Beacon Hills was always way too cold in November.
The frigid wind whipped around his bare arms violently which resulted in goosebumps as he continued to wander deeper and deeper into the woods. Something had called him back to the source of his trauma, and he was determined to figure it out.
The grass under his bare feet was so cold that it felt damp around the soles. He desperately felt the need to reach into his work pants pocket and grab his FBI issued flashlight, but when he went to do so, he was wearing a thin pair of sweatpants.
The brisk breeze made his eyes water and his face sting, but he had finally arrived at his destination. In front of him was the large stump that he had sacrificed himself to fifteen years ago, the Nematon.
But what was on the other side chilled him to the bone with an aching fear he hadn't been able to shake in years; in a nineteen forty-three style U.S army jacket with dirty bandages wrapped over all the pieces of visible skin was the demon that had possessed him as a teenager and with its sharp iron teeth, it was grinning widely at him in the darkness.
Stiles awoke with a start, his chest heaving. He took a few minutes to gather that he was not in the woods of Beacon Hills, but rather, his safe three bedroom apartment settled deeply in the heart of San Francisco.
He pulled himself from his bed, fighting against the 'just a dream' mantra that he had lived by in Beacon Hills and went to his sock drawer, pulling out the softest white socks he owned and pulling them over his cold feet before making his way back to his bed.
But before he let himself try and fall asleep again, he looked over hoping to see Lydia, only for her to once again be gone, like she had been for four months.
'Where are you, Lydia?'