𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎. you can hear my voice, i know it

THE KITCHEN WAS THE HEART OF THE house, but for Miyeon, it felt more like a hollow cavity where warmth had once pulsed.

It was an odd juxtaposition of old-world charm and contemporary sleekness. The cabinets were dark mahogany, their ornate carvings whispering of an era long past, while the appliances were all gleaming stainless steel, humming softly with modern efficiency. A large farmhouse sink, its porcelain slightly cracked at the edges, stood beneath a bay window that overlooked the back garden. The countertop of the island where Miyeon sat was made of polished quartz, reflecting the overhead light in fragmented patterns that reminded her of shattered glass.

But no amount of aesthetic cohesion could disguise the scars on the floor.

There, just a few feet from where she sat, were the blackened, jagged marks etched into the hardwood. They formed a grotesque, chaotic shape, like the aftermath of a fire that had started and stopped in a blink. The lines spread outward like veins, dark and lifeless, a permanent reminder of the day her world had unraveled.

Miyeon's fingers curled around the edge of the countertop, her knuckles whitening. She tried to focus on the smoothness of the quartz beneath her hands, its cool surface grounding her in the present. But her eyes were drawn back to the marks on the floor, as they always were. They seemed to pulse in her peripheral vision, mocking her attempts to move on. Her chest tightened, and she dropped her gaze to her lap.

Tears welled up before she could stop them, blurring her vision. She bit her lip hard enough to sting, willing herself to keep it together. But the harder she fought, the more the memories clawed their way to the surface.

She shut her eyes, a futile attempt to block it all out. Immediately, she regretted it.

The creature was there again, waiting for her in the darkness behind her eyelids. Its form was an abomination, a shifting, writhing mass that defied logic or comprehension. Its body was an ever-changing amalgamation of limbs and eyes and mouths, each feature appearing and disappearing like flashes of a nightmare. The eyes glowed with a malevolent light, boring into her soul as though they could see everything she was, everything she feared.

The mouths moved constantly, their jagged teeth gnashing, forming whispers that she couldn't understand but still haunted her. The words felt like they were being spoken directly into her mind, bypassing her ears entirely.

The creature had no fixed shape, no boundaries to its grotesque form. It was as if it were made of living shadow, darkness that oozed and stretched, devouring light and sanity in equal measure.

Miyeon's eyes flew open, her breath hitching as she blinked rapidly to dispel the lingering image. The kitchen came back into focus, but it felt no safer than the void behind her eyelids. Her heart was pounding, her palms clammy as she gripped the edge of the counter tighter.

The memory had been seared into her mind. It wasn't just the sight of the creature that haunted her; it was the day itself. The sharp smell of burning wood and something else she couldn't identify — something acrid and wrong. The sudden silence that followed the chaos, so loud it felt like her ears were ringing. The way the air had seemed to ripple, distorting the room like heatwaves off asphalt.

And then, her parents were gone.

She didn't remember screaming, though she must have.

Melissa and Scoot McCall had come rushing in minutes later, finding her kneeling on the floor, staring at the charred marks that now marred the once-pristine hardwood. She hadn't been able to speak for hours, her throat raw from crying and the words refusing to form.

Now, sitting in the empty house, the silence pressed down on her like a weight. She glanced at the clock on the wall — one of those vintage-style ones with Roman numerals and an ornate frame. The hands ticked forward steadily, indifferent to her turmoil. Time kept moving, dragging her along with it, but she felt stuck, tethered to that moment in the past.

Miyeon's gaze drifted back to the charred marks on the floor. She'd scrubbed them countless times, trying to erase them, but the scars wouldn't fade.

It was as if the house itself refused to let her forget.

Some days, she thought about moving, about leaving this place behind and starting fresh somewhere far away. But the thought of abandoning what little remained of her parents — even if it was just their absence — felt like a betrayal.

Her throat tightened, and she swallowed hard against the lump rising there. She couldn't cry. Not again.

She'd cried enough to fill an ocean in the days after it happened. But the tears still came, unbidden and relentless, because grief didn't care about logic or timing. It lived in the cracks of her soul, seeping out when she least expected it.

