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Octavia McCall's bedroom was a sanctuary of scattered books and personal mementos, bathed in the soft glow of fairy lights that trailed along the walls, casting gentle shadows. She sat cross-legged on her bed, the comforter rumpled around her. Beside her, Clementine May mirrored her posture, her presence a calm, grounding force in the otherwise charged atmosphere.

Mars, ever the kinetic spirit among them, spun lazily in Octavia's desk chair, his movements adding a playful air to the room. With a more reserved demeanor, Fox leaned against the desk, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the edges of the ancient grimoire Rhiannon had given Octavia. His eyes flickered with a hint of recognition and respect for the text, a tome familiar to all the May siblings.

The room was filled with the soft murmur of discussion and the occasional thump of the stress ball that Mars and Octavia tossed back and forth—a rhythmic, comforting sound that punctuated their conversation.

"So, when did everything click for you guys?" Octavia asked, catching the ball with a soft thud against her palm.

Mars caught the ball on the next pass, his spin slowing as he considered the question. "For me, it was kind of gradual," he admitted, his voice thoughtful. "It started with small things, like feeling the energy in a room shift or knowing when someone was lying. Then one day, everything just... lined up."

Clementine nodded, her eyes reflecting a depth of experience as she added, "For me, it was more sudden. There was this one night during a thunderstorm when the power went out. I was alone in the dark, and suddenly, I could feel the storm's energy, like it was alive and communicating with me. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once."

Fox turned a page in the grimoire, his voice low, even as he joined in. "It's different for everyone," he admitted. "For me, it was like tuning an instrument. You don't realize it's out of tune until you hear the perfect note."

"Is it always this... overwhelming?" Octavia asked, a trace of vulnerability in her voice as she tossed the ball back to Mars.

"It can be," Clementine replied, her tone soothing. "But remember, you're not alone. We all went through it. And you have us now."

"Yeah, and the more you understand your power, the less overwhelming it becomes," Mars added, tossing the ball back with a grin. "It's like any other skill—practice, practice, practice."

Fox closed the grimoire and pushed off from the desk to sit on the edge of the bed, turning to face Octavia more directly. "Think of it as a journey," he said, his eyes locked on hers with an intensity that made her heart flutter slightly. "There are going to be bumps along the way, but also incredible views. You're just starting out, so give yourself permission to not know everything at once."

Octavia nodded, feeling a mixture of reassurance and anxiety and oddly thankful for the existence of the older May sibling. The path ahead was uncertain, but she felt a growing hope with the May siblings by her side. This connection they shared—this strange, magical bond—was strengthening, and she was beginning to understand that her abilities didn't just mean new challenges but also new possibilities.

"And you guys grew up with this stuff? It wasn't some traumatizing event that made your entire body burn?" Octavia asked as she tossed the ball back to Mars as she thought back to the night of the video store.

Mars caught the stress ball with a soft thud, the motion momentarily pulling his gaze from Octavia. His expression softened, reflecting a mixture of empathy and a trace of his hidden memories. "Yeah, we did grow up with it," he confirmed, his voice carrying a note of somber reflection. "It was just a part of life for us, like learning to walk or talk. Our parents prepared us early, so it wasn't a shock. No burning or anything traumatic like that."

He gave a gentle shrug, his eyes meeting Octavia's with sincere understanding. "But that doesn't make your experience any less valid or scary. We all have paths to these powers and hurdles to overcome."

Clementine, always observant, leaned in closer, her presence comforting. "Every witch's awakening is unique. Some are gentle, eased by family knowledge and traditions. Others are more... abrupt and intense," she explained, choosing her words carefully to acknowledge Octavia's painful initiation without overwhelming her. "It sounds like yours was on the more dramatic side."

Fox, silently observing the exchange, chimed in with a thoughtful tilt of his head. "It's like being thrust into cold water. Some get to wade in slowly, acclimating to the temperature step by step. You were pushed in, and it's okay to feel overwhelmed, to feel the burn."

