𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄. the smile has left your eyes

GRIEF CAME IN WAVES, LITTLE ONES. AT FIRST, THEY WERE so strong that Miyeon felt swept away. They came at such random moments, replacing a feeling of normalcy with familiar tears. Yet in time those waves would lessen and let the good memories flood in instead, they allowed for waves of smiles and warmth, those funny or sweet things that were said.

When you have ridden the waves of grief you will see that you have a strong, strong heart. You will see that the pain is a witness to the loving bond that survives the passing.

After her parents' disappearance, her heart broke and she bled an ocean through her eyes. Her soul felt wafer thin. Her body trembled and chilled. And she learned more about pain than she'd ever wanted to know.

Sometimes their memory made her melancholy, her parents ― were fiercely loyal and overprotective. The wish for them to still be alive filled her with such rage and bitterness that she thought she would explode. One day she would grieve for them, but first, she would have to accept they were really gone ― and though her sister and herself held a funeral there was still a part of her that held that memory back.

Grief had a way of removing oneself from the world and it took real strength to reconnect and weave themself anew into the fabric of living, to give them a chance at future happiness.

"When you think about what happened to them, what do you imagine?"

"I think about a lot of things," Miyeon said. "I think it's not fair that they're gone. How they had their whole life ahead of them, they'll never see me graduate, never walk me down the aisle. How it's not fair for me to grow up without a mother and father."

The choice to have sessions with her guidance counselor was brave, for it is a new start in the battle of the two selves, of the "two wolves," of reaching out for help to gain the upper hand and become your best self. Of course, it was her Melissa McCall's idea.

"Is that all?" Marin Morrell, asked.

Part of the art of a great counselor is being a great role model for self-control and the use of the prefrontal cortex in responding to problems rather than reacting. They show how to weave self-control, empathy, and logic to enable their client to gain a higher ability for creative shifts in perspective, thus enhancing emotional intelligence.

Miyeon liked Ms. Morell. Some counselors were just there for the paycheck, just hanging out until retirement was feasible, but not her. From the first day she walked into the door, she knew she was in good hands. There wasn't a chance in hell that her new counselor wasn't experienced at both her craft and mentoring.

She was approaching mid twenties, she'd say, her face wrinkles showed how she smiled and laughed often; her eyes and voice were soft but with just the right blend of assertiveness and confidence to keep a class in order. She realized that the right emotional environment is key to the art of teaching.

"I feel like I'm going crazy," Miyeon muttered, the words barely audible, as if she was ashamed of them, of herself. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The room felt too big, too quiet, and the silence between her and Marin weighed heavily, like the air had thickened with all the unsaid things that hovered between them. She opened her mouth again, struggling to push the words out. "I'm nothing special. I never asked for this. I didn't want this."

Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, a small fracture that belied the tidal wave of emotion she was holding back. Marin, seated across from her, watched her intently, her face calm, expression inscrutable.

Miyeon searched her eyes for something — compassion, understanding, absolution. Anything that would make the crushing weight of expectation feel a little lighter. She wanted Marin to make it all disappear, as if she could simply erase everything, all the memories, the responsibilities, the terrible choices.

"I can't help but think," Miyeon continued, her voice trembling now, "maybe if I hadn't acted so crazy..." She trailed off, leaving unsaid the most painful part of all: that maybe it should have been her who had gone instead.

The thought echoed through her mind, sharp and jagged, but she couldn't bring herself to say it aloud. It felt too cliché, too obvious, as though uttering it would make her nothing more than a trope in her own tragic story. And what would Marin think? What would she say if she knew?

"Yes?" Ms. Morell's voice cut through the silence, steady and patient, though there was an edge of curiosity to it. She tilted her head slightly, her gaze never wavering from Miyeon's face.

For a brief, fleeting moment, Miyeon almost said it. The words teetered on the tip of her tongue, a confession she was desperate to release, if only to feel lighter, to feel unburdened. She wanted to tell her everything — that if she had the option to block out the creatures that no one else seemed to see, if she had understood what it meant, she might have intervened.

She might have taken their place.

But then what? Would she have vanished, too? Would she have disappeared just as suddenly and inexplicably as they had?