Miyeon stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor with a harsh screech. She grabbed a dishrag and dropped to her knees in front of the charred marks, scrubbing at them with a force that made her arms ache. The tears blurred her vision, but she kept going, as if she could scrub the memory away along with the stains.

"You're not real," she muttered under her breath, her voice trembling. "You're not real."

But no matter how many times she said it, she couldn't make herself believe it. Because she'd seen the creature. Felt its presence.

She could feel it in the quiet moments, in the spaces between heartbeats. A shadow at the edge of her vision, gone when she turned to look but leaving a chill in its absence.

Miyeon's hands stilled, the rag falling limp in her grasp. She let out a shaky breath, sitting back on her heels. The marks on the floor stared back at her, unchanged and unyielding.

She wiped at her face with the back of her hand, smearing tears across her cheeks.

The world outside the kitchen window was bright and calm, birds chirping in the garden as if nothing had ever gone wrong. The disconnect between that serenity and the chaos inside her was almost too much to bear.

Miyeon pushed herself to her feet, her legs shaky beneath her. She tossed the rag onto the counter and turned away from the marks, forcing herself to focus on the mundane. The kettle on the stove. The bowl of fruit on the island. The light streaming through the window, painting silver patterns on the floor.

But no matter where she looked, she couldn't escape the feeling that the shadows were watching, waiting for her to close her eyes again.

The night stretched out long and quiet, the kind of silence that seeps into your bones and settles there.

Miyeon sat at the kitchen island, staring blankly at the mug of tea she had made but not touched. The tea had long since gone cold, the steam dissipating into the air hours ago.

Before she could get up, before she could grab her coat or run to her room and hide under the covers, a knock echoed through the house.

It wasn't late — just past seven — but the sound startled her nonetheless.

Visitors weren't common.

Beacon Hills wasn't exactly a town known for its warmth and hospitality, especially not toward someone like Miyeon.

She doubted anyone in the neighborhood would come by to check on her, not after the whispers and sideways glances that had followed her since the night her parents disappeared.

But there were two exceptions.

Melissa McCall and Noah Stilinski.

Noah Stilinski had a way of arriving unannounced. Always under the guise of a "wellness check." Miyeon knew better. His police cruiser would pull up to her driveway, its tires crunching softly on the gravel. Miyeon always heard it, no matter how absorbed she was in her thoughts. She'd peer out the window to see him climbing out of the car, his shoulders hunched as though he carried the weight of the entire town on his back.

When he knocked, it was firm but not insistent. She'd open the door to find him standing there, his hat tucked under one arm, his other hand resting on his hip. His smile was kind but fleeting, a polite gesture that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Miyeon," he'd say, nodding slightly. "Just thought I'd stop by. You doing okay?"

She'd nod, offering a small smile that she hoped would be convincing. "I'm fine, Sheriff. Thanks for checking in."

He'd linger for a moment, his eyes scanning her face as though searching for cracks in her facade. When he found none, he'd nod again and step back. "Well, if you need anything, you know how to reach me," he'd say, his tone matter-of-fact but not unkind. "Or Stiles. Anytime, okay?"

Miyeon would nod again, watching as he walked back to his cruiser. She'd close the door and lean against it, her hands trembling slightly. Noah's visits were brief, almost clinical, but she appreciated them. He didn't pry or push; he simply reminded her that someone was watching.

Melissa McCall was different. Her visits were warm, unhurried, and filled with a kind of maternal energy that Miyeon didn't know how to handle. Melissa never knocked—she'd tap lightly on the door before letting herself in, balancing a plastic bag filled with takeout or a tray of hospital desserts.

"I brought dinner," she'd announce, setting the bag on the counter and pulling out containers. "It's not gourmet, but it's better than ramen."

Cooking wasn't exactly her forte — her mother had banned her from the kitchen years ago after an incident involving hot oil and a phantom creature Miyeon swore she'd seen on the stovetop.

The resulting fire had earned her a grounding and a visit from the fire department.

Since then, she'd stuck to snacks and instant ramen, neither of which Melissa approved of.

Miyeon would hover awkwardly, unsure whether to help or stay out of the way. Melissa always waved her off, her hands deftly arranging the food.

