The Cost Of Breathing

Chapter One

It happens at the animal clinic.

Because of course it does.

Because there are scalpels in drawers and tile underfoot that's easy to mop.

Because there are no cameras.

Because Deaton said it would be easier this way.

They tell him it's a meeting.

They tell him it's about the pack.

They tell him it's safe.

He believes them.

Because no matter how many nightmares claw their way into his throat,

no matter how many nights he wakes up with dirt under his nails and voices in his skull—

He's still Stiles.

Still the best friend.

Still the anchor.

Still the boy who never left them.

He walks in.

Unarmed.

And smiling.

Scott is the one who speaks first.

"We're sorry."

That's all he says.

And then Lydia moves behind him.

And then Kira closes the door.

And then Stiles realizes he's surrounded.

"What is this?" he says.

He tries to laugh.

It's high-pitched.

Frayed at the edges.

Wrong.

No one answers.

"Scott?"

Scott doesn't meet his eyes.

"We can't risk it."

"Risk what?"

"You. Still being…" He swallows. "It."

The first hit comes from Liam.

Sharp. Fast. Brutal.

Stiles crumples, shoulder collapsing inward, teeth splitting his lip from the inside.

"What the—what the hell?!"

He looks around wildly.

No one stops him.

No one moves.

Malia punches next.

Hard. Jaw. Right side.

The world goes white.

"You said it was gone!" Stiles screams. "The Nogitsune is gone!"

"Then why do we still feel it?" Lydia snarls.

"Why do you dream in dead languages?" Kira snaps.

"Why do you stink of wrongness?" Derek growls.

They descend like wolves.

Claws. Fists. Boots.

The blows come fast.

Not clean.

Not precise.

Punishment.

Fear.

Hate.

Stiles stops fighting.

Somewhere between the cracked rib and the broken nose—he just stops.

Not because he wants to.

Because his body can't anymore.

He hits the tile and doesn't get back up.

There's blood in his mouth.

His vision is going black at the edges.

He hears them. Still.

Lydia screaming.

Scott breathing hard.

Kira swearing.

Liam whispering, "He moved weird. I swear he moved weird."

And then—

Then comes the worst part.

Footsteps.

Boots.

Authority.

Dad.

Noah Stilinski.

Stiles tries to lift his head.

His face is unrecognizable.

Swollen. Purple. Red.

His eye is gone—shut with blood.

He can't speak.

But he reaches.

Just a little.

Just once.

Dad…

Noah doesn't move.

Doesn't shout.

Doesn't draw his weapon.

He just stands there.

And watches.

Like he's watching a deer be put down.

Like this isn't his son.

Like this is justice.

That's when the shield activates.

Not golden.

Not soft.

White. Blinding. Apocalyptic.

It erupts out of Stiles like a pulse of divine rage.

Everyone is thrown back.

Walls crack.

Lights explode.

Deaton's entire surgical station is obliterated in a blink of light.

The room goes silent.

Except for the sound of Stiles' heartbeat.

And the blood dripping from his teeth.

He doesn't stand.

He floats.

Barely.

A foot off the ground.

Flickering like a dying star.

Eyes silver.

Blood pouring down his face.

He says one word:

"Enough."

And the shield contracts.

Not inward.

Out.

A second pulse.

It doesn't kill them.

But it brands them.

All of them.

A psychic scar burned into their souls—pack or not.

They will never forget what they did.

Stiles collapses.

Hard.

Silent.

Alone.

He wakes up two days later.

In a ditch outside Beacon Hills.

His clothes are torn.

His hands are cracked.

His ribs scream when he breathes.

And his heart—

His heart is silent.

The tether is gone.

So he walks.

On broken feet.

With a shield around his body and nothing left in his chest but air.

He doesn't cry.

He doesn't scream.

He just walks.

Because staying would kill him.

And leaving is the only thing that might let him survive.