She swallowed the thought, burying it deep inside herself, where all the dark and painful things went. It wasn't something she could say. Not to Marin. Not to anyone.

"Doesn't matter, everyone already thinks I'm crazy," she said instead, the sentence slipping out easily, like a reflex. She leaned in closer to her, as if trying to convince her with proximity. "You know there's a petition to admit me in Eichen House?"

Marin's expression softened, but there was still a tension in her posture, as though she could sense that Miyeon wasn't telling the whole truth. "Did you hate them before they left?" She asked, her voice gentle, but the question landed like a weight in the room, making the air feel heavy again.

Miyeon didn't answer right away. Her gaze dropped to her hands, and she started picking at her nails, the nervous habit she had developed when she was a child. She fixated on a small, jagged edge, pulling at it with increasing intensity, until Marin finally spoke again.

"Stop. You're going to make it bleed."

Miyeon glanced up, startled by the sudden command. But she didn't stop. She almost felt like laughing, bitterly.

Isn't that what people did when they were overwhelmed, when they were confronted by the unknown? They picked at things. At themselves. At their lives. They dug deeper and deeper until something bled, until something was unearthed, even if what they found wasn't what they wanted to see.

"Yeah, I did," Miyeon finally said, her voice quiet and resigned. "I was so angry at them. I said horrible things."

"So shouldn't you be mad at the ones who convinced them to go through with it?" Marin asked, her tone shifting slightly, her voice probing but kind. "What's the truth?"

Miyeon's breath caught in her throat.

Convinced them to go through with it.

Right.

Because the world thought her parents simply abandoned her.

And Miyeon couldn't tell them what really happened.

But she was mad — at the creature who had taken her parents, at the world that had allowed this to happen. But it was hard to stay angry at phantoms, at people who were probably long gone by now, faceless figures who operated in the shadows, pulling strings that controlled lives without ever revealing themselves.

"I am," Miyeon admitted, her shoulders slumping as though the admission had physically weighed her down. "But they're probably gone too."

Marin nodded slowly, as if she understood. "I see."

But Miyeon didn't see. She was reaching for something — anything — that would make sense of this mess. She could feel herself grasping at thin air, her hands clutching for answers that were always just out of reach.

She wanted someone to tell her that it was all worth it, that her parents' disappearance had some kind of meaning, that everything had happened for a reason. But there was nothing. No grand explanation, no tidy resolution. Just an aching emptiness where her parents used to be.

Tears welled up in her eyes, and she didn't even try to stop them this time. She let them fall, hot and fast, streaking down her cheeks as she curled her body inward, pulling her knees to her chest and hiding her face in the fabric of her sweatshirt. Her sobs were quiet, muffled, but the pain in them was unmistakable.

"I just feel so terrible for thinking like this," Miyeon choked out between sobs. Her voice was barely a whisper, thick with guilt and sorrow.

Marin stood up slowly, the legs of her chair scraping against the floor with a loud squeak that echoed through the otherwise silent room. She walked over to Miyeon and gently placed a hand on her shoulder, the touch warm and comforting. Marin didn't say anything right away. Instead, she waited, letting Miyeon's sobs fill the space between them.

"It's normal to feel this way, Minnie," Marin said softly, using the childhood nickname that Miyeon hadn't heard in so long. "That's the thing about grief."

Miyeon sniffled, wiping her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. "What do you do when the only person you could talk to is gone?" she asked, her voice trembling, her body still shaking from the force of her emotions. "What happens then?"

Ms. Morrell's room was all beige walls and off white floors. The ceiling was surprisingly really high, and there were tons of people outside waiting for their turn, even though it was early in the day.

If Miyeon listened closely she could almost hear their whispers, rustling like fabric, sinking into the whiteness of the walls.

A painting hung as far as Miyeon could see, its presence almost overwhelming in the quiet room.

It loomed above her, drawing her in with its vibrant colors, as though the strokes on the canvas were alive, dancing in the flickering light. The purples and reds blended together in a way that was both beautiful and unsettling. Maidens twirled with creatures, their limbs entwined in fluid motion, their bodies almost weightless, like leaves caught in the wind. Among them was a tiger — or something like a tiger. Its wings spread wide, dark stripes spiraling over its body, as it held a violin delicately between its teeth.