"How are you holding up, kid?" she'd ask, her tone casual but laced with genuine concern.

Miyeon would shrug, offering a noncommittal answer. "I'm okay."

Melissa would pause, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied Miyeon. "You know, it's okay to not be okay. You don't have to put on a brave face for me."

Miyeon's throat would tighten, and she'd look away, pretending to busy herself with a stray napkin or a piece of cutlery.

Melissa never pushed further, instead launching into a story about her day at the hospital or some embarrassing thing Scott had done as a kid. Her laughter was infectious, and Miyeon would find herself smiling despite the heaviness in her chest.

One evening, Melissa had brought over a box of cupcakes from the hospital cafeteria. "Don't judge me," she'd said, laughing as she opened the box to reveal the lopsided frosting and slightly misshapen cakes. "These are the best we've got. I'm pretty sure they're made from the same stuff as our surgical gloves."

Miyeon had laughed then, a real, unguarded laugh that felt foreign in her throat. Melissa had grinned triumphantly, sliding the box toward her. "Go on, try one. I dare you."

The cupcake had been dry and overly sweet, but Miyeon had eaten it anyway, savoring the rare moment of normalcy.

A part of her wanted to ignore the knock, to pretend she hadn't heard it and retreat into the cocoon she had woven for herself over the past few months. But another part of her, the one that still felt some semblance of connection to the world beyond these walls, couldn't help but wonder.

The first knock was sharp and clear, cutting through the thick, muffling silence of the house. Miyeon froze, her breath catching in her throat.

Her eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. Early enough that it wouldn't be strange for Melissa or even Noah to stop by. But something about the knock felt off. It was impatient, hurried, and lacked the familiarity of Melissa's soft rap or Noah's measured taps.

She shook her head and huffed, forcing herself to relax. It had to be Melissa. Who else would it be? "I'm fine, Ms. McCall!" she shouted from the kitchen, her voice carrying a slightly sharp edge. "I still have leftovers from yesterday. You didn't have to come by!"

No response. The knock came again, louder this time.

"I said I'm fine!" Miyeon called, her tone rising with impatience. Her steps moved her closer to the door, though she kept her distance, wary of the persistent noise. "Seriously, please, go home. You've done enough already!"

Still, nothing.

The silence after her words made her stomach twist. It wasn't like Melissa to stay quiet, not when she was making her usual surprise visits.

Miyeon frowned and crept closer to the door, her bare feet brushing against the cool wooden floor. When the knocking resumed, it was no longer a gentle insistence. It was urgent, thunderous, each pound reverberating through the door as though it might come off its hinges.

Her heart leaped into her throat, the sheer force of the sound driving her backward instinctively. This was someone else. Someone who didn't belong here.

The knocks stopped abruptly.

She took a step back, her gaze darting around the room. She wished, not for the first time, that the door had a peephole, something to give her a glimpse of whoever — or whatever — was on the other side. The thought made her stomach churn.

Before she could reach for the knob, it happened.

The handle broke clean off with a metallic screech, the sound slicing through the air like a scream. The door flew open with a force that sent Miyeon stumbling backward, her breath hitching as she hit the floor. She scrambled to push herself up, her palms slipping against the hardwood as her eyes locked on the figure standing in the doorway.

He was tall, his broad shoulders filling the frame of the doorway like a shadow come to life. His face was sharp, his eyes cold and calculating, and his lips twisted into a smile that sent a shiver down her spine.

Miyeon knew him immediately, though she'd only seen his face in the papers: Derek Hale.

He didn't say a word. He didn't have to. The look in his eyes said everything she needed to know. He wasn't here for a friendly visit.

Behind him, two more figures stepped into view, their movements fluid and predatory. One was a boy, younger than Derek but with the same sharp intensity in his gaze. The other was a girl with a wild glint in her eyes, her lips curling into a smirk as she took in Miyeon's stunned expression.

Miyeon recognized them, too — Isaac and Erica.

"Get her," Derek said, his voice low and commanding.

Before Miyeon could react, they lunged. Erica reached her first, her hands grasping at Miyeon's arms with surprising strength. Miyeon thrashed, twisting and kicking with all the force she could muster. Her foot connected with Erica's shin, and the girl let out a startled yelp, loosening her grip just enough for Miyeon to pull free.

