The sun had long set by the time he climbed back upstairs. The house had grown quiet again, that same heavy, careful quiet from the morning, but not as sharp. Not as suffocating. Still, the silence felt like it was holding its breath.
Dinner had been simple—pasta the Sheriff tried to make "the way Mom used to," but both of them knew it didn't taste the same. Memories had flavors, and grief took most of them away. They ate in near silence, only small words exchanged, soft words, necessary ones. Neither tried to force the other to pretend everything was normal.
After washing his plate, Stiles headed upstairs. He could feel his father's eyes following him—not out of suspicion, but out of worry. A father trying to make sure his son was okay. A father terrified he might miss the moment when his boy breaks.
"Goodnight, buddy," his dad said as Stiles reached the stairs.
"Goodnight, Dad."
The Sheriff forced a smile, and Stiles went up.
Once inside his room, he closed the door slowly, not wanting the click of it to echo too loudly. The room felt different at night—darker around the corners, quieter, almost too still. He sat on the edge of his bed, hands resting on his knees, breathing in and out in slow, steady pulls.
Now that he was alone, the thoughts he had been pushing aside rushed back in.Not memories—he didn't have Stiles's entire past.Not panic—he'd lived a full life before this reincarnation, he knew how to regulate fear.
But awareness.Sharp, focused awareness.
Today had shown him something important.
He wasn't thinking like an eight-year-old. Not even close.
Every time Scott talked, he noticed his tone, his breathing, the way his eyebrows lifted a little too high when he was trying to be cheerful. He noticed the Sheriff's exhaustion hidden beneath the way he held his shoulders. He noticed details—small, invisible details most adults wouldn't see.
It wasn't normal.
When Scott kicked the soccer ball, he had already calculated the angle before it reached him.When the Sheriff had lied about being "fine," he recognized the micro-expression instantly.When he walked into the kitchen, he'd noticed the slightly moved chair, the uneven stack of mail, the faint scent of hospital antiseptic that clung to his dad's uniform.
It wasn't memory.It was instinct.
He didn't know the name Patrick Jane here—not consciously. But the talent was there all the same.
Hyper-awareness.Pattern recognition.An almost eerie sense for reading people.
Okay… breathe… that's good. That's… actually good. I'm going to need that. I'm going to need everything I can get.
He pulled his knees up to his chest and leaned back against the headboard.
He had a whole world to think about.
A dangerous world.
A world filled with werewolves, hunters, monsters, supernatural threats he didn't even remember clearly. A world where people he cared about—Scott, the Sheriff, maybe others—would be thrown into danger long before they deserved to be.
He didn't know the full story of Teen Wolf.Hadn't watched the show.Only heard bits from friends.
But he knew enough to be afraid.
Not terrified.But alert.
Prepared.
"This world…" he whispered into the quiet room, "…this world is going to get bad one day."
He didn't know when.He didn't know how soon.
Scott was eight.Scott wouldn't get bitten by a werewolf until he was sixteen—at the start of canon.
That meant he had eight years.
Eight years to prepare. Eight years to train. Eight years to make sure I'm strong enough when everything falls apart.
The book he found earlier—Stiles's school science textbook—was lying open on his desk. He hadn't touched it since this morning. He stood up and walked over to it slowly, staring at the neat handwriting of a boy who didn't exist anymore.
The real Stiles.The one who should have been here.The one whose soul was gone.
A pang of guilt hit him, sharp and sudden.
He wasn't Stiles.But he was living in his place.He was wearing his clothes. Sleeping in his bed. Using his father's effort and love.
You better not waste this life. You better make it count.
He shut the textbook carefully.
Then he looked around the room.
Nothing here said "supernatural."Nothing said "hunter."Nothing said "danger."
It was just a kid's room.
A kid who had lost his mother.A kid who was still grieving.A kid whose father was barely holding it together.
And on top of all that, he was supposed to survive things no normal human ever should.
He sat back down on the bed, legs crossed, and placed his hands together.
He needed a plan.
A real one.
Not just vague ideas.
Not just determination.
He needed steps—actionable ones. Something he could start now, even as an eight-year-old, without drawing attention. Something that built foundation, strength, awareness.
One thing at a time.
Step 1: Train the body.
Not in a dramatic, unrealistic way.He was eight. His body was still developing. Too much strain could stunt growth or cause injuries. Meanwhile, overtraining would alert the Sheriff.
But he could start with small things.
Push-ups.Sit-ups.Jump rope.Stretching.Agility training.
Quiet exercises he could do in his room.
Every day, little by little.
Nothing suspicious.
The kind of thing a kid might do if he wanted to impress his dad… or keep himself busy so he wouldn't think about losing his mom.
Step 2: Train the mind.