It wasn't just a tiger, Miyeon thought, squinting at the odd contours of its shape, the otherworldly twist to its form. If someone had asked her to describe it, she would say it was a tiger if tigers had wings. And if their stripes weren't really stripes at all, but long, swirling lines that seemed to shift and move the more she looked.

Two women stood beneath the blazing sun, locked in an embrace that felt both intimate and tragic, their faces obscured by shadow. Above them, the sun wasn't just bright — it was blazing, an enormous, burning orb that seemed to press down on the figures with oppressive heat.

The entire canvas was chaotic, a swarm of unrelated images jumbled together, like a glimpse into someone else's dream, a dream Miyeon was only allowed to witness from the edges. Yet the emotions it stirred within her were painfully familiar.

The joy depicted in the maidens' smiles felt almost ferocious, a sharp contrast to the suffocating coldness that radiated from the shadows behind them. Blues and purples clashed with yellows and reds, swirling together in a war that seemed to rage across the canvas, as though the colors themselves were caught in a storm.

"You know that painting?" Ms. Morrell's voice cut through the silence, and Miyeon blinked, realizing she had been staring at the painting for what felt like hours. She hadn't even noticed Marin watching her, her gaze patient but probing.

Miyeon nodded, her eyes still drawn to the chaotic scene on the wall. "Yeah," she muttered, her voice distant. Her face had softened, the tension from earlier melting away, leaving her feeling almost calm, almost weightless, as if she too had become part of the painting.

"What do you think when you see it?" Her voice was soft, coaxing, but not demanding. She was giving Miyeon the space to feel, to process, without pushing too hard.

"I don't know," Miyeon admitted, her brow furrowing as she studied the painting again, her eyes tracing the lines of the tiger's wings, the tender curve of the women's arms as they clung to each other. She hesitated before speaking again, her voice even quieter now. "Did something bad happen to them?"

"Mmh." Ms. Morrell nodded, her gaze still fixed on Miyeon, though she didn't seem surprised by the question. "Two lovers. Something really painful happened to them. Something really sad. But you know what?" Her tone shifted, her voice carrying a note of hope that Miyeon almost couldn't bear to hear. "They made it through. That's why they can live in perfect harmony. After everything, after all the pain, they made it."

Miyeon let out a long, shaky breath, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. She rubbed her eyes, trying to push away the emotions that threatened to spill over. The painting suddenly felt oppressive, the colors too vivid, the images too raw, too real. "Why?" she whispered, her voice barely audible, as though she were speaking more to herself than to her counselor. "Why do they get to be happy? Why can't it be a not-so-happy ending?"

Ms. Morrell didn't respond right away, and Miyeon appreciated that. She wasn't sure she wanted an answer. She wasn't sure there was an answer. Her gaze drifted back to the painting, and for the first time, she saw the cracks. Not in the canvas itself, but in the reality it was trying to depict.

The longer she looked, the more the vibrant colors seemed to lose their luster, the more the figures seemed less like people and more like painted representations of an idea — something too idealized, too perfect. The tiger's wings, which had first appeared majestic, now looked unnatural, grotesque even, as though they didn't belong on the creature's body.

The embrace between the women seemed forced, their love too perfectly frozen in time, as though it had been painted that way not because it was true, but because it was what people wanted to see.

"Funny, isn't it?" Miyeon said, her voice rough with the weight of everything she was holding inside. "The more you look at something the more real things start looking fake."

Marin tilted her head slightly, her expression thoughtful. "What do you mean?"

"I mean..." Miyeon struggled to find the words. "I mean, they say these lovers went through all this pain, all this suffering, but they made it. And now they live in perfect harmony, right? But that's just the story, isn't it? It's what we want to believe. We want to believe that no matter how much we suffer, we'll come out the other side okay. That we'll be whole again." She shook her head, her eyes never leaving the painting.

"But it's not real. No one makes it through something like that without being broken. Without losing something. The more I look at them, the more I see how fake it is. It's like... the pain's been painted over."