Octavia absorbed their words, each syllable helping to ease the isolation of her experiences. The metaphor of cold water resonated deeply; it was exactly how she felt that night at the video store—suddenly, painfully aware of a reality she had never known existed, a stark plunge into unseen depths.

Mars caught the stress ball with a soft thud, the motion momentarily pulling his gaze from Octavia. His expression softened, reflecting a mixture of empathy and a trace of his hidden memories. "Yeah, we did grow up with it," he confirmed, his voice carrying a note of somber reflection. "It was just a part of life for us, like learning to walk or talk. Our parents prepared us early, so it wasn't a shock. No burning or anything traumatic like that."

He gave a gentle shrug, his eyes meeting Octavia's with sincere understanding. "But that doesn't make your experience any less valid or scary. We all have paths to these powers and hurdles to overcome."

Clementine, always observant, leaned in closer, her presence comforting. "Every witch's awakening is unique. Some are gentle, eased by family knowledge and traditions. Others are more... abrupt and intense," she explained, choosing her words carefully to acknowledge Octavia's painful initiation without overwhelming her. "It sounds like yours was on the more dramatic side."

Fox, who had been silently observing the exchange, chimed in with a thoughtful tilt of his head. "It's like being thrust into cold water. Some get to wade in slowly, acclimating to the temperature step by step. You were pushed in, and it's okay to feel overwhelmed, to feel the burn."

Octavia absorbed their words, each syllable helping to ease the isolation of her experiences. The metaphor of cold water resonated deeply; it was exactly how she felt that night at the video store—suddenly, painfully aware of a reality she had never known existed, a stark plunge into unseen depths.

She looked down at the grimoire, her fingers tracing the ancient leather, drawing comfort from its tangible history. "I guess I'm just trying to figure out how to swim now," she said with a half-smile, her tone wry yet open, inviting further guidance.

Mars nodded enthusiastically, the chair squeaking slightly as he leaned forward. "And you'll swim," he assured her confidently. "You've already started, and you've got us as your lifeguards, so to speak."

Fox stood up, his demeanor more serious than before. He extended a hand to help her up from the bed. "Let's start with the basics," he suggested a spark of eagerness in his eyes. "Control, focus, and sensing. We'll take it slow, and you set the pace."

The first rays of dawn filtered through Octavia's window, painting her room in hues of muted gold. She couldn't remember when the May siblings had finally left, only the hazy sequence of events: Mars knocking over a glass of water, Clementine curling up on her bed like a cat, and Fox offering his typical smirk before reminding her to "practice, sunshine." The house had settled into an uneasy quiet after their departure, but Octavia's mind had refused to follow suit, her thoughts a tangle of magic, danger, and the dreaded unknown.

Now, the sound of frantic rummaging jolted her back to the present. Scott was tearing through his room like a tornado, desperation in every movement, while Stiles lounged in the computer chair, spinning lazily from side to side. The chair squeaked each time he turned, an almost mocking counterpoint to Scott's frantic energy.

"Call it again," Scott urged his voice a mix of panic and frustration.

Stiles, seated backward on the computer chair, rolled his neck, letting out a sigh that mingled exasperation with underlying concern. "It's not here, " he declared as Scott tore through his bedding. So you lost your phone. Why don't you just get a new one?" He shrugged.

Scott dropped to the floor to look under his bed. "I can't afford a new one." He replied, his tone a mixture of panic and irritation. "And I can't do this alone. We have to find Derek." He stood back on his feet.

"Well, A, you're not alone; you have us," Stiles said, his voice tinged with a slight edge as he gestured between himself and Octavia. His arms dropped to his sides, and his attempt to lighten the mood fell flat. "And B, didn't you say Derek walked into gunfire? He sounds pretty dead."

"He's not dead," Octavia interjected, feeling like a broken record whenever she asserted Derek Hale's survival.

Now searching through his bathroom, Scott called back, "Argent's plan was to use him to get to the Alpha. They're not gonna kill him."

