atmosphere changed.

The second floor was colder, the temperature dropping just enough to raise the hair on their arms. The light was dimmer, filtered through frosted glass sconces, and the air carried a faint chill that didn't belong to the lively warmth below.

The hallway stretched out before them, unnaturally long and unnervingly quiet. The walls were lined with framed prints of landscapes and abstract art, their muted colors adding to the eerie ambiance. A faint hum of music emanated from behind the door at the end of the hall, the sound just audible enough to guide their steps.

Stiles slowed as they approached, his nerves prickling with unease. He looked over at Scott, who shrugged as if to say, "You're the one holding the plate." Stiles gave him a look — half annoyed, half pleading — but Scott simply gestured for him to proceed.

The music grew clearer: soft, instrumental, and strangely soothing. Stiles hesitated in front of the door, shifting the plate in his hands. "Should we knock?" he whispered.

Before Scott could answer, the door swung open.

Startled, Stiles nearly dropped the plate, managing to catch it just in time with a clumsy juggling act. Miyeon stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable as her gaze flicked between the plate and the two boys.

She didn't say a word. Instead, she reached out, taking the plate from Stiles with a swift, fluid motion. Then she turned on her heel and walked back into her room, leaving the door ajar just enough for them to catch a glimpse inside.

Stiles and Scott stood frozen, still clutching the air where the plate had been moments before. They exchanged a look, the kind that spoke volumes without a single word: "What just happened?"

Curiosity got the better of Stiles, and he leaned slightly, peeking into the room. It was unlike anything he'd ever seen.

The space was the size of a typical bedroom, but every inch of it seemed imbued with personality and purpose. Strings of crystals hung from the ceiling, catching the candlelight and scattering it in faint, prismatic patterns. Bundles of sage and dried herbs dangled from a wooden rack on the wall, their earthy scents mingling with the faint aroma of acrylic paint and vanilla.

The walls were adorned with sketches, paintings, and taped-up photographs, each one a window into Miyeon's mind. Some pieces were abstract, swirling colors and chaotic lines, while others were hauntingly detailed depictions of creatures Stiles couldn't name but found himself unable to look away from.

A small bowl filled with cracked eggshells sat near the corner of the door frame, and a faint trail of salt lined the edges of the room, creating an unbroken barrier that seemed both deliberate and ritualistic.

"What... is all this?" Stiles muttered under his breath, his eyes drawn to a wall covered in sketches.

Unlike anything he'd ever seen, the creatures in her drawings looked alive. They loomed with jagged edges and unnatural symmetry, their forms shifting between grotesque and hypnotic. Some appeared mid-scream, their mouths gaping in silent agony.

Miyeon's voice startled him out of his reverie. "You done staring?"

Stiles blinked, realizing he'd been openly gawking. "Uh, yeah. Sorry. It's just... these are really good."

Miyeon snorted, the sound halfway between disbelief and amusement. "Thanks, I guess."

Scott stepped forward cautiously. "You draw all these yourself?"

"No, I hired a ghost to do them," Miyeon said, deadpan.

Scott blinked, unsure how to respond. Stiles, however, smirked. "Okay, sarcasm noted. But seriously, these are amazing. Like, I didn't know you were —"

"— weird?" she interrupted, one eyebrow arching.

"I was gonna say talented," Stiles shot back, his voice tinged with exasperation.

Miyeon paused, her chopsticks hovering over her plate. For a moment, something unspoken passed between them — a flicker of recognition, perhaps even understanding. Then she shrugged and returned to her food.

"Don't step over the salt," she said suddenly, her tone flat.

"Why not?" Stiles asked, leaning down to inspect the faint trail.

"It's there for a reason," she said cryptically. Stiles squinted at her, clearly debating whether to press further.

The drive to Miyeon's house was steeped in silence, the kind that thickened with every passing minute. Stiles and Scott exchanged few words, their usual banter replaced by a shared unease. When they finally pulled up to Miyeon's home, a new kind of tension settled over them — a heavy, sinking weight.

The house stood as a shadow of its former self. Once charming and full of life, it now appeared abandoned, its warmth sucked away by the chaos that had unfolded within. The front door hung ajar, the handle splintered and twisted, a victim of Derek's force.

Shards of glass glittered ominously on the porch, remnants of the flower vase Miyeon's mother had kept on the hallway table. Inside, overturned chairs sprawled lifelessly across the floor, their legs jagged and broken. Stiles felt a pang of unease, his memories of a brighter, happier home clashing painfully with the grim reality before him.

Scott stepped cautiously through the threshold, his sharp eyes scanning the living room. The air inside was heavy, carrying the faint scent of lavender overlaid with something metallic — blood, maybe, or fear.

