Stiles felt the air behind him shift before he heard anything. It wasn't a loud movement, not a stumble or a brush of clothing, but a subtle pressure—like someone stepping into a quiet bubble he didn't know he was protecting. His spine tingled, every sense he had sharpened from a year of training lighting up all at once.
"Quite the eyes you have, boy."
The voice didn't sound mocking. It was calm. Measured. And a little too close.
Stiles turned slowly, careful not to react too fast. His dad always said sudden movements in unexpected moments could make a situation worse. So instead he pivoted his head first, then his shoulders, until he was face-to-face with the man who had spoken.
The stranger was… ordinary. Almost aggressively ordinary. Average height. Average build. Mid-forties, maybe. Brown hair, short and neat. Clothes simple—dark jacket, plain pants, nothing weird. He could've been any man in any town in any store.
But Stiles didn't look at the clothes. He didn't look at the face first either.
He looked at the posture.
Because the posture told a very different story.
The man stood relaxed in a way only people who were never relaxed stood—feet evenly planted, shoulders lowered, hands loose but ready. His eyes were calm but too clear, too still, studying Stiles the way Stiles had been studying the shoppers in the store.
And most important of all… nobody else had noticed him. Not the cashier. Not the woman browsing cereal. Not the teen grabbing gum. No one had reacted to him, even as he walked right behind a child.
Except Stiles.
The man smiled a little, like he knew exactly what Stiles had just figured out.
"Took you long enough to turn around," he said softly.
Stiles swallowed. His grip on the water bottle tightened. "You startled me," he lied automatically.
The man lifted an eyebrow. "No. I didn't."
Stiles blinked. His heart skipped. Because he was right. Being startled wasn't the right word. He had sensed him—before the sound, before the words, before anything.
The stranger leaned one elbow on a nearby shelf, casual in a way that didn't match the energy radiating off him. "You're observant. Very observant. It's rare for someone your age."
"I don't know what you're talking about." Stiles kept his voice steady, but inside he was already planning escape routes, counting distance, calculating who in the store could help if something went wrong.
The man didn't move closer. Didn't try to block him. Didn't even lower his voice in a creepy way. He actually looked amused.
"That lie was cleaner than most adults can manage," he said. "But a lie all the same."
Stiles forced himself not to shift his feet.
"What do you want?"
"Only to talk," the man replied. "Nothing more, nothing dangerous. If I wanted to harm you, I wouldn't have spoken at all."
A cold chill crept up Stiles' neck. The man said the words calmly, like explaining simple math.
But Stiles didn't let it show. He couldn't.
"Who are you?" he asked.
The stranger straightened, then placed a hand on his chest as if introducing himself on stage. "My name is Ronan ."
The name meant nothing to Stiles—no memory, no warning from his dad, no Beacon Hills rumor. Just a name. But it felt chosen. Purposeful.
"And you are Mieczysław Stilinski," Ronan continued, pronouncing it perfectly, which immediately set off alarms in Stiles' head. "But everyone calls you Stiles."
Stiles felt a jolt—even adults who had known him for years struggled with that name. His teachers avoided it entirely.
"How—?" Stiles caught himself. "Did my dad send you?"
Ronan chuckled. "Your father doesn't know about me. Or about anything I'm about to say. Sheriff Stilinski is a good man, but blind in certain ways. Too trusting of what looks normal."
Stiles bristled at that. "Don't talk about my dad."
"Ah. Protective. That's good." Ronan nodded approvingly. "You'll need that."
Stiles' fingers tightened around the bottle until the plastic crinkled.
"You said you wanted to talk," he said. "So talk."
Ronan studied him for a moment, then his expression shifted—less amused, more serious. "I've been watching you."
Stiles' stomach dropped, but Ronan held up a hand.
"Not in the way you're thinking. Not dangerously. Not with harmful intent. I observed you the same way you observe everyone else."
That made Stiles inhale sharply.
"You noticed?" he whispered.
"Of course," Ronan said. "Most adults in this town walk past things without seeing them. But you? You look at the way a person breathes. The way they blink. The way they shift weight from one foot to another. Even the way they choose their words."
Stiles didn't respond. His throat felt too tight.
"I've been testing you," Ronan added.
"When?" Stiles whispered.
"Every time I came into this store over the last six months."
Stiles' heart jumped. He had been here almost every day after training. He thought he watched everyone. He thought he noticed everything. But this man… he had slipped right past him? Or maybe he hadn't. Maybe Stiles had felt something off and ignored it.
"I never saw you," Stiles muttered.
"You weren't ready," Ronan said simply. "But tonight you felt me. That matters."
Stiles took a slow breath. He wanted to ask questions—so many questions—but he couldn't decide which one to start with.
Ronan solved the indecision for him.
"You're special, Stiles."
The words hit him strangely—not flattering, not comforting, almost heavy.
"No I'm not," Stiles said automatically. "Scott's the special one."
Ronan tilted his head. "Scott? The boy you train with? No. He's strong, and he has heart. But you…" He stepped slightly to the side, giving Stiles more space instead of less. "…you see the world differently. Sharper. Clearer. As though your mind was wired to detect what others ignore."
