“Be a Werewolf…”

Stiles would endlessly pace around his room, hand on his jaw and white pencil between his fingers. Messy scribbles and smudged lines cluttered his crime/suspect board. Just like his father, stiles was, anyone could see that. A huff here, a frustrated sigh there— his fingers would snap, and he'd swear he figured it out this time, but the lines never met their dots. Stiles told you about a time months ago when walls in his room were covered with pictures and clippings of articles, each connected by different colored strings. Lydia would argue that he only used red, which you later found stood for 'unsolved.'

Lydia was almost the same as the boys— green eyes drifting from her schoolwork and around the room frantically. 'I hear voices,' she would tell you, 'Voices from the past.' Of course, your first thought was that she's insane. What sane person hears whispering voices? Although when you were told the history of your friends and Beacon Hills, you toyed with the notion each of them was a little insane— but rightfully so.

As your friends took turns explaining their own supernatural abilities over school lunch, you turned to the last boy, which you were quite fond of. Stiles. His jaw flapped like a fish's, his chocolate eyes scattering around. He looked to Scott, and at first, you assumed it was Stiles's supernatural instinct to look at his Alpha friend, but when he started to speak, the words didn't stop. He threw out words that didn't go together in an attempt to tell you that he was not, in fact, supernatural like those surrounding you.

'I was, uh... I- How do I-?' He abruptly shut his mouth, his lips pressed to a thin line, not that you were looking at how they moved even when he struggled to push words passed them. He did manage to force a hefty sigh through his nose, though. 'It was an accident- Well, I mean, obviously — Not that you would know —' He shook his head before continuing, but you took note of how the boy couldn't finish a thought without another one barging in. 'I was... possessed by this spirit — evil spirit — who just, uh, well, it brought, y'know... chaos, strife, and pain upon us all, and...' You caught his eyes glance over to Scott, whose gaze was glued to the table. 'Yeah. Yeah, that's it. A lot of people got hurt. Seriously hurt.'

'Some died.' That voice came from Lydia, her face matching Scott's. You had no reason to question if someone close to the group was killed, you didn't know any better. Everything was new to you. Some days, you regretted not asking 'who?'

A man simply called 'Argent' had been inadvertently introduced to you via Stiles and Scott, pondering if he was needed in a new turn of events. 'Something is always going on in this town,' They explained. 'He was a hunter, but he helps us now.' And in your mind, with how little knowledge you held of this new world, you didn't question how they came to know this man.

Your first time meeting him was spontaneous. Stiles had driven you guys to meet Scott at the man's apartment. When the elevator opened and the door creaked with age, boxes caught your eye first, then Argent. His hair was greying, eyes shining with firmness but glossed over with a sense of loss. You've learned it's a look he permanently wears. You were just tagging along, really, following close behind Stiles because you were in a stranger's house, and the boy was your anchor. You weren't equipped with special abilities or senses like your friends, but he kept you tethered to your sanity. You two were the only ones of your friends to be perfectly ordinary humans, and that came with a bond you hoped he thought was special.

You let your eyes wander like they were off-leash animals. Not rabid ones, just curious ones. You often didn't allow yourself to peek around in fear of what you might find. This isn't your world; don't get more involved than you need to. Today, you decided this man was safe. A picture frame sat on Argent's desk the four of you were huddled around. Scott was busy pleading for one last mission before the man moved away for good. Argent was comfortably settled in his position of involvement: none. You could've fully honed in on their conversation and the threats this town faced without someone to stop them, but you were more attuned to the three smiling faces behind the broken glass of a picture frame. Argent, and two women. One had red, short, spiky hair, while the other wore her long, dark brown curls loose with a purple headband. The brunette had deep dimples, long lashes that made you a little jealous, and a brightness you could feel through the glass. She certainly lit up any room she walked in.

You studied what you assumed to be Argent's family, and you wondered why you hadn't seen the brunette around school. She looked young enough to be a high school student, but maybe it was just good genetics.