"I'll check downstairs," Scott murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Stiles nodded, gripping the straps of his bag like a lifeline as he climbed the stairs. Each step creaked under his weight, the sound unnervingly loud in the stillness. When he reached the landing, he paused, staring down the dim hallway. His gaze fell on the door at the end — the door to Miyeon's room. It felt like a different lifetime.

Pushing open the door, Stiles hesitated on the threshold. His breath hitched as his eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through the curtains.

The room was almost unrecognizable.

It wasn't how he remembered it.

Not at all.

Now, the walls were bare, stripped of their personality and warmth. The shelves that once held books and jars of dried flowers were empty, coated in a fine layer of dust. The bed was made too neatly, its stiff corners a stark contrast to the cozy chaos he remembered. The room felt abandoned, almost as if it had been scrubbed clean of her presence.

Stiles stepped inside cautiously, the weight of the silence pressing down on him. He opened the first drawer of her desk and found nothing but blank paper and pens, their organized state unsettling. The second drawer was similarly empty, as were the shelves and the space under the bed. It was as if Miyeon had erased herself from this place.

Frustration bubbled in his chest. He crouched by the bed, pressing his forehead to the cool wood of the floor as he peered into the shadows beneath it. There was nothing. Not a single sign of her. He stood, running a hand through his hair, and froze. The floorboard beneath his sneaker creaked oddly, a hollow sound that wasn't quite right.

Stiles dropped to his knees, pressing his ear to the ground. His fingers traced the edges of the board until he found a loose corner. Gritting his teeth, he dug his nails into the gap and pried it up, wincing as splinters bit into his skin. The board came loose with a groan, revealing a hidden compartment beneath the floor.

Inside, stacked neatly and bound in worn covers, were sketchbooks. Dozens of them. Stiles stared, his heart pounding as he reached for the nearest one. The cover was soft with age, the edges frayed. He opened it carefully, the pages crackling under his fingers.

The first drawing stopped him cold.

It was a chaotic swirl of dark pencil strokes, forming a monstrous creature with jagged teeth and hollow eyes. The detail was unsettling, almost as if the thing could leap off the page at any moment. Stiles flipped to the next page and found another sketch, this one of a serpentine figure coiled around a gnarled tree, its glowing eyes staring back at him.

Each drawing was more grotesque and vivid than the last.

He turned the pages faster, his breathing quickening. Had these been the monsters that Miyeon always talked about? The ones everyone had dismissed as the product of a vivid imagination?

Looking at these drawings, Stiles couldn't shake the feeling that she hadn't been imagining anything. What if she had been seeing something real? Something no one else could perceive?

He pulled out another sketchbook and flipped through it. This one was annotated, Miyeon's messy handwriting scrawled in the margins. Words like "hatred" and "despair" accompanied the drawings, along with notes on behavior.

It was like a field guide to creatures from another world.

Stiles sat back on his heels, the weight of the discovery pressing down on him. His thoughts spiraled as he stared at the pile of sketchbooks in front of him.

If Miyeon had been seeing these things all her life, what did it mean? And why had she hidden it so carefully?

"Stiles?" Scott's voice echoed from downstairs, breaking his reverie.

"Yeah?" Stiles called back, his voice cracking slightly.

"You find anything?"

Stiles stared at the open sketchbook in his hands, the twisted image of a clawed beast staring back at him. He swallowed hard, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Yeah," he said softly, more to himself than to Scott. "I found something."

THE AIR IN THE VET WAS HEAVY with unspoken tension, a palpable weight that seemed to press against the walls and floor. Deaton sat at the counter, his broad hands gingerly flipping through one of Miyeon's sketchbooks, his movements deliberate and almost reverent.

The thick paper rustled faintly as each page revealed another horrifying masterpiece: grotesque creatures, shadowy figures with elongated limbs, and mouths lined with jagged teeth that seemed to gnash even in stillness. The edges of the pages were smudged with graphite, evidence of Miyeon's relentless focus — her obsessive need to capture what she saw, no matter how nightmarish or incomprehensible. Each page seemed to hold its own twisted story, a haunting tableau etched with chilling detail that left no room for doubt about her vision.

In the back room of the clinic, Miyeon remained unconscious on the examination table, her breathing shallow but steady. The dim overhead lights buzzed faintly, their pale glow reflecting off the tiled floor, adding to the eerie stillness of the clinic.

Stiles and Scott stood a few feet away, their eyes darting between Deaton and the closed door that separated them from Miyeon. Tension coiled in the air like a serpent, ready to strike. Stiles shifted uneasily, his fingers tapping an erratic rhythm against his thigh, his nervous energy almost palpable.

