Chapter 15: The Sarcasm War Escalates
Stiles' room smells like Red Bull and desperation.
It's 1 AM. We've been researching for five hours. Scott passed out on the couch two hours ago, drooling on a throw pillow.
Stiles is on his seventeenth browser tab. I'm working through a stack of printed articles, cross-referencing dates and locations.
"HA!" Stiles slams his laptop. "Found it. Reference to Alpha pack dynamics. Listen to this—'An Alpha who kills their own betas absorbs their power, becoming stronger.'"
I don't look up from my notes. "Already read that. Page forty-seven, third paragraph."
Silence.
"...I hate you."
"You really don't."
"I really, REALLY do."
I flip to the next page. "There's also a section on pack hierarchies. Might be useful."
"Where?"
"Page sixty-three."
Stiles pulls up the PDF, scrolls. "How do you DO that? It's like you've memorized every werewolf myth ever written."
"Good memory."
"That's not—" He pauses. Studies me. "—normal."
I keep my eyes on the notes. "Neither is staying up until 3 AM researching supernatural creatures."
"Touché."
We work in silence for a while. Stiles' typing is aggressive—hunt-and-peck with the intensity of someone caffeinated beyond reason. My handwriting is methodical, organized into categories: Alphas, Hunters, Transformation Triggers.
The information comes easily. Too easily. My meta-knowledge fills in gaps I shouldn't be able to fill. But I can't stop. Every piece of information might save someone's life.
Sheriff Stilinski's footsteps creak on the stairs.
Stiles and I freeze. Make eye contact. Stiles mouths: Act natural.
The door opens. The Sheriff stands there in his bathrobe, holding a coffee mug, looking like a man who's given up on understanding his son's life choices.
"Are you two STUDYING?"
"Yes!" Stiles says too quickly.
"At 3 AM?"
"It's important!"
"What class?"
"...Civics?"
The Sheriff looks at me. "Greenburg. Is this civics?"
"Crime statistics," I say. "For a project."
"What project?"
"Analyzing patterns in unsolved cases. Psychological profiling of—"
The Sheriff holds up a hand. "I don't want to know. Just—keep it down. And if you're doing something illegal, do it quietly."
He leaves the coffee mug on the desk and walks out.
Stiles exhales. "That was close."
"Your dad is surprisingly chill about this."
"He's given up. It's a coping mechanism."
Scott snores from the couch. We both turn to look at him.
"How does he sleep through everything?" Stiles mutters.
"Guilt-free conscience."
"Must be nice."
We go back to work. But the atmosphere has shifted. Stiles keeps glancing at me, chewing his bottom lip.
At 4 AM, Scott still asleep, Stiles sets down his laptop.
"We need to talk."
I look up. His Haki signature is serious. Determined.
"About?"
"You."
"What about me?"
"You always know things a little too early." He ticks off on his fingers. "Kate being dangerous. Derek being trustworthy. Where to find information. Hell, you were THERE when Scott got bitten. That's not coincidence."
"Sometimes things line up."
"Bullshit." He leans forward. "You knew something was going to happen that night. You went to the preserve because you knew."
My stomach drops. "Stiles—"
"I'm not accusing you of anything. But you're hiding something. Something big. And it's driving me insane trying to figure out what."
Silence. The clock on the wall ticks. Scott's snoring fills the space between us.
"I can't explain it," I say finally.
"Try."
"I just—" I search for words that aren't a complete lie. "—I sense things. Patterns. Connections. I knew something was wrong that night. So I went."
"That's not an explanation."
"It's the only one I have."
Stiles studies me. His Haki signature is frustration mixed with concern. He wants to push. Wants answers. But he's also my friend, and friends don't interrogate each other into corners.
"Are you dangerous?" he asks quietly.
"No."
"Are you going to hurt Scott?"
"Never."
"Then I guess that's enough." He picks up his laptop again. "For now."
The tension doesn't break. It just shifts. Becomes something we're both carrying.
"I'm sorry," I say.
"For what?"
"For not being able to tell you everything."
Stiles is quiet for a long moment. Then: "Yeah. Me too."
Coach picks me up at 8 AM.
I stumble to the car, eyes bloodshot, running on fumes. Coach takes one look at me and sighs.
"You look like hell."
"All-nighter."
"With the Stilinski kid?"
"Yeah."
"Is this about the..." He gestures vaguely.
"Yeah."
Coach pulls out of the driveway. We drive in silence for a few blocks. Then:
"Is his dad going to arrest you?"
"Probably not."
"Great. Wonderful. I'll prepare bail money just in case."
Despite the exhaustion, I almost smile.
"You're being safe, right?" Coach asks. "Not doing anything stupid?"
"Define stupid."
"Adam."
"I'm trying, Coach."
He grips the steering wheel tighter. "That's not reassuring."
"I know."
More silence. We stop at a red light. Coach stares straight ahead.
"Your mother asked about you this morning," he says. "Where you were. What you were doing. I told her study group."
"Thanks."
"Don't thank me. I'm enabling bad behavior." The light turns green. "Just... don't make me have to identify a body, okay? I don't think I could handle that."
The weight of that statement settles in my chest.
"I'll do my best."
"Your best better be good enough."
I collapse into bed at noon.
Coach let me skip school—told Rebecca I was coming down with something. She believed it because I look like death warmed over.
The questions won't stop echoing.
How do you always know?
What aren't you telling me?
Are you dangerous?
Stiles is too smart. Eventually, he's going to piece together that my knowledge is impossible. That I know things I shouldn't. That I'm operating from information that doesn't exist in this world.
And when he does, what then?
I can't tell him. Can't tell any of them.
Because the truth—I died in another world and woke up here with memories of a TV show I barely remember—is insanity. They'd lock me up in Eichen House or assume I'm possessed.
So I keep lying. Keep deflecting. Keep pretending I'm just unusually perceptive.
And hope it's enough.
My phone buzzes.
Derek: We need to talk about Kate. Meet me tonight. Hale house. 9 PM.
I stare at the message.
Tonight, I'm going to have to explain how I know Kate burned his family alive. How I connected dots that took Derek six years to even suspect.
And I don't have a good lie prepared.
Never enough time.
I set the phone down and close my eyes.
Sleep doesn't come. Just the echo of Stiles' questions and the weight of Derek's grief waiting to crash over me tonight.
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