He had a big advantage here.
His awareness—whatever this Patrick Jane–like skill was—could be sharpened. Trained. His old adult mind meant he understood more than an eight-year-old should. He could observe people, behaviors, clues. He could practice reading expressions, noticing details, memorizing patterns.
He could become the kind of thinker who survived dangerous worlds.
And this world would require exactly that.
Step 3: Knowledge.
He didn't have access to supernatural books yet.But he could study:
BiologyAnatomyChemistryPhysicsTrackingFirst aidBotanyHistory of folkloreLocal legends
He had years before everything started.Enough time to build a foundation.
Step 4: Prepare the Sheriff and Scott—without scaring them.
He couldn't tell them about the supernatural.He couldn't dump fear on them.
But he could influence them slowly.Encourage:
Scott = confidence, physical ability, problem-solvingSheriff = caution, preparedness, better self-defense habits
Small changes that would matter later.
Step 5: Stay unnoticed.
This was the hardest part.
If he seemed too smart, too aware, too skilled… adults would worry. Teachers would ask questions. The Sheriff might take him to therapy. He couldn't risk being misunderstood or evaluated.
He needed to appear normal.
A grieving kid trying to cope.
He sighed deeply.
"Normal," he whispered. "I have to look normal."
But he would prepare beneath all of that.
Quietly.Steadily.Relentlessly.
A soft wind brushed against the window, making the curtains flutter. The room dimmed then brightened again as car lights passed down the street.
Stiles lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Today had shown something important:
Scott was still so innocent.So light-hearted.So good.
He didn't know monsters were real.He didn't know his life would change forever in eight years.He didn't know he'd become a werewolf—someone who bore responsibility for others, who faced danger again and again.
Stiles felt something tighten inside his chest.
He had known Scott for only a single day, yet—
He liked him.A lot.
Scott was a bright, warm presence in a world that was about to become dark.A kid who made him forget pain.A kid who didn't judge him for quiet moments or spaced-out thoughts.
I'm going to protect him. No matter what.
Not because canon demanded it.Not because fate demanded it.
But because Scott was worth protecting.
And then there was his dad.
He closed his eyes briefly.
The Sheriff's face that morning.The tired voice.The forced smile.The visible guilt of a man who thought he should be stronger for his son.
Losing Claudia had broken him.Maybe not completely, but enough to leave cracks.
Stiles swallowed hard.
"I won't let you lose anyone else," he whispered into the empty room.
Not Scott.Not the Sheriff.Not anyone he cared about.
He sat up again and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.
Something inside him—something instinctive—pulled together all the information from today. His interactions. His observations. His father's mood. Scott's innocence. His own awareness. His reincarnation. His lack of knowledge about the supernatural timeline.
Then it came like a quiet, calm realization.
A clear understanding.
A truth that settled into him fully:
I am not meant to be a side character.Not in this life.Not anymore.
The original Stiles would one day become the backbone of the entire pack.A human among monsters.A mind sharper than claws and fangs.
And now he was Stiles.
A new version.A version with an adult mind, hyper-awareness, and a timeline long enough to prepare.
He wasn't just going to react to supernatural threats.
He was going to hunt them.
Not for cruelty.Not for power.But for protection.
For Scott.For his dad.For Beacon Hills.
He wasn't going to kill innocent creatures.He wasn't going to become an Argents-style hunter.
He was going to hunt the threats that deserved it.The ones who attacked.The ones who harmed others.The ones who would one day come for Scott.
His hands curled into fists.
"I'm not waiting eight years," he whispered fiercely. "I'm starting now."
The window reflected his silhouette—small, thin, just a kid.
But inside, the determination didn't belong to an eight-year-old.It belonged to someone who had lived a whole life before this one.Someone who understood danger.Someone who understood grief.Someone who refused to be helpless.
A faint flicker of movement in the mirror caught his eye.
Not from outside.Not supernatural.
Just his own expression.
Focused.Sharp.Bright with an intelligence that wasn't meant for a child.
He didn't know the name Patrick Jane, but he had the same incredible talent—observational intuition that felt instinctive, natural, unavoidable.
He could use this.
He would use this.
Stiles lay down fully on the bed, pulling the blanket over himself but leaving his mind awake. The house creaked quietly as the Sheriff moved downstairs, probably finishing cleaning up or preparing his uniform for tomorrow.
Another day would come.More chances to plan.More chances to prepare.
His eyes drifted shut, but his mind kept working—connecting threads, sorting priorities, creating a mental map of possibilities.
His last thought before sleep was quiet, but powerful:
I will not let this world break us.I will be ready when the monsters come.I promise.
And with that promise settled deep in his chest, Stiles Stilinski—reborn, aware, determined—finally fell asleep.