Deaton's brow was deeply furrowed, his dark eyes scanning each sketch with meticulous care. A bead of sweat traced a slow, deliberate path down his temple, catching the faint light as it fell. Scott noticed it first, his stomach tightening with unease.

Deaton wasn't the type to sweat under pressure, and the room wasn't particularly warm.

Scott glanced at Stiles, who was chewing the inside of his cheek, his other hand gripping the back of a chair so tightly his knuckles were white. The tension in the room seemed to amplify with each passing moment, the silence stretching taut like a drawn bowstring.

"Is it just me, or is he... uh, sweating bullets?" Scott whispered, leaning slightly toward his friend.

"Maybe it's just hot in here," Stiles muttered back, though his voice lacked conviction. "Or maybe those freaky doodles are giving him a brain aneurysm. Who knows?"

Scott shot him a look but said nothing. The low hum of the clinic's refrigeration unit filled the silence, a soft but persistent reminder of the stillness that enveloped them. The faint rustling of paper as Deaton turned another page was the only other sound, a small yet somehow ominous noise that sent shivers down Scott's spine.

Deaton closed the sketchbook with a decisive thud, the sound echoing in the otherwise quiet room. Both teenagers straightened instinctively, their attention snapping to him as though pulled by an invisible thread. Deaton's hands lingered on the cover for a moment, his expression unreadable, but the faint tension in his jaw betrayed the weight of his thoughts. He exhaled slowly, as if bracing himself for the gravity of the conversation that was about to unfold.

"So, uh, what's the verdict, Doc?" Stiles asked, breaking the silence. His tone was snarky, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away. "Is Miyeon secretly Picasso reincarnated, or are we dealing with something more... you know, Lovecraftian?"

Deaton ignored the sarcasm, his gaze distant as he collected his thoughts. Finally, he looked up, fixing them both with his calm yet intense stare. The stillness in his demeanor seemed to magnify the gravity of his words.

"This isn't just art," he began, his voice low and deliberate. "What Miyeon has captured here is... unique. The detail, the precision — it's as though she's seen these creatures firsthand."

"Yeah, that's kind of her whole thing," Stiles interjected. "She's been talking about monsters since we were kids."

Deaton's gaze sharpened. "Have you ever considered that she might not have been imagining them?"

Scott frowned, his brows knitting together. "You mean she's been seeing actual monsters? Like the ones we've been dealing with?"

"Not exactly," Deaton replied, his tone measured. "This goes beyond the creatures you've encountered. These are... different. Grotesque, otherworldly. They don't fit into any category I've studied."

Stiles crossed his arms, his skepticism evident. "Okay, but why would she be the only one who can see them? I mean, Scott's a werewolf now, and even he hasn't seen anything like this."

Deaton's lips pressed into a thin line as he considered the question. "There are legends of seers," he said slowly, his voice carrying the weight of centuries-old knowledge, "individuals gifted — or cursed — with the ability to perceive things others cannot. Traditionally, seers are associated with visions of the future or insights into hidden truths. They're often portrayed as guides, helping others navigate events they themselves don't fully understand."

"Okay, cool history lesson," Stiles interrupted, waving a hand, "but what does that have to do with Miyeon drawing nightmare fuel?"

Deaton gave him a patient look, his calm unshaken by the interruption. "What's unusual here is that these sketches don't depict symbolic visions or abstract concepts. They depict creatures. Grotesque, tangible beings. It suggests that Miyeon's ability, if that's what this is, operates differently from traditional seers. Instead of perceiving potential futures or hidden truths, she may be seeing something... coexisting with our reality. Something invisible to most of us."

Scott's eyes widened, a flicker of fear mingling with curiosity. "So, like... another dimension? Or another layer of this one?"

"It's hard to say," Deaton admitted, his gaze shifting briefly to the closed door where Miyeon lay. "But what's clear is that whatever she's seeing, it's real to her. And the detail in these drawings suggests she's been observing them for a long time."

Stiles rubbed the back of his neck, his unease growing. "So, why wouldn't she tell anyone? I mean, besides the obvious 'everyone thinks I'm crazy' thing."

"Fear, perhaps," Deaton suggested, his voice soft but steady. "Or a lack of understanding. If she's been seeing these creatures since she was a child, it's likely she's learned to keep it to herself to avoid ridicule. But there's another possibility."

Scott tilted his head, his brow furrowing. "What possibility?"

