A whole year had passed since that night—one year since Stiles made the promise to himself to train every single day, no matter what. He was only nine, but his determination didn't match his age at all. Every morning before school, and every afternoon after it, he followed the plan he had created: running, balancing, stretching, focusing, breathing, memorizing, watching, learning.
For the first six months, he trained alone. No one knew what he was doing or why he cared so much. But eventually Scott, who had noticed Stiles sneaking out to the backyard and doing strange exercises, asked if he could join. Stiles didn't explain anything—not the reason, not the night, not the fear that still echoed in the back of his mind. But he didn't say no. And from then on, Scott was there beside him every day, copying his moves, pushing himself, even when he didn't fully understand.
Now, a year later, they were both stronger—Scott physically, Stiles mentally. Scott was getting good at climbing and running faster, but Stiles was learning something different: how to observe people quietly, how to notice the way someone blinked when they lied, how their voice changed, how their shoulders shifted. He didn't know why these skills mattered yet—he only knew they did.
That afternoon, after finishing their training in the woods, Scott headed home while Stiles walked toward the small store near the road. He pushed open the door, the familiar bell ringing above him, and went straight to the fridge for a bottle of water. He wasn't just cooling off—he was practicing. Watching the cashier's movements, the people walking in and out, reading their faces the way he had taught himself.
He stood near the counter, twisting the cap of the bottle absentmindedly, eyes scanning, mind analyzing.
That's when he felt it—someone stepping close behind him. Not loudly, not clumsily. Quiet. Intentional.
Before he could turn, a low voice spoke just behind his ear:
"Quite the eyes you have, boy."
And everything inside Stiles froze.