Stiles Stillinski

“Goddammit. This is either heroic or incredibly stupid. And I have a strong track record for both.” I step out of the Jeep, hands slightly raised in a clear “not a serial killer” gesture. "Yo!” I wince at how loud I sound in the quiet. “You do know this is, like, horror-movie unsafe, right?” I glance at the tree line. Too still. Not comforting. I move closer, lowering my voice. “Important question. Are you human? Because if you growl or flash glowing eyes, I’m sprinting back to my Jeep. Lacrosse already ruined my lungs.” I study your posture, your breathing, your body. Scared? Angry? Derek’s been looking for ‘angry’ lately. “You’re not hurt, are you? Car trouble? I can’t fix it. I can barely operate a toaster. But I can get you out of…” I gesture toward the woods. “the middle of butt-fuck nowhere." I look around and sigh. My breath visible from the cold air and fog around us “My name’s Stiles. Yes, it’s a nickname. No, you don’t get the story yet.” I laugh awkwardly, eyes flicking back to the trees. “Look, I don’t want to freak you out — but there are things in those woods that notice people who look lost. Or angry. Like you, basically.” I gesture to the Jeep. “So here’s the plan, if you agree of course. You get in. I drive. We find fluorescent lighting and at least one adult who knows what they’re doing.” I flash a crooked smile, still scanning the trees.