Deaton's gaze returned to the sketchbooks, his expression grave. "These creatures... they're not passive observers. If Miyeon has been seeing them, it's possible they've been aware of her as well. She may have felt that speaking about them would draw their attention — or worse, their ire."

A heavy silence settled over the room, the weight of Deaton's words pressing down on all of them. Scott and Stiles exchanged uneasy glances, the implications sinking in like stones in a dark well. The air around them felt thicker now, as though the weight of this new revelation was something tangible, pressing down on their chests.

The room held an almost sacred silence, broken only by the faint buzz of the overhead lights and the soft rustle of Deaton's coat as he adjusted his posture. His hands rested lightly on the edge of the counter, but the tension in his fingers betrayed the weight of the thoughts swirling in his mind.

The air felt heavier now, as if the words Deaton was about to speak would carry a gravity they weren't entirely prepared for.

Scott broke the silence first, his voice hesitant. "So... she's a seer? Like you were talking about before?"

Deaton's dark eyes met Scott's, his resolve evident in the way he squared his shoulders. "I'm not sure," he admitted, his tone measured. "What she's experiencing doesn't align with the traditional understanding of seers. As I mentioned, seers typically have visions — of possible futures, hidden truths, or spiritual insights. She appears to be something else entirely."

Stiles leaned against the counter, his arms crossed, skepticism etched into his features. "Something else? Like what? A psychic? An oracle? Some kind of monster whisperer?"

Deaton's lips twitched into the faintest semblance of a smile, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. "Perhaps it's more reasonable to consider another perspective," he said, his voice taking on the cadence of a storyteller preparing to weave an intricate tale. "One rooted in Korean folklore."

Scott and Stiles exchanged a glance, their interest piqued. Deaton continued, his tone thoughtful. "In many cultures, there are stories of individuals who can perceive things that others cannot. In Korea, these figures might be associated with shamans or mudang, intermediaries between the physical world and the spiritual realm. But even within those traditions, there are nuances. Shamans typically act as guides or healers, not witnesses to grotesque, otherworldly beings."

Scott frowned, his brow furrowed. "You're saying she doesn't fit into that, either?"

Deaton shook his head slowly. "No. Her drawings, her experiences... they suggest something far more complex. Which brings me to another possibility." He paused, his gaze drifting to the closed door where Miyeon lay unconscious. "Have either of you heard of cursed energy?"

Stiles blinked, his expression shifting from skepticism to confusion. "Cursed what now?"

Deaton's eyes returned to them, a glimmer of something ancient and knowing in his gaze. "It's not a term commonly discussed outside certain circles, but there are legends — stories of individuals who can interact with manifestations of negative energy. According to these traditions, human beings constantly emit a form of energy tied to their emotions. When those emotions are overwhelmingly negative — fear, anger, hatred — the energy can accumulate and take on a life of its own."

Scott's jaw tightened, his mind working to piece together the implications. "And this energy becomes... what? Monsters?"

"Curses," Deaton corrected gently. "They are often described as malevolent beings, born from humanity's darkest emotions. They exist in the shadows, feeding on negativity and growing stronger over time. Most people cannot see them, much less interact with them. But there are those who can."

Stiles leaned forward, his curiosity overcoming his usual snark. "You mean people like Miyeon?"

Deaton nodded, his expression grave. "In some traditions, these individuals are called sorcerers. Their role is to combat curses, to protect humanity from the harm these entities can inflict. They use a power known as cursed energy — the very same energy that creates curses — to fight back. It's a delicate balance, one that requires immense control and training."

Scott's eyes widened, a flicker of fear and awe in his expression. "So you're saying she might be one of these sorcerers?"

Deaton's gaze softened, but his voice remained firm. "It's a possibility. Her ability to see these creatures, to draw them with such precision, suggests a connection to this hidden world. But it raises more questions than answers. Why can she see them? Why hasn't she shown signs of cursed energy herself? And most importantly, why are these creatures... drawn to her?"

Stiles ran a hand through his hair, his mind racing. "Okay, hold up. Let's say she is one of these sorcerers. How would she even know? I mean, it's not like there's a school for this kind of thing, right?"

Deaton allowed himself a faint smile at Stiles's typical sarcasm. "Traditionally, individuals who possess these abilities are either born into families with similar gifts or are discovered by others who can train them. But Miyeon's case seems different. If she is connected to this world, she's been navigating it entirely on her own."

Scott's voice was quiet but steady. "So what do we do? How do we help her?"

Deaton's expression turned somber. "First, we need to understand what we're dealing with. The sketchbooks are a start, but they're only fragments of a larger picture. If Miyeon truly has a connection to cursed energy, it's possible she's been documenting her experiences in other ways. Journals, notes, more drawings. We need to uncover everything she's hidden."