Isaac moved in next, his hands closing around her wrist like iron clamps. Miyeon twisted her body, her free hand darting toward the side table. Her fingers found the edge of a ceramic vase, and she swung it with all her might. The vase shattered against Isaac's shoulder, sending shards of porcelain flying through the air. He stumbled, his grip faltering as he winced in pain.

Miyeon didn't wait. She bolted toward the kitchen, her mind racing as she tried to think of her next move. She knew this house better than they did. That was her advantage. She could use it.

Behind her, she heard Derek's voice, calm and composed despite the chaos. "Don't let her get away."

Miyeon grabbed a knife from the block on the counter, her hands trembling as she turned to face her attackers. Erica was the first to reach her, her movements quick and confident. She slashed the knife through the air, forcing Erica to dodge. The girl's smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of annoyance.

Isaac came at her from the side, and Miyeon ducked, narrowly avoiding his grasp. She swung the knife again, this time grazing his arm. He hissed, his eyes narrowing as he backed away, blood dripping from the shallow cut.

"Not bad," Erica muttered, her voice laced with irritation.

Miyeon didn't respond. She was already moving, grabbing a cast-iron skillet from the pantry and swinging it toward Erica with all her strength. The heavy pan connected with Erica's face, sending her crashing into the counter.

Derek stepped forward then, his movements calm and deliberate. Miyeon felt her chest tighten as his gaze locked onto hers. There was no fear in his eyes, no hesitation. He was the predator, and she was the prey.

"You're not going to win this," he said, his voice low and menacing.

Miyeon didn't answer. She turned and ran, her feet pounding against the floor as she headed for the stairs. She could hear them following, their footsteps echoing behind her like a chorus of shadows.

She reached her bedroom and slammed the door shut, shoving her dresser in front of it as a makeshift barricade. Her heart was racing, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. She grabbed the lamp from her nightstand, clutching it like a weapon as she backed into the corner of the room.

The door shook as Derek and the others pounded against it, their strength threatening to break through at any moment. Miyeon's mind raced, searching for a way out, a plan, anything.

The dresser began to splinter under the force of their attacks, the wood groaning in protest. Miyeon tightened her grip on the lamp, her knuckles white. She refused to go down without a fight.

When the door finally gave way, Miyeon was ready. She swung the lamp with all her might, the metal base connecting with Derek's side. He grunted, momentarily stunned, and Miyeon took the opportunity to dart past him.

She didn't get far. Isaac caught her by the arm, his grip like a vice. Miyeon twisted and kicked, her heel slamming into his shin. He let go with a pained shout, and she ran again, her mind focused on one thing: escape.

She reached the back door and threw it open, the cool night air hitting her like a wave. But before she could take another step, she felt a hand close around her wrist, yanking her back.

Derek's face was inches from hers, his expression dark and unforgiving.

"Enough," he growled.

Miyeon's heart sank. She was out of options, out of time. But she wasn't out of fight. With a final surge of determination, she swung her fist, catching Derek off guard.

Miyeon didn't feel the pain at first. Her mind was too consumed by the sheer will to survive, her body moving on instinct as she tore free from Derek Hale's grasp.

His claws had raked across her shoulder moments before, leaving jagged, burning lines that pulsed with every beat of her racing heart. Blood seeped through the fabric of her shirt, sticking it to her skin, but Miyeon didn't stop. Couldn't stop.

The house that had once been her sanctuary now felt like a death trap. The shattered remains of her door loomed in her periphery as she burst into the night, the cold air biting at her skin. Each breath came in ragged gasps, her lungs straining, her legs pumping harder than they ever had before.

She could hear them behind her. Their footsteps were steady and relentless, each one a reminder that they were faster, stronger, and unyielding.

Her bare feet slapped against the pavement as she veered toward the edge of her property. The trees beyond the yard swayed like dark sentinels, their shadows sprawling out before her. She knew this neighborhood well, had walked these streets countless times. But in the chaos of the moment, everything blurred together.

Her vision tunneled, and the only thing that mattered was moving forward.