Marin was silent, letting Miyeon's words hang in the air. The room felt heavy again, but it was a different kind of heaviness now — a shared understanding, an unspoken agreement that there were no perfect endings, no neat resolutions. Only fragments, pieces of lives and stories, some of them beautiful, some of them shattered, all of them incomplete.

Miyeon leaned back in her chair, her body feeling strangely light, as though the act of speaking had freed something inside her. She closed her eyes, letting the remnants of the painting's vivid colors swirl behind her eyelids, slowly fading into darkness.

MIYEON WALKED THROUGH THE CROWDED halls of Beacon Hills High, her fingers brushing the strap of her worn canvas backpack. The noise of students laughing, lockers slamming, and sneakers squeaking against the polished linoleum filled the air, a cacophony she had learned to filter out.

Ms. Morrell's office had always felt like a strange cocoon. Whenever Miyeon sat in that small chair across from Ms. Morrell's desk, she felt the weight on her chest lighten, if only slightly. And yet, the moment she stepped out, the comforting bubble burst, leaving her exposed.

Now, walking down the hallway, she felt an almost visceral yearning to turn back, to knock on Ms. Morrell's door and ask for just a few more minutes. But she knew better. She had spent enough time under the scrutiny of curious eyes, and the longer she lingered in the office, the more the whispers would spread.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the path ahead as she navigated the crowded hall. She could feel the glances. A group of students by the lockers paused their conversation, their hushed murmurs barely audible over the din. Others pretended to be busy retrieving books but darted quick, furtive looks in her direction.

Miyeon was used to it.

She'd grown up under the weight of those stares.

They had always thought she was odd. Even as far back as elementary school, Miyeon had been marked as different. She'd be seen running across the playground, screaming and crying, as if being chased by some unseen force. Except it wasn't unseen — not to her. The gruesome creatures that had haunted her childhood were as real as the jungle gym and the swing set, their grotesque forms seared into her memory.

In those days, the adults had waved it off as a vivid imagination. "Imaginary friends," the teachers called them, patting her shoulder with strained smiles. It was the most logical explanation they could offer, even as they shared uneasy glances behind her back.

But Miyeon knew better.

Imaginary friends didn't have rotting skin that peeled off in strips, or limbs that bent at impossible angles. They didn't have mouths filled with rows of jagged teeth, dripping with black ichor.

By the time she reached middle school, the incidents had become too frequent to ignore.

She'd be in class, trying to focus on a math problem, only to see a creature crawling out from beneath her teacher's desk. Its elongated body dragged across the floor, each movement accompanied by a sickening squelch. She'd scream, the sound ripping from her throat before she could stop it, and the classroom would erupt into chaos. The teacher would call her parents, the nurse would check her temperature, and the other students would stare at her like she was a sideshow attraction.

It was in middle school that she earned her reputation as the town freak. The whispers followed her everywhere, their words sharp and cutting. "She's crazy," they'd say. "Always talking about monsters. Maybe she's possessed." Miyeon tried not to let it get to her, but the laughter and taunts gnawed at her resolve like termites in wood.

By the time she entered high school, she had learned to suppress her reactions.

When a creature emerged from the shadows behind a teacher or slithered out from beneath her feet, she forced herself to keep still. She pretended not to see the way their hollow eyes followed her or the way their mouths moved, whispering in a language she couldn't understand. Sometimes the whispers were sharp and guttural, like claws scraping against stone. Other times, they were soft and lilting, almost melodic, though no less chilling.

When she was alone, though, it was harder to ignore them. They would sniff at her, their grotesque forms looming closer, their jagged fingers reaching out as if testing the boundaries of her fear. The air around her would grow heavy, thick with the acrid stench of decay. Her heart would pound in her chest, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

In those moments, Miyeon did the only thing she could think of.

She ran.

She bolted out of the room, out of the house, out of wherever she was, until her lungs burned and her legs ached. Sometimes she'd press herself into a corner, shutting her eyes so tightly that tears leaked from the corners, willing the creatures to disappear.

Other times, she'd face them with a shaky defiance, whispering "Go away" through gritted teeth. Often, it worked. They'd vanish, dissolving into the shadows from which they came. But not always.

At her locker, Miyeon turned the combination dial with trembling fingers. She could still feel the weight of the glances on her back, the unspoken questions hovering in the air. Her hand slipped, and she cursed under her breath, starting over. The metal was cold against her palm, grounding her in a way she desperately needed.