"Great," Stiles muttered, his sarcasm barely masking his unease. "More spelunking in the house of horrors."

Deaton's gaze was unwavering. "If Miyeon's abilities are tied to something as ancient and dangerous as cursed energy, understanding it could be the key to protecting her — and possibly ourselves. This isn't just about her. It's about what she represents, and the dangers that come with it."

Scott nodded, his resolve hardening.

The quiet hum of the conversation beyond the door was a distant murmur to Miyeon, who lay on the examination table, her body still heavy with exhaustion and pain. Her eyelids fluttered open, but she remained still, her breath shallow as her mind pieced together fragments of memory — the fight, the flight, the sharp, electrifying jolt of fear that had followed her every step.

Now, voices — Deaton's measured and steady, Stiles's snarky yet nervous, Scott's earnest and uncertain — slipped through the cracks of the door. Her name hung in the air, pulling her further into awareness.

Her fingers twitched, brushing against something cold and metallic. The syringe. She must have grabbed it instinctively while still halfway between sleep and consciousness. It rested in her hand now, the needle glinting faintly under the dim light. She tightened her grip, the sharp point of it a grounding sensation in her palm. Her breaths came quicker, but she forced herself to listen.

"Cursed energy," she heard Deaton say, his voice laced with a weight that made her chest tighten. "Curses born from human negativity. Sorcerers who can see and combat these creatures."

Her heart began to pound. The words felt like puzzle pieces falling into place, an explanation that fit far too neatly into the jagged edges of her life. The grotesque creatures she had drawn obsessively, the shadows she had glimpsed at the edges of her vision, the haunting weight of an unseen presence that had followed her for as long as she could remember — all of it had a name now. It wasn't her imagination. It wasn't madness. It was real.

The realization crashed over her like a wave, and she clutched the syringe tighter, her knuckles whitening. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Her breaths quickened into shallow, panicked gasps, each one a desperate attempt to steady herself. Her mind raced back to all the moments she had doubted her own sanity, the times she had pushed people away because she couldn't explain what she saw, the nights spent awake, staring into the dark and wondering if she'd ever escape it.

"She's been navigating this on her own," Deaton's voice continued, calm but tinged with an urgency that made her stomach twist. "If she had known..."

If she had known.

The words repeated in her mind, a mantra of regret and fury. If she had known, maybe she wouldn't have felt so alone. If she had known, maybe she could have fought back. If she had known, maybe she wouldn't have spent her life teetering on the edge of despair, convinced that she was broken in a way no one could fix.

Her breathing grew louder, harsher. She clutched at her chest with her free hand, feeling the uneven thrum of her heart beneath her fingertips. Her vision blurred, and her body trembled with the weight of everything she had been holding back for years. Tears spilled over, hot and unrelenting, as a choked sob escaped her lips. The sound startled her, and she pressed her hand over her mouth, trying to stifle it. But it was too late.

On the other side of the door, Scott's sensitive ears caught the sound. He straightened abruptly, his eyes narrowing as he tilted his head toward the source of the noise. "Do you hear that?" he asked, already moving toward the door.

"Hear what?" Stiles began, but Scott was already pushing the door open.

The sight that greeted him froze him in place. Miyeon was gone.

Miyeon's breath hitched as she reached the back door, her fingers curling around the handle. It opened with a faint groan, spilling her into the cool night air.

The streets were deserted, shadows pooling under the flickering streetlights. Miyeon moved swiftly, driven by an instinct she couldn't fully articulate. Her feet carried her away from the clinic, away from the voices and the weight of their concern. She didn't stop until she reached the familiar path leading to her childhood home.

The house loomed before her, its outline softened by the veil of night. Once, it had been a sanctuary, a place where laughter echoed and sunlight spilled through open windows. Now, it stood in silence, a hollow shell of its former self. Miyeon hesitated at the door, her hand hovering over the splintered frame. The fight with Derek had left its mark; the broken vase still lay in shards across the floor, the scent of destruction lingering like a ghost.

She stepped inside, her bare feet crunching softly against the debris. The house was dark, its shadows stretching long and deep. Her heart pounded as she moved through the rooms, each one more suffocating than the last. The walls seemed to close in, their silence pressing against her ears.

Her destination was clear — the bedroom that had once belonged to her parents.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

only jjk fans know what i just did

the question is what's her technique

this ch was so short for me omg

its only 5k words like im severely LACKING!!!

hopefully next ch will be longer, i plan to put her in the actual story of the show now!!!

also need more stiles x minnie scenes

but did y'all notice subtle feelings orrrrrrr hehe