The adrenaline coursing through her veins was electric, almost euphoric. It dulled the pain of her wounds, numbing the sting of the cuts on her hands from broken glass and the deep ache in her side where Derek's claws had grazed her. She didn't care about the blood, the pain, or the raw panic clawing at her throat. She only cared about escape.

Her thoughts fractured, snippets of survival instincts colliding with fear: Run faster. Don't look back. Breathe. Keep moving.

Then, out of nowhere, the impact came.

Metal. Cold and unyielding.

The world tilted and spun as Miyeon collided with the front of a car. The impact sent her sprawling onto the hood before she slid off and hit the ground with a sickening thud. For a moment, everything went still. The sounds of the night — the rustle of leaves, the distant hum of tires on asphalt — faded into a deafening silence.

Then came the voices.

"Oh my god! Scott, I think I hit someone!"

The panicked voice cut through the fog in Miyeon's head, sharp and frantic.

"Stiles, stop yelling! Just — just get out of the car!"

The sound of doors slamming open followed, and Miyeon blinked up at the blurry, spinning sky. Her body screamed in protest as she forced herself to sit up, her limbs trembling from the effort. She could feel the adrenaline surging again, masking the worst of her injuries.

Before she could fully gather her bearings, a boy was in front of her, his face pale under the streetlights. He was lanky, with dark hair that stuck out at odd angles, his hands flailing as he spoke.

"Are you okay? Oh god, you're bleeding. I didn't see you! You just came out of nowhere — literally out of nowhere!" His words tumbled out in a rush, his eyes wide with panic.

Miyeon stared at him, her mind sluggish to process his frantic energy. Her lips parted, but no words came.

"Stiles, calm down!" Another voice joined the fray, this one steadier but still laced with urgency. A second boy appeared, taller and more solidly built, his brow furrowed with concern.

"Calm down? Scott, I hit her with my car!" Stiles gestured wildly to the jeep behind them. "Do you know how many laws I probably just broke? She's going to press charges, and then my dad's going to kill me, and I'll have to spend my life in —"

"Stiles, focus," Scott interrupted, gripping his friend's shoulders to steady him. "She's moving. She's... she's fine."

And she was. Somehow, impossibly, Miyeon was on her feet again, her body swaying like a reed in the wind. Her hair was disheveled, her shirt torn and bloodied, but she stood tall, her eyes darting around as if searching for something — or someone.

Stiles gawked at her, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "Fine? She just got hit by my jeep, Scott. People don't just get up after that!"

But Scott wasn't looking at Miyeon anymore. His gaze had shifted to the road behind her, his expression darkening as he spotted two figures emerging from the shadows. Erica and Isaac were moving quickly, their eyes fixed on Miyeon like predators stalking prey.

"Stiles," Scott said, his voice low and urgent.

"What?"

"Look."

Stiles turned, following Scott's line of sight. When he saw them, he let out a sharp curse. "You've got to be kidding me. What is this, a horror movie?"

Scott didn't answer. His focus snapped back to Miyeon, who had finally noticed the approaching danger. Her knees buckled, and before either boy could react, she collapsed onto the ground.

"Shit!" Stiles shouted, rushing to her side. "She fainted! Scott, what do we do? She's bleeding everywhere, and now she fainted, and — and Jackson's unconscious in the backseat!"

Scott crouched beside Miyeon, his hand hovering over her shoulder as if afraid to touch her. "We need to get her in the car."

"And what about them?" Stiles jabbed a finger toward Erica and Isaac, who were closing the distance quickly.

"We'll deal with them." Scott's voice was firm, his jaw set with determination.

"Deal with them? Scott, I don't know if you noticed, but they look like they want to rip us apart!"

"Stiles, just help me get her in the jeep."

Stiles groaned, running a hand through his hair. "This night just keeps getting worse."

Together, they lifted Miyeon into the jeep, her limp form cradled awkwardly between them. As they worked, Scott's eyes flicked back toward the road, his instincts on high alert. Erica and Isaac were almost there, their movements eerily synchronized as they stepped into the glow of the streetlights.

Stiles slammed the door shut, his hands trembling as he climbed into the driver's seat. "Scott, I swear, if we don't make it out of this, I'm haunting you for eternity."