Scott and Stiles stood on the other side of the hallway, their conversation tapering into a silence weighted with shared thoughts as their gazes fixed on Miyeon Yu.

She was at her locker, hands moving deftly as she arranged her books. The fluorescent light above flickered faintly, casting a pale glow over her dark hair, and the faint shadows on her face made her look even more withdrawn.

Stiles's arms were crossed, his expression contemplative, while Scott's brow furrowed slightly, his lips pressing together before he finally spoke.

"If Lydia didn't pass the test for the Kanima," Scott began, his voice low, as though afraid to disturb Miyeon from across the corridor, "would that mean Miyeon's in the clear?"

Stiles didn't answer right away. His eyes lingered on Miyeon as she shut her locker, pausing for a moment to steady herself against the metal frame. She seemed to hesitate, like she wasn't sure whether to stay or flee. He sighed heavily, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"I don't know," Stiles admitted. His voice carried an edge of frustration, not at Scott but at the whole absurdity of the situation — the monsters, the paranoia, the way life in Beacon Hills seemed determined to chew people up and spit them out. "But it's not like she'd ever let Erica or Isaac talk to her. She barely talks to anyone."

Scott glanced at his friend, picking up on the faint trace of guilt in his voice. "Didn't they kidnap Jackson," he said, a soft statement rather than a question.

Stiles's arms tightened over his chest. Scott's gaze returned to Miyeon, who was now carefully placing a pen into her bag.

There was something about her — the way she moved like she wanted to be invisible, the way she never quite met anyone's eyes — that tugged at a part of him he rarely let surface.

Stiles didn't answer right away, his thoughts slipping back to a memory he'd buried but never quite forgotten.

It had been the last day of eighth grade, and the gymnasium buzzed with the chaos of yearbook signings. The bleachers creaked under the weight of students sprawled across them, laughing, shouting, trading pens and markers. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and Sharpie ink, the cacophony of voices bouncing off the high ceilings.

Stiles had been part of the crowd, clutching his own yearbook — its pages already crammed with doodles, inside jokes, and enthusiastic signatures. He felt a rush of exhilaration, the kind that came with the knowledge that summer was just around the corner, and middle school was finally behind them.

Then he'd seen her.

Miyeon was sitting alone near the top of the bleachers, her yearbook pressed to her chest, a glittery pink pen clutched tightly in her hand. Her dark eyes darted over the crowd below, her lips pressed together in a thin line.

She looked so out of place, like she'd been dropped into a scene she had no part in.

Her posture was stiff, her shoulders hunched, and the faint glint of light against her facial features couldn't hide the raw vulnerability in her gaze. She didn't laugh or call out like the others.

Instead, she sat in silence, her fingers gripping the edges of her yearbook as though it were the only thing tethering her to the moment.

Stiles wasn't sure what had possessed him to approach her. Maybe it was the way she clung to that yearbook, as though it were her only lifeline in a sea of indifference. Maybe it was the sharp pang of guilt that stabbed through him when he remembered the whispered jokes, the rumors that spread like wildfire, the way she'd been left behind again and again.

Whatever it was, he found himself climbing the bleachers, his heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with exertion.

"Hey," he said, his voice cracking slightly as he reached her.

Miyeon's head jerked up, her eyes widening. For a moment, she looked like a deer caught in headlights. Then her expression shifted into something more guarded, her fingers tightening around her yearbook. "Hi," she said softly, her voice barely audible over the noise below.

Stiles scratched the back of his neck, suddenly feeling awkward under her scrutinizing gaze. "Uh, I was wondering if you'd... want to sign my yearbook?" he asked, holding it out to her.

For a moment, Miyeon just stared at him. Then her eyes flicked down to the yearbook, and her expression softened with a flicker of something he couldn't quite place. Surprise, maybe. Or gratitude. She nodded, her movements slow and hesitant, and took the book from him.

"Your yearbook's... already pretty full," she said, flipping through the pages. Her fingers were slender, her nails bitten down to the quick. She paused, finally finding a tiny sliver of space near the back. Carefully, she wrote a short message in neat, looping handwriting before signing her name.