"Alright, so then just let them do what they're planning, you know?  They use Derek to get to Peter; problem solved," Stiles reasoned, his tone laced with exasperation.

"Not if Peter's going after Allison to find Derek!" Scott exclaimed in frustration as he stormed back into the room and towards his desk, which, according to Octavia, he'd already checked three times. "I can't protect her on my own. Which means we need to find Derek first. "Just...just help me."

Stiles rolled his eyes as the small basketball made contact with his head, bouncing off it. "You know, you probably lost it when you two were fighting," Stiles said as he tossed the ball onto the ground with a soft thud. "You remember that, when he was trying to kill you? After you interrupted him trying to kill Jackson?"

"Should've let him," Octavia muttered under her breath.

"Are you starting to see a pattern of violent behavior here?" Stiles continued, his gaze flickering to Octavia, who met his eyes with a shared look of frustration.

Scott paused, his voice low and deliberate. "He wasn't going to kill anyone," he insisted, drawing a skeptical look from Stiles and a resigned sigh from Octavia.

"He wasn't going to kill anyone," Scott said slowly as Stiles looked at Octavia in exasperation, his mouth hung open. "And I'm not letting him die."

"Could you at least think about letting him die? For me?" Stiles half-joked, half-pleaded, but Scott was already distracted, his head shooting up at the sound of brakes squeaking outside. "What?"

"My mom just got home from work," Scott murmured.

Octavia and Stiles exchanged a glance, the kind that silently cursed Scott's werewolf hearing. They both turned back to Scott, watching his face darken with confusion and concern.

"What's going on?" Octavia finally asked, her voice softer now, the earlier humor gone.

Stiles shifted in his chair, his eyes darting between the siblings. "Is she okay?" he asked, his hand brushing against Octavia's. Neither seemed to notice the contact, though Octavia instinctively tightened her fingers around his in response. "What's she doing?"

"Crying," Scott replied, hearing the sniffles of Melissa McCall as he plopped beside his sister on the bed.

The room fell silent. Stiles's hand held Octavia's, but neither seemed to register it as they processed Scott's revelation. After a beat, Stiles spoke up, his voice unusually gentle. "Scott, you can't protect everyone," he said, leaning forward, his honey-colored eyes filled with quiet understanding.

Scott's jaw clenched his resolve hardening. "I have to," he replied, his voice steady despite the turmoil beneath it.

Octavia shifted her weight uncomfortably, her throat tightening. The tension in the room was suffocating, pressing down on her like a heavy blanket. She tried to focus on the rhythm of her breathing, but the emotions bubbling inside her refused to settle. They deserve to know, she thought. They have to know.

Octavia shifted her weight uncomfortably. The tension in the room was suffocating, and she could feel her own emotions bubbling to the surface. "There's something you guys should know," she blurted out, the words spilling out before she could stop them.

Both boys turned to her, their eyes wide with surprise. Octavia hesitated, her heart pounding in her chest. She hadn't planned to tell them like this, but the weight of her secret had become unbearable

Octavia hesitated, her heart pounding against her ribcage like a caged bird. "I..." she began, then faltered, her mouth dry. "You know how... weird things have been lately?"

Scott raised an eyebrow, and Stiles quirked a lopsided smile, his attempt to lighten the mood only making her nerves spike. She fidgeted with Stiles's hand, her fingers twisting around his. Just say it, she told herself. Rip the Band-Aid off.

Stiles blinked. "Define 'not exactly normal.' Because if you're about to tell us you're secretly a werewolf, too, I might actually lose it."

Octavia shook her head, letting out a nervous laugh. "Not a werewolf. But..."

Octavia began to reiterate the events that unfolded for her since the night her brother got bitten, mainly for his sake, seeing as though Stiles had been the only person she had confided in. She felt terrible, of course. She and Scott never kept secrets from each other.

"And apparently, there's more to it. Rhiannon and the May siblings helping me figure it out. Fox and the twins came over last night."

Stiles leaned forward, his curiosity piqued. "And they're what, teaching you to be a wizard now?"