Scott didn't respond. His focus was on the figures now standing in the middle of the road, their eyes glowing faintly in the darkness.

"Drive, Stiles," Scott said quietly, his voice steady despite the tension in his body.

Stiles didn't need to be told twice. The engine roared to life, and the jeep lurched forward, leaving the figures behind.

And as Miyeon lay unconscious in the backseat, her breath shallow and her body battered, Scott couldn't shake the feeling that this was just the beginning.

THE AIR INSIDE THE VET CLINIC was heavy with the sharp, sterile scent of antiseptics and the faint musk of animal fur. The faint hum of the fluorescent bulbs was a sharp contrast to the intensity of the past few hours. In the center of it all, Miyeon lay still, her small frame dwarfed by the surgical table, a patchwork of wounds and stitches marking her pale skin.

Dr. Deaton worked with the kind of focus that made the world around him seem irrelevant. His movements were precise, deliberate, as though the gravity of what had brought her here could wait until he ensured her survival. He leaned in to inspect a particularly deep claw mark, the steady rhythm of his work punctuated by the occasional soft clink of metal instruments.

Scott leaned against the wall, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, watching Deaton's every move with a quiet tension. His wolf senses could detect the slow, steady heartbeat coming from Miyeon, but even that reassurance didn't ease the knot in his stomach.

Stiles, on the other hand, perched on a battered stool with an energy he couldn't suppress. His leg bounced restlessly, and his fingers tapped an erratic rhythm against the edge of the seat.

"So," Stiles began, his voice a little too loud in the hushed room, "are we just not going to talk about how insane this is? Because, uh, but she shouldn't even be alive. Like, scientifically speaking."

"Patience, Stiles," Deaton said without looking up, his tone calm but firm. "Right now, she needs care. The rest can wait."

"Okay, but you have to admit it's weird," Stiles persisted, gesturing toward Miyeon. "She's not healing like a werewolf, right? So she's not supernatural. But she fought off Derek's pack and ran with these kinds of injuries. What is she, some kind of Terminator?"

"Stiles," Scott said, his voice low and edged with warning.

"What?" Stiles threw up his hands. "Am I the only one asking the obvious questions here?"

Deaton tied off another stitch and finally straightened, pulling off his gloves with a quiet snap. He turned to face the two teenagers, his calm gaze settling first on Scott and then on Stiles. "Survival often brings out strengths we didn't know we had. But whatever happened to her, it's clear she was determined to survive. That kind of determination can push people beyond what seems possible."

Stiles stared at him, then pointed a finger. "Okay, see, that's the kind of cryptic thing you say that makes me think you know more than you're letting on."

Deaton smiled faintly, a flash of amusement in his otherwise neutral expression, before he turned back to Miyeon. "Her injuries aren't life-threatening, but she'll need time to recover. Physically, at least."

Scott exhaled, his shoulders dropping slightly in relief. "Thanks, Deaton."

Stiles leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he studied Miyeon's face. Her features were soft and peaceful in sleep, but there was a shadow to her — the faint hollows under her eyes, the tightness at the corners of her mouth that hinted at the weight she carried even in unconsciousness.

"She looks..." Stiles hesitated, then frowned. "I don't know. Tired."

Scott glanced at him, confused. "She just fought off Derek and his pack. Of course she's tired."

"No, not like that." Stiles gestured vaguely toward her face. "I mean, look at her. The circles under her eyes, the way her skin looks — it's faint, but it's there. She hasn't been sleeping. Like, not just recently. I'm talking in general."

Scott frowned, moving closer to the table. Now that Stiles mentioned it, he could see it too. The subtle but unmistakable signs of exhaustion etched into her face, the kind that went deeper than physical fatigue.

"Her parents disappeared," Stiles said, his voice quieter now. "Do you think she's even slept since then? Really slept? Not the kind where you pass out for a couple of hours because your body can't take it anymore, but the kind where you actually rest?"

Scott didn't answer. He didn't need to. The answer was obvious in the stillness of Miyeon's form, in the way her body had finally given in, not to peace, but to sheer necessity.

