The forest was quiet again.
Not the tense quiet from before the hunt — not the kind that pressed against the ears and warned of danger — but a hollow, emptied silence. The kind that followed endings.
Stiles stood at the edge of the clearing for a long moment, his pack resting against his leg, his eyes drifting over the place where everything had changed. The traps were dismantled. The ground was disturbed, marked by footprints that would soon be erased by weather and time. The lair entrance was dark and still, nothing more than stone and shadow now.
It was over.
He had done what he was sent here to do.
The realization didn't hit all at once. It settled slowly, like weight added piece by piece until it was impossible to ignore. His body felt heavy. Not injured — just tired in a way that reached deeper than muscle or bone.
He turned away from the clearing and started down the mountain path.
Halfway to the car, his phone vibrated in his pocket.
He stopped.
For a brief second, he just stared at it, as if answering might make something real that he wasn't ready to face yet. Then he exhaled and pulled it out.
RONAN
Stiles answered."Yeah."
Ronan didn't waste time with greetings.
"I saw the signs," he said calmly. "The traps. The tracks. The way the area went quiet."
Stiles leaned against a tree, eyes closing briefly. "Then you know."
"Yes," Ronan said. "I do."
There was a pause — not heavy, not awkward — just space.
"You did a good job," Ronan continued. "You planned properly. You adapted. You finished it."
Stiles swallowed. Praise from Ronan had always been rare. When it came, it meant something.
"I made mistakes," Stiles said quietly.
"You always will," Ronan replied. "That doesn't change what you accomplished."
Stiles looked down at his hands. They were steady. That scared him more than if they had been shaking.
"I didn't hesitate," he said.
"I know," Ronan answered. "I could see it in how you moved. In how long you waited afterward."
Another pause.
Then Ronan spoke again, and this time his voice was different. Still calm — but heavier.
"I'm retiring."
The words landed harder than anything else that day.
Stiles straightened. "What?"
"I'm done," Ronan said simply. "I've been planning it for a while. This hunt was the last confirmation I needed."
Stiles opened his mouth, then closed it again. His mind raced through arguments, questions, protests — but none of them came out.
"You're ready," Ronan continued. "And I'm tired."
Stiles felt something twist in his chest. "You don't have to—"
"I do," Ronan interrupted, not harshly. "This life takes more than it gives. I stayed longer than I should have."
Silence stretched between them.
"What happens now?" Stiles finally asked.
"Now," Ronan said, "you go home."
Stiles frowned. "Home?"
"Beacon Hills," Ronan said. "Your father. Your life. The world you were always meant to return to."
Stiles looked toward the trees, imagining the road ahead. "And you?"
"I'll disappear," Ronan replied. "Like I always do."
That hurt more than Stiles expected.
"When?" he asked.
"Today," Ronan said. "You'll drive. Take your time. Think."
Stiles nodded even though Ronan couldn't see him. "Okay."
"One more thing," Ronan added.
"Yeah?"
"You didn't lose yourself," Ronan said. "You found discipline. Don't confuse the two."
The line went dead.
Stiles lowered the phone slowly.
He stood there for a long time before moving again.
THE DRIVE
The engine of the Nismo R34 GT-R Z-Tune came alive beneath him, smooth and powerful, its sound echoing faintly between the trees. Stiles pulled onto the road, tires crunching against gravel, and then the forest began to slip past him.
Mile after mile.
The mountains faded behind him. The road stretched ahead.
And for the first time in years… there was no next destination waiting.
No training schedule.No hunt planned.No Ronan telling him what came next.
Just home.
The thought made his chest tighten.
What if he had changed too much?
He stared through the windshield, hands steady on the wheel, thoughts spiraling.
What if Scott didn't recognize him anymore?
Scott would have changed too. He'd grown. He'd lived a normal life. School. Friends. Sports. Things Stiles had watched from a distance through phone calls and half-truths.
What if Beacon Hills didn't feel like home anymore?
The thought scared him more than any creature ever had.
He'd spent years learning how to survive. How to fight. How to kill if necessary.
But he had no idea how to just… be again.
"What if I don't fit anymore?" he murmured to the empty car.
The road didn't answer.
He drove through states. Through towns. Through memories.
He remembered his mother's voice — soft, warm, encouraging.He remembered his father's tired smiles, the late nights, the quiet grief they never fully talked about.He remembered Scott's laugh, too loud, too easy, full of innocence he himself had lost early.
Was that innocence gone for good?
Or had he just locked it away somewhere safe?
By the time the calendar flipped to September 1st, the sky was overcast and heavy with clouds.
High school had started.
Scott was already there.
Bitten.
Changed.
And Stiles was still on the road.
BEACON HILLS
The sign appeared slowly through the windshield.
WELCOME TO BEACON HILLS
Stiles eased off the accelerator.
The town looked the same.
Too normal.
Trees lining the road. Familiar turns. Buildings he'd memorized as a child. Nothing about it screamed danger. Nothing warned of what lurked beneath the surface.
But Stiles knew better now.
He parked at the edge of town, engine idling softly.
This was it.
No more running.No more training in the shadows.No more preparation.
Whatever happened next would happen here.
He rested his forehead briefly against the steering wheel, breathing in and out.
Am I ready for this?
Ronan's voice echoed in his mind again:
"You didn't lose yourself."
Stiles lifted his head.
Maybe he hadn't.
Maybe everything he'd become existed so he could protect what mattered — not replace it.
He shifted the car into drive.
The road carried him forward, past the town limits, deeper into Beacon Hills.
Home.
The hunt was over.
A new chapter was about to begin.