When she handed it back to him, her hand lingered for just a second longer than necessary. "There you go," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Stiles smiled awkwardly, flipping to the page she'd signed. The message was simple but sweet: thanks for letting me sign – minnie.

"Thanks," he said, tucking the yearbook under his arm. He hesitated for a moment, then blurted, "Can I... sign yours?"

Miyeon froze. Her eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, she looked like she might refuse. But then, slowly, she nodded and handed her yearbook to him.

Stiles opened it, only to find... nothing.

The pages were pristine, untouched by ink or marker. He glanced at her, his chest tightening when he saw the faint blush creeping up her neck. She looked away, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap.

"Uh, cool," he said, clearing his throat. He uncapped her glittery pink pen, the tip trembling slightly in his hand as he stared down at the blank page. His mind raced for something to write, something that wouldn't sound stupid or insincere.

Before he could begin, a peal of laughter broke through the air.

Lydia Martin appeared, her strawberry-blonde hair catching the light as she ascended the bleachers. Her heels clicked against the metal steps, her green eyes sparkling with amusement as she took in the scene before her.

"What are you doing up here?" she said, her voice laced with mockery. "Signing yearbooks for the freaks now?"

Stiles's heart sank. He felt Miyeon stiffen beside him, her face turning an even deeper shade of red. Lydia's laughter was like nails on a chalkboard, grating and cruel.

And yet... he couldn't help but laugh along with her, the sound forced and hollow.

"Yeah, uh," he mumbled, closing Miyeon's yearbook and dropping it on the floor. He stood, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. "Just felt bad for her."

Lydia smirked, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Whatever you say."

As they descended the bleachers, Stiles glanced back once. Miyeon was still sitting there, her head bowed as she picked up her yearbook. He saw her open it, her fingers brushing over the blank page where he'd begun to write before Lydia interrupted.

All that remained was a tiny dot of glittery pink ink where his pen had touched the paper.

Miyeon stared at the dot for a long moment, her face expressionless. The noise of the gym seemed to recede, the voices and laughter turning into a distant hum.

She closed the yearbook slowly, pressing it against her chest as her shoulders sagged.

She didn't cry — not here, not now. But the ache in her chest was a familiar one, sharp and unrelenting, a constant reminder of her place on the outskirts.

Stiles swallowed hard, guilt twisting in his stomach, but he didn't turn back. As he followed Lydia, who 'shoo'ed him away anyway.

The sound of Miyeon's silence seemed to echo louder than anything else.

Stiles's eyes followed Miyeon as she closed her locker, her movements stiff and purposeful, like she was forcing herself not to care about the way the hall seemed to shift and ripple around her. She gripped her books tightly, her expression blank, almost defiant, but Stiles caught the briefest flicker of unease in her eyes when she glanced up and saw the crowd.

It didn't take long for someone to crash into her — a broad-shouldered lacrosse player who was too busy laughing with his friends to even notice. Her books and papers scattered across the linoleum, some sliding farther than others. Miyeon stopped, her head tilting forward as she exhaled heavily. She bent down slowly, gathering her things without a word.

Scott sighed, shaking his head as he leaned against the locker beside Stiles. "I still don't get it. Why would Derek even be suspicious of her? She's..." He gestured vaguely in Miyeon's direction. "She's not dangerous."

"Derek's Derek," Stiles replied, crossing his arms. "If you so much as sneeze funny, he'll probably accuse you of being something." He watched as Miyeon reached for a paper that had fluttered just out of her reach. "Maybe the rumors about her being weird traveled all the way to his sourwolf brain."

Scott frowned, his brow furrowing as he shot Stiles a look. "But she's been like that forever, right? Since elementary school. The kanima stuff only started recently. So why her?"

Stiles shrugged, his mouth twisting into a half-smirk, half-grimace. "Maybe Derek thinks she's been biding her time, waiting to... what? Unleash her inner lizard?"

Scott's frown deepened, his gaze drifting back to Miyeon. She was still on the ground, her fingers brushing the edge of a book just as another student kicked it farther away without noticing. She froze for a moment, staring at the book like it had personally betrayed her. Then, before she could crawl after it, someone knelt down beside her.