An elbow in your side broke you free of those thoughts, your curiosities leaving your mind until you're reminded of them days or weeks later. Stiles told you they're ready to head out, and you look to the older man, offering a smile as thanks for his time. He nods at you three, and you leave without a second thought of the two women.

Later in the week, you find yourself at Stiles's house for the sixth time in four days. He's pacing, muttering to himself. You're flat on your back on his bed with your knees up, shoes long disregarded by the front door, picking at your nails. Stiles was always the first one you went to whenever you'd get a fresh set or have them painted. You probably should be going to Lydia since she changes nails like she changes outfits— which most likely costs more than you have in your bank account— but you wished Stiles would react the same way. Sometimes, if the designs were intricate enough, Stiles would grab your hand and bring your fingers closer to his face so he could truly appreciate the amount of detail and dedication. He even paid for your nails once.

A folded scrap of newspaper pinned to his old bulletin board pulled you from your reminiscence. Your stomach softly collided with his jersey sheets when you rolled over to get a proper look— as best you could for the distance, at least. There was no use trying to read the finely printed words distorted by shadows and creases of the old paper, but it was more so the corner of a photograph peeking out behind it that drew you in. You shifted further toward the end of his bed, your neck bending at all sorts of angles in a better attempt at seeing the full photo. Eventually, you huffed in defeat and stood up, Stiles barely showed signs of acknowledgment. A few silent shuffles later, you reached out and touched the bent newspaper, peeling it back to reveal a thumbtack with a red string tied to the handle stuck in the corner of a picture. A picture of the same brown-haired girl you'd completely forgotten about at Argent's house.

You flipped back to the news scrap and skimmed over the text, but it had no relevance to the girl, only mentioning a warrant for an arrest which you immediately recognized as the arsonist, Kate. You recalled briefly hearing her name being mentioned when you went to Argent's house and how she was his sister. You've seen pictures of her online, and this girl wasn't her, she couldn't have been. She looked sweet, her eyes full of life and warmth, something a murderer like Kate couldn't even dream of possessing.

Your first thought was that maybe this girl was Stiles's sister, but that couldn't have made sense because there was also a photo of the girl and a red-haired woman at Argent's house, and there's the fact that her photo is one of the few that remain on Stiles's wrecked corkboard. Unless she was adopted? Maybe the sheriff decided it was too much to take care of two children alone after his wife passed. Argent and the sheriff already seemed to have history, so it was entirely possible except you knew the sheriff would never even think of such a thing.

"I didn't know you have a sister." You felt the words spilling before you even had a chance to rethink your deduction.

The pacing stopped, a pencil clacked against metal. "Huh?"

Suddenly you felt stupid for snooping, the guilt sinking in when you started to speak. "Yeah, this girl here. She— Are you guys related?" You pointed to her photo, comforting eyes and a bright smile staring back at you.

A floorboard cracked, and the shadow on the bulletin board grew as Stiles got closer. You turned to him just in time to catch his eyes connect with her photo. His jaw opened, but there were no words to fill the empty space. You could tell by the way his eyes briefly squeezed shut that her face brought bad memories to light. Maybe she was an ex of his? You truly hoped not since that would mean he's not over her if her picture is still in his room.

"That's- She's-" A sigh of frustration. "Her name is Allison." His eyes dropped, and the guilt he spoke to Scott with re-entered his voice. You hadn't considered the possibility of it being a sensitive subject, and you'd do anything to keep Stiles from being upset with you, but before you had a chance to tell the boy to forget it, Stiles was on the move again.

His hand ran up his forehead, his fingers rubbing at the creases before carding through his hair. "She was Scott's girlfriend, you would've probably loved her." Stiles finally looked up at you for what was probably the first time tonight. "She sacrificed herself to help Scott save me. She shouldn't have... shouldn't've died." You picked up on how he was referring to the time he was possessed by the Nogitsune. His eyes carried so much grief, guilt, and loss. How could a boy so young bear more trauma than most ever would? Still, Stiles read the persistent curiosity in your eyes. "She was my sister, but we're not related."