Stiles felt heat crawl up his neck. "That doesn't mean anything."
"It means everything," Ronan replied softly. "And it's the reason I came to you."
Stiles froze. "Came to me for what?"
Ronan folded his arms. "To offer you something. Something important."
Stiles waited, every muscle tight.
"I can help you refine your abilities," Ronan said. "Make them sharp. Controlled. Useful. You're already teaching yourself, but raw talent only goes so far."
Stiles felt something in his chest twist—hope? Fear? Curiosity? He wasn't sure.
He thought about the nights he stayed awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying moments and analyzing them. He thought about how he could sometimes predict what someone would say before they said it. He thought about how easily he saw lies in adults' faces.
He thought about the quiet fear inside him that his dad could be hurt one day, or Scott, or someone else he loved—and he wouldn't be ready.
"What kind of abilities?" Stiles asked carefully.
Ronan's eyes softened. "Awareness. Perception. Understanding human intent. You have the foundations of something very rare, Stiles. Most people drift through life blind to danger until it lands right on top of them. But you? You feel the wind shift seconds before the storm. You noticed me tonight before I made a sound. You read rooms faster than full-grown analysts."
Stiles didn't know what to say. No one ever talked to him like this—not like a kid, but not like an adult either. More like… an equal.
"You've been training yourself," Ronan continued. "Quietly. Secretly. But you don't know the techniques. You don't know how to strengthen your mind without burning yourself out. You don't know how to channel instinct into skill."
Stiles swallowed hard. Because everything Ronan said was true.
"So what?" Stiles asked. "You want to… teach me?"
"Yes," Ronan said. "If you want it."
Stiles' breath caught. Want? He had wanted training since that night a year ago. He wanted to be ready. To keep people safe. To never feel helpless again.
But he didn't know this man.
"What do you get out of it?" Stiles asked, narrowing his eyes.
Ronan's smile widened—not a creepy smile, but a genuinely impressed one. "Good question. The right question. I was waiting for it."
"So…?" Stiles pressed.
"I believe in preparing gifted minds," Ronan said. "I was taught by someone once. Someone who saw potential in me. I repaid them by doing the same when I found others like you. It's how certain knowledge survives."
Stiles frowned. "Knowledge about what?"
Ronan shook his head. "Not yet. You're too young to hear all of it. But not too young to start preparing."
Stiles hesitated. He felt the weight of the choice pressing down on him. If he said yes, he'd be learning from a stranger. If he said no, he'd be turning away from an opportunity he didn't understand.
"What if my dad finds out?" he asked.
Ronan shrugged. "Then he finds out. I won't tell him, but I won't ask you to lie either. You choose the truth you want to share."
Stiles chewed the inside of his cheek. "And Scott?"
"Ah," Ronan said quietly, "your friend is kind. Loyal. But this… this is not his path. Not yet. Maybe not ever."
Stiles felt a pang. He hated secrets between them. But he also knew Scott wouldn't understand this—not the training, not the fear, not the reason Stiles pushed so hard.
Ronan leaned slightly closer—not threatening, just enough for the words to be private.
"You felt danger that night a year ago, didn't you?"
Stiles' heart stopped.
"How do you—?"
"You woke up changed. More aware. More alert. Because something inside you understood that the world is not as safe or simple as people pretend."
Stiles didn't breathe.
Ronan nodded slowly. "I didn't need to know what happened. I only needed to see the way you watch the world now."
Stiles' mind raced. Faster than he could control. Faster than he could breathe.
Ronan extended one hand—not touching, just offering.
"You have a choice. I'm not taking you anywhere. I'm not forcing you. I'm offering guidance, nothing more. You can walk away, and we'll never speak again. Or you can let me teach you how to use the gift you've already started to uncover."
Stiles stared at the hand, at the calm eyes watching him, at the posture that didn't lie.
He didn't step forward.
He didn't step back.
He just breathed.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Then he said, "If I say yes… what's the first thing you're going to teach me?"
Ronan smiled. "How to see without being seen."
A shiver ran down Stiles' spine.
"And what if I say no?" he whispered.
"Then you walk out of this store," Ronan said gently, "and continue training alone. And someday, when danger finally comes for you—and it will—I only hope you're ready."
The words weren't a threat.
They were a warning.
A quiet, honest one.
Stiles' hand tightened around the bottle again. This time, not in fear.
In decision.
He opened his mouth to answer—
But a customer bumped past them, breaking the moment, reminding Stiles they were standing in a normal store, on a normal evening, with fluorescent lights and quiet music playing overhead.
Ronan stepped back, blending once again into the kind of person no one noticed.
Except Stiles.
"I'll be around," Ronan said softly. "Think it over."
And then—
He turned.
Walked away.
Calm. Silent. Controlled.
The bell above the door chimed.
Stiles stood frozen, heart pounding, thoughts racing, breath caught halfway between fear and excitement.
The bottle in his hand trembled.
He wasn't alone anymore.