"It's kind of messed up," Stiles murmured, his gaze softening as he continued to watch her. "That this might be the first time she's really gotten some rest. And it's only because she got hit by my jeep and then passed out from blood loss."

Deaton moved to the sink, washing his hands methodically. "Trauma has a way of weighing people down, even when they're not aware of it. Sleep doesn't come easily when the mind is in turmoil."

Stiles leaned back slightly, his fingers threading through his hair. "Yeah, well, maybe she should've started small. Like, I don't know, taking a nap. Instead of going full 'life-or-death adrenaline crash.'" Scott shot him a look, but Stiles shrugged. "What? I'm just saying."

The clinic's quiet was fractured only by the rhythmic snipping of Deaton's scissors as he trimmed the last of Miyeon's bandages. His focus remained on her wounds, yet his voice emerged softly, unhurried but probing, as if to test the waters of their honesty. "Why was Derek trying so hard to take her?"

Scott and Stiles exchanged a quick glance, a silent conversation passing between them. They both understood the weight of the question, the futility of lying to someone like Deaton. His steady gaze, though not unkind, seemed to peel back layers of pretense, leaving only the truth behind.

Scott exhaled heavily, running a hand through his hair. "He's trying to find the Kanima," he admitted finally, his voice low, as if saying it aloud would summon something terrible. "He has a list of suspects. She's... she's one of them."

Deaton's hands paused momentarily over Miyeon's arm, the silence stretching as he processed the revelation. He resumed his work with a measured precision, but his next words carried a sharper edge. "And what makes her a suspect?"

"It's not just her," Scott explained quickly. "But there's something... different about her. The venom from the Kanima, it didn't affect her. At all."

"Not even a little," Stiles interjected, leaning forward with wide, expressive gestures. "I mean, you'd think there'd be something. But nope, nada. It's not like Lydia's situation either. Miyeon... she's just..." He trailed off, searching for the right words.

"Different," Scott finished.

Deaton's brow furrowed, and he carefully adjusted the angle of Miyeon's arm as he inspected her wounds. "Different how?"

Scott hesitated, glancing at Stiles for support. "She's... been through a lot," he said slowly, unsure of how much to reveal. "And she's always been..."

"Crazy," Stiles said bluntly, earning a sharp look from Scott. "What? That's what you were going to say, right? She's always been a little... out there. Since we were kids."

Deaton's gaze flicked between them, his expression calm but unreadable. "How do you mean?"

Stiles took a deep breath, gesturing animatedly as he spoke. "Okay, so, when we were in elementary school, she used to talk about monsters. Like, all the time. At first, everyone thought it was just... you know, imaginary friends or whatever. Kids do that, right? But it didn't stop. Middle school, high school, same thing. Except by then, everyone just thought she was..."

"Crazy," Scott finished reluctantly.

"Exactly," Stiles said, pointing at Scott. "But it wasn't just that. It was the detail. She'd talk about things no one else could see, things she swore were real. And it wasn't like she was trying to scare anyone. She believed it."

Deaton's hands stilled again, his dark eyes studying Miyeon's peaceful face as if searching for answers hidden beneath the surface. "And you think that's connected to why the venom didn't affect her?"

Scott shrugged, frustration creeping into his voice. "We don't know. That's the thing. She's not like Lydia. She's not supernatural. At least, not that we can tell. But there's something about her... something we don't understand."

Deaton's silence was heavy, a thoughtful pause that seemed to stretch forever. Finally, he spoke, his tone measured and deliberate. "There are many things in this world that we don't understand. That doesn't mean they don't have an explanation. It just means we haven't found it yet."

"Great," Stiles muttered, leaning back in his chair. "So, what? We just wait for her to wake up and hope she's got all the answers?"

Deaton's lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smile. "Perhaps. Or perhaps she's as much in the dark as you are."

Scott sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Either way, we need to keep her safe. If Derek's after her..."

The room fell into a heavy silence, the only sound the soft rhythm of Miyeon's breathing. For a moment, all three of them stared at her, each lost in their own thoughts. Stiles' gaze lingered the longest, his usual frenetic energy subdued as he studied the faint shadows under her eyes, the way her brow seemed to furrow even in sleep.

