Night fell slowly in the mountains, like a curtain being drawn across the world.
Stiles barely moved as darkness settled over the clearing. He had been waiting for hours now, breath slow, body still, every sense stretched thin. The traps were set. The angles memorized. The escape routes mapped in his head.
Now all that was left… was the creature.
The forest around him seemed to hold its breath.
Then he heard it.
Footsteps.
Heavy. Uneven. Purposeful.
Stiles's spine straightened as a shape emerged from between the trees. It was large — larger than any human — moving with a loping, predatory rhythm. Something dragged behind it, scraping softly against the dirt and leaves.
Stiles's stomach tightened.
A body.
The creature crossed into the clearing, moonlight spilling across its form. Its shoulders rolled with unnatural power, its head lifting slightly as if tasting the air. The scent of blood clung to it, sharp and unmistakable.
So this was the omega.
Stiles felt something cold settle into his chest — not fear, not panic — but clarity.
This thing had killed someone.And if it lived, it would kill again.
The omega dropped its burden near the mouth of the hideout and straightened, sniffing the air. Its head snapped toward the rocks where Stiles was hidden.
Too perceptive.
Stiles exhaled slowly, then shifted his weight just enough to make a sound — a deliberate scrape of stone against stone.
The omega froze.
blue eyes locked onto his position.
It growled — low, warning, territorial — and took a step forward.
Then another.
The moment its foot crossed the first trigger line, the clearing came alive.
Metal snapped tight. Cables whistled. One of the traps triggered perfectly, jerking the omega off balance and forcing it to stumble sideways. It roared — more in shock than pain — and lashed out instinctively.
Stiles didn't waste the opening.
He moved.
The pistol was already in his hand, grip steady, stance solid. He fired in controlled bursts, not wild, not panicked — each shot meant to slow, distract, weaken. The omega howled, staggering as it tried to orient itself, muscles straining against the restraints.
But it was still a werewolf.
With a violent surge of strength, it tore free and charged.
Stiles rolled aside just as the creature slammed into the rocks where he'd been seconds earlier. Stone shattered. Dust filled the air.
His heart hammered, but his mind stayed clear.
Distance is safety, Ronan's voice echoed in his head.But when distance is gone, control decides who walks away.
The omega came at him again — faster now, angrier — and Stiles knew the space between them was closing too fast.
He dropped the pistol and drew his blade.
The world narrowed to movement and instinct.
He didn't think.He didn't hesitate.
He moved when the omega moved. He redirected when it struck. He used leverage, angles, momentum — everything Ronan had drilled into him for years. This wasn't raw strength versus strength.
This was precision versus chaos.
The fight was brutal, exhausting, and relentless. Every second demanded focus. Every mistake could have ended him. The omega was powerful, driven by hunger and fury, but it was sloppy — ruled by impulse.
Stiles wasn't.
With one final, decisive maneuver, the creature collapsed to the ground, unable to continue the fight.
Silence followed.
The omega's form began to change, bones shifting, shape shrinking, until a human lay where the monster had been. The man was young — younger than Stiles had expected — eyes wide, breathing ragged.
He spoke.Begged.
Stiles stood over him, chest rising and falling, blade steady in his hand.
This was the moment Ronan had warned him about.
The moment when doubt crept in.When sympathy tried to blur responsibility.
The man cried. He said it wasn't his fault. That he didn't mean to hurt anyone. That he couldn't control it.
Stiles believed him.
And it didn't change anything.
He looked past the man — to the still form near the hideout entrance. To the life already taken. To the village that slept in fear below the mountain.
Ronan's words surfaced again, calm and unyielding:
"Understanding doesn't erase consequences."
Stiles made his choice.
When it was over, the forest was quiet once more.
No growling.No movement.Just the wind moving through the trees.
Stiles stood there for a long moment afterward, letting the weight of it settle into him. There was no triumph. No satisfaction.
Only certainty.
He cleaned his gear in silence, then turned his attention to the bodies.
He worked carefully. Respectfully.
He buried the woman first, marking the place so she could be found later. He said a quiet apology she couldn't hear, promising that this would be the last death caused by the thing that took her.
Then he buried the omega.
By the time he finished, dawn was beginning to touch the sky, pale light filtering through the trees.
Stiles sat on a rock overlooking the clearing, exhaustion finally catching up with him. His hands were steady. His breathing even.
He had done it.
Not because he wanted to.
But because it had to be done.
Somewhere far away, Ronan would be watching — not with pride, not with regret — but with acceptance.
Stiles picked up his pack and started down the mountain.
The hunt was over.
And he was no longer the boy who hesitated.