"Shit." Stiles said, straightening up slightly. His voice carried a note of confusion, and when Scott turned to him, he motioned subtly. "Dude. Listen."

Scott hesitated, then tilted his head, his werewolf hearing honing in on the conversation happening just a few feet away. Miyeon didn't look up when Isaac handed her the book, her eyes focused on the floor as she muttered a soft, "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Isaac said, his tone light, almost teasing. "You know, for someone who spends so much time in the library, you've got a lot of books you don't seem to care about."

Miyeon's head snapped up at that, her eyes narrowing slightly. "I care about them," she said, her voice low but firm. "I just... wasn't expecting someone to knock them out of my hands."

Isaac's lips quirked into a faint smile, and he leaned forward, picking up another book and a handful of loose papers. "Fair enough. I'll let the lacrosse team know to steer clear of you next time. Or..." He tilted his head, his blond curls catching the fluorescent light. "You could let me walk you to class. Make sure it doesn't happen again."

Miyeon blinked, her expression caught somewhere between suspicion and disbelief. She didn't respond right away, her hands hovering over the papers she was gathering. Finally, she muttered, "No thanks. I'm fine."

Isaac's smile faltered for the briefest moment, but he recovered quickly, his tone turning playful again. "Are you sure? Because..." He held up one of her books, squinting at the cover. "'Advanced Physics.' Wow. I'm pretty sure carrying this thing counts as a workout."

Miyeon's lips twitched, almost like she wanted to smile but didn't quite trust herself to. She reached for the book, her fingers brushing against his as she took it from him. "I've got it."

Isaac didn't move right away. He stayed crouched beside her, watching as she stuffed the papers and books into her bag with quick, practiced movements. There was something in his gaze, a softness that seemed almost out of place in the noisy, chaotic hallway. "You know," he said after a moment, his voice quieter now, "you don't have to do everything by yourself."

Miyeon paused, her hand hovering over the zipper of her bag. For a second, she didn't say anything. Then she looked up, her dark eyes meeting his. "Yes, I do."

Isaac's smile faded, replaced by something more serious. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but Miyeon stood abruptly, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Thanks for the help," she said again, her tone final.

Isaac rose slowly, watching her as she turned and walked away. "Anytime," he said softly, more to himself than to her.

Scott and Stiles exchanged a look from their vantage point across the hallway. "Well," Stiles said, his voice dripping with exaggerated cheerfulness, "that was... something. Isaac Lahey, knight in shining armor. Who knew he had it in him?"

Isaac's smirk widened as he adjusted the strap of his bag and strolled toward Scott and Stiles. The air around him practically buzzed with satisfaction, an aura of smug self-assuredness that was impossible to ignore.

"Well," He tossed a casual glance over his shoulder as Miyeon turned a corner, disappearing into the next hallway, "looks like she just failed the test, too."

Scott's brow furrowed in confusion, while Stiles's mouth opened, ready to demand an explanation. Before either could speak, Isaac raised his hand, pulling off a glove in one smooth motion. The soft leather fell limp in his hand, revealing the glove's palm was smeared with a faint sheen of kanima venom. He held it up for emphasis, the glint in his eye nothing short of mischievous.

Stiles's eyes darted down the hallway where Miyeon had disappeared. His stomach churned. Scott looked equally stunned, his lips parting as if to say something, but nothing came out. Isaac clapped him on the shoulder, his grin unwavering, and left the two.

Scott recovered first, shaking his head as though trying to clear the cobwebs. "We have to check on her."

Stiles nodded, and the two of them jogged down the hallway, weaving through students as they searched for Miyeon. They found her a few moments later, walking briskly, her eyes fixed forward as if determined not to acknowledge the world around her. Her bag was slung over her shoulder, her posture stiff but purposeful.

Scott and Stiles flanked her, Scott falling in step to her left and Stiles to her right. Miyeon's eyes darted to each of them, suspicion flashing briefly in her expression before she quickened her pace.

"Hey, uh, Miyeon," Stiles began, his voice a little too casual. "Quick question. Are you feeling... light-headed? Maybe a little queasy?"

Miyeon's brow furrowed, but she didn't answer. She kept her eyes straight ahead, walking faster.