Deaton's focus, however, was drawn to something entirely out of place amidst the scene of injuries and medical tools — a bracelet circling her wrist, radiating an otherworldly allure.

At first glance, it seemed innocuous enough: a simple string of black beads, polished to a glassy sheen. But as Deaton leaned closer, he realized there was something far from ordinary about it.

Each bead held within it a miniature storm, purple clouds swirling and churning as though alive. Wisps of fog coiled and twisted, their movements hypnotic, and every so often, a flicker of lightning would dart through the haze, casting an ephemeral glow from deep within.

It was as if someone had captured a tempest and bound it in miniature spheres, sealing them into an unassuming piece of jewelry.

Deaton's hand hovered above the bracelet, his fingers hesitant, but curiosity overrode caution. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out and touched it. The reaction was instantaneous. A searing jolt shot up his arm, like a lightning strike condensed into a single, agonizing moment. His entire body convulsed, muscles locking in protest as he stumbled backward, clutching his arm.

"Oh, shit!" Scott surged forward, gripping the veterinarian by the shoulders. "What happened? Are you okay?"

Stiles stood frozen for a beat before darting to Deaton's other side, his voice high and panicked. "What just happened? Did it — did it shock you? What even is that thing?"

Deaton took a shaky breath, pulling himself upright with effort. "I'm fine," he assured them, though his voice wavered slightly. He flexed his fingers experimentally, the lingering sensation of the shock making his movements stiff. "But that bracelet... it's far from ordinary. I've never seen anything like it."

Scott frowned, his gaze flicking to Miyeon's wrist. "It's just a bracelet, though, right? How could it —"

"It's not just a bracelet," Deaton interrupted, his tone sharper now. "Whatever it is, it's imbued with an energy I can't fully comprehend. The shock — it wasn't random. It was deliberate."

"Deliberate?" Stiles echoed, his voice tinged with both fascination and fear. "Like it's alive or something?"

"Not alive," Deaton clarified, "but purposeful. This isn't an artifact of happenstance. It's been created for a reason, and that reason likely ties to her."

The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the faint hum of the clinic's machinery. Deaton's gaze lingered on Miyeon's still form, his thoughts clearly racing. Finally, he turned to Scott and Stiles, his expression grave. "Has Miyeon ever shown you anything? Any proof of the monsters she's spoken about?"

Scott hesitated before shaking his head. "Not really. She talks about them, but it's always been vague. Nothing concrete."

Stiles, however, shifted uncomfortably. "Well... she's always been kind of artsy. Like, really artsy. But she doesn't show off her work. She'd spend late nights in the art room — teachers used to complain about it — but no one's actually seen what she's been working on."

Deaton's brows knit together in thought, his eyes narrowing as if pieces of a puzzle were slowly falling into place. "Her art," he murmured, almost to himself. Then, louder: "You need to go to her house."

Scott blinked. "Her house? Why?"

"If she's been creating something — drawings, paintings, anything — it might hold answers," Deaton explained, his tone edged with urgency.

Stiles' eyes darted nervously between Scott and Deaton. "Okay, but what exactly are we supposed to be looking for? How will we even know if it's important?"

Deaton fixed him with a steady gaze. "You'll know," he said simply. "Trust me, you'll know."

The weight of his words settled over them like a heavy fog, leaving no room for argument. Scott and Stiles exchanged a brief, uneasy glance before nodding. Without another word, they turned and headed for the door, their footsteps echoing hollowly in the quiet clinic.

Left alone, Deaton returned his attention to Miyeon.

Her bracelet seemed almost to pulse faintly, as if in response to his scrutiny. The swirling clouds and darting lightning within the beads felt mocking now, their secrets locked away just beyond his reach.

For the first time in years, Deaton felt a twinge of something foreign and unwelcome creeping into his thoughts: fear.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

no why did this take me forever to write omg

this is like season 2 episode 6 btw

WHAT DO YALL THINK MINNIE IS

HEHHEHE

i'll tell u this, u all are probably wrong

unless ur not LOL

ALSO LOOK AT MY CUTESY SIGN OFF BANNER!!!

it was made by the incredible duable and im literally obsessed with it

and it gives me more motivation to write my twd fic !!!