Chapter 8: Echoes of Healing and Shadows

Stiles had been injured by Brunski—a bad concussion that left him stumbling, his balance precarious and his speech slurred. He leaned heavily against me, his weight a silent reminder of the toll the night had taken on him. Every step we took was slower than the last, his strength draining as exhaustion pulled at him. The ordeal at Eichen House had left more than physical bruises; it had carved its weight into his expression, his tired eyes shadowed by the horrors of what we had faced. Yet, even through the haze of pain and fatigue, he looked up at me, his lips curving into a weak but unmistakably warm smile. "Hey... you're here."

Those three simple words, soft and barely audible, hit me harder than any blow could have. The warmth in his tone, despite everything, cut through the cold dread that had wrapped itself around my chest since the moment I'd found him. For a brief second, the tension within me unraveled, replaced by a flicker of something I dared not name.

Using the shadows to get us to the hospital wasn't a choice—it was a necessity. Stiles needed help, and I couldn't risk wasting precious time. The discomfort of shadow travel, the strain it placed on my abilities when I carried someone else with me, was insignificant compared to the weight of ensuring his safety. As we materialized in the stark, fluorescent-lit corridor of the hospital, the sudden jolt of transition hit me harder than I expected, leaving me lightheaded. But it didn't matter. Stiles was here. Safe. And that fragile sense of solace was worth every ounce of the effort it had taken to get him here.

Melissa McCall was the first to greet us, her presence steady and reassuring in a way only she could manage. "Hello, you two," she said warmly, her voice a mix of professional calm and maternal concern. There was no surprise in her tone at our unconventional entrance. By now, she was well accustomed to the strange and dangerous realities of our lives. Her eyes moved to Stiles, sharp and assessing, and within moments she was guiding him toward a bed, her hands already at work checking his vitals.

"Sit here, sweetheart," she murmured to Stiles, her tone gentle but firm. "Let's take a look at you."

As she examined him, asking a series of questions about his symptoms, her calm efficiency was like a balm to the frayed edges of my nerves. Melissa had this way of making even the most dire situations feel manageable. For the first time that night, I felt the smallest hint of stability, a grounding presence in the storm of chaos and uncertainty.

I hovered at the edge of the room, my hands clenched tightly at my sides. Melissa's capable hands ensured Stiles was in good care, but it didn't ease the weight in my chest. The night's events loomed large in my mind—the confrontation with Brunski, the revelation of Meredith, the endless threads of the dead pool mystery still left untangled. Lydia was handling things at the station, but the unresolved questions clawed at me, their presence heavy and unrelenting.

Yet, none of it compared to the weight of Stiles' presence. Watching him now, slouched against the bed, his pale face and unfocused gaze a stark reminder of how close things had come—it stirred something deep within me, something I had spent too long trying to bury. The distance I had carefully maintained between us felt like a barrier made of glass, fragile and painful all at once. And now, seeing him like this, vulnerable and in pain, that barrier felt unbearable. The ache I'd worked so hard to suppress rose to the surface, sharp and unrelenting. All I wanted was to reach out, to close the distance, to stay by his side.

But I couldn't. I couldn't let myself get that close. Not again.

The sterile hospital room, with its faint beeping machines and clinical atmosphere, became a strange sort of cocoon. It was a place where I could hover close enough to ensure Stiles was okay without confronting the mess of emotions I couldn't afford to unravel. The silence between us was heavy, but in it, there was also an odd kind of peace—fragile, fleeting, but real.

As the minutes dragged on, Stiles drifted in and out of sleep, the exhaustion pulling him under in waves. Each time his head dipped forward or his breathing steadied, the tension in my chest grew tighter. I knew the moment of confrontation was coming. I could feel it building, inevitable as a storm on the horizon. And when it came, it was as sharp and piercing as I feared.

"Andrew, wait," Stiles' voice broke the stillness. It was quiet but insistent, filled with a kind of raw desperation that made my breath hitch. He sat up slightly, swaying with the effort, his face pale but his eyes fixed on me. "Why won't you talk to me?"

The words hit like a blow. His gaze, glassy but unwavering, burned with confusion and hurt. The vulnerability in his voice shattered the fragile composure I'd clung to. For a moment, I couldn't breathe, couldn't move. All I wanted to do was close the distance, take his hand, and tell him everything—the truth I'd buried so deeply it ached just to think about.

But I couldn't. Fear held me back, fear of reopening wounds I couldn't afford to feel. My voice, when it came, was strained and bitter. "I need time," I said, the words heavy in my mouth, tasting of regret. "I'll see you soon."

Stiles stared at me, his brow furrowing as if he didn't believe me. I didn't blame him. The words felt hollow even as I said them, a placeholder for everything I was too afraid to admit. Before he could respond, I turned and stepped out of the room, letting the shadows swallow me once more.

But even as I left, his voice lingered in my mind, the raw ache in it echoing the one in my chest. Why won't you talk to me? I didn't have an answer. Not one that I could face.

The quiet of the hospital gave way to the unsettling darkness of the shadow realm as I enveloped myself in shadows, intending to return home. But instead of the familiar calm of my bedroom, I found myself standing before the Shadow Council. Their presence loomed large, the figures draped in their usual aura of authority, their faces obscured by the ever-present darkness that seemed to pulse with their power.

"You are delaying, Andrew," the central figure's voice echoed around me, the words sharp with disapproval. "Time is a luxury we do not have. The void's resurgence nears, and your hesitation jeopardizes the balance."

Frustration surged within me. "I'm doing all I can," I argued, though the words felt hollow. I knew I was holding back—torn between my responsibilities and the emotional turmoil that was threatening to unravel me. "It's not easy. Navigating human emotions isn't the same as fighting a physical threat."

The second figure leaned forward slightly, his voice dripping with disdain. "Human emotions," he repeated, as though the very concept was laughable. "You forget, Andrew, that the void feeds on these emotions—fear, love, betrayal. Your reluctance to confront these within yourself only gives it strength."

The council's words were a harsh reminder of the stakes. The void wasn't just some external enemy—it was entwined with the very emotions I was trying so hard to avoid. Their warning rang clear: the longer I waited, the more I jeopardized everything.

"Act, Andrew," the central figure spoke once more, his voice final, "before it is too late."

When I awoke in my room the next morning, the weight of their warning still hung over me. My absence the previous night had been glaring. The pack had managed to cancel the dead pool without me—a significant victory, one I had played no part in. The irony wasn't lost on me. While I had been grappling with my own emotions, the world had continued without me. Battles had been fought and won in my absence, but the cost of my hesitation felt heavier than ever.

The council's warning echoed in my mind: the void was coming, and it would not wait for me to sort out my feelings. I needed to act, to reconcile the inner conflict that had been holding me back. The path ahead was clearer now, but it was also fraught with personal challenges—ones I could no longer afford to avoid.

The time to confront Stiles, to face the emotions I had buried, was fast approaching. And this time, I couldn't let fear dictate my actions.