Stiles sped up too, refusing to be deterred. "What about tingling? Numbness? Anything like that? Because, you know, sometimes weird stuff happens around here..."

She shot him a sharp look but still didn't respond. Instead, she turned down another hallway, clearly trying to shake them off.

Scott glanced at Stiles, his werewolf hearing picking up Miyeon's steady heartbeat. No sign of panic. No sign of anything, really. It was almost... too normal. "Miyeon," he said gently, trying a different approach. "We just want to make sure you're okay."

"I'm fine," she snapped, her voice low but firm.

Stiles exchanged a quick look with Scott. He could see the wheels turning in Scott's head, his friend trying to piece together what Isaac's venom experiment had revealed.

Then Stiles spotted it — a janitor's closet just a few steps ahead. Without thinking, he grabbed Miyeon's arm, his grip firm but not forceful. "This way," he said, steering her toward the door.

"What are you doing?" Miyeon hissed, pulling against his grip.

Scott was already opening the door, and before Miyeon could protest further, Stiles had ushered her inside, Scott following close behind. The door clicked shut, plunging them into the dim, cramped space. The smell of cleaning supplies was sharp in the air, and Miyeon whirled on them, her voice rising for the first time.

"What the hell is wrong with you two?" she demanded, her eyes flashing with anger.

Scott held up his hands, trying to placate her. "We just need to check something. It'll only take a second."

"Check what?" Miyeon shot back, her voice dripping with disbelief. "My blood pressure? My sanity? Spoiler alert: You're not my doctor, and I'm not crazy."

Stiles, ignoring her protests, snatched her bag and started rifling through it. "Hey!" Miyeon shouted, reaching for it, but Scott stepped between them, his hands gently but firmly holding her back.

"We're not saying you're crazy," Scott said, his voice calm but urgent. "Just... trust us for a second, okay?"

Miyeon's glare could have cut through steel, but she stopped struggling, her arms crossing tightly over her chest as she watched Stiles with barely contained fury.

"Aha!" Stiles exclaimed, pulling out a book — the one Isaac had touched. He held it up triumphantly, his eyes scanning the cover, missing the venom before it got to him.

Scott's attention snapped to Miyeon's hands. He gently took them in his own, despite her protests, turning them over to inspect them. His golden eyes briefly flickered as he focused. There it was — the venom, shimmering faintly on her skin. But it wasn't sinking in. It wasn't affecting her at all. Instead, it seemed to hover, almost like a thin, translucent film refusing to bond with her.

"That... shouldn't be possible," Scott murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

Miyeon yanked her hands out of his grip, her expression a mix of anger and confusion. "Are you done?" she snapped, grabbing her bag from Stiles. "Or do you need a blood sample too?"

"Miyeon, wait —" Stiles began, but she was already pushing past them, her movements sharp and angry.

She paused at the door, her hand on the knob. "And they call me a freak" she said coldly, her voice low but cutting. "Stay away from me."

Then she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her with a finality that left Scott and Stiles in heavy silence.

Stiles let out a long breath, leaning back against the shelves. "Well, that went great."

Scott didn't respond. He was still staring at the door, his mind racing. Finally, he turned to Stiles, his expression a mixture of shock and determination.

"Her hands," Scott said, his voice quiet but intense. "The venom wasn't absorbing. It was just... there."

Stiles raised an eyebrow. "And that means...?"

"It means that Derek might be right," Scott said firmly. "She might be the kanima."

"Little Minnie being a bloodthirsty monster doesn't sound right." Stiles said, his voice tinged with skepticism. "And it's not like she's going to sit down with us for a friendly Q&A after... that."

Scott's jaw tightened. "We'll figure it out. But one thing's for sure: We have to protect her. Just like we're protecting Lydia. Maybe even more."

Stiles frowned, his arms crossing over his chest. "You really think she's in danger?"

Scott's eyes darkened, his expression serious. "I don't think. I know."

AUTHOR'S NOTE

finally finished this omg

don't expect another update soon, i have the fanfic awards to focus on atm HEHHEHEHE

but i really liked this ch. i think i did well with minnie's interactions

and low-key teared up writing the 8th grade flashback bc i felt so bad for her