Octavia rolled her eyes. "Witch. And it's not like that. They just... helped me understand some things."

Scott frowned. "And you didn't tell me this sooner?"

"I'm telling you now," Octavia said, her voice edged with frustration. "It's new, okay? I'm still figuring it out. And we were—are—dealing with your whole werewolf situation. I thought I was doing the right thing, but... I don't know anymore."

Stiles looked between her and Scott, his usual snark tempered by genuine intrigue. "Okay, but if you start flying or summoning demons, I need at least a five-minute heads-up."

Octavia groaned, her laughter mingling with a wave of relief. "No promises," she shot back, rolling her eyes.

Scott shook his head, his frown softening just a little. "This isn't over," he said, his voice firm but tinged with understanding.

"I know," Octavia said quietly. "But now you know. And that's what matters."

True to her word, Lydia had dragged Allison and Octavia dress shopping, the dresses as an apology for being a not-so-great friend. Octavia could, right off the bat, notice Allison's hesitance. She seemed so lost in thought throughout the whole day at school, but Octavia brought it up when they were in the safety and comfort of their little trio.

"Nothing's wrong," Allison said, sensing Octavia's concern. Her voice was calm and practiced, but Octavia knew her too well to buy it completely. "I just have a lot on my mind."

Octavia tilted her head, studying her friend as the escalator hummed beneath their feet. It wasn't entirely a lie—that much she could tell—but it wasn't the whole truth either. She decided not to push, at least not here, in the middle of a bustling department store.

"You could smile, at least," Lydia chimed in, her tone as breezy as her dress. "Ever heard the saying, 'Never frown. Someone could be falling in love with your smile?"

Both Allison and Octavia scoffed in unison.

"Smile, girls," Lydia added, undeterred. "I'm buying you both dresses. Show some gratitude."

"Have to admit, as far as apologies go, this is more than I expected," Allison quipped, a small smile tugging at her lips.

Octavia nodded in agreement. "Definitely better than the scented candle I was expecting."

"Excellent!"

"But not as much as I'm going to ask," Allison added, her tone light but purposeful.

Octavia's brows shot up. She glanced at Lydia, whose confidence faltered for the briefest of moments.

"What?" Lydia asked, her voice laced with apprehension. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Allison began as they stepped off the escalator, "you're going to cancel on whatever dumb, roided-up jock you said yes to, and you're going to go with somebody else."

Lydia stopped in her tracks, her perfectly manicured hand clutching the strap of her designer bag like a lifeline. "Who?" she asked, her voice as wary as if Allison had just suggested she wear sweatpants to prom.

Allison's lips curved into a mischievous smile. "Him."

She nodded toward the perfume counter, where none other than Stiles Stilinski was creating an accidental scene. Octavia's gaze followed, her lips already tugging into a grin as she watched him spray himself directly in the face with a bottle of perfume.

Stiles staggered back, sneezing violently, and for a moment, Octavia couldn't help but think of a startled bunny. The image was so absurd that she let out a soft laugh, her shoulders shaking as she tried to contain herself.

Lydia's horrified gaze swung to Octavia, silently pleading for backup. But Octavia was far too amused to intervene.

"Oh," Allison said, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. "Don't frown, Lydia. Someone could be falling in love with your smile."

The line struck its target, and Octavia couldn't hold back anymore. A laugh bubbled out of her, rich and full, as Lydia's expression morphed from despair to indignation.

It was then that Stiles turned. His face was red from sneezing but lit up with his signature goofy grin. He raised a hand in an awkward wave, his enthusiasm as endearing as it was embarrassing.

Octavia's grin widened instinctively. There was something so Stiles about the whole scene—completely chaotic yet weirdly charming. Her chest felt lighter, and she was aware of a warmth blooming there, though she quickly dismissed it as secondhand embarrassment.

"Absolutely not," Lydia hissed, snapping Octavia out of her thoughts.

"Oh, come on," Octavia teased, nudging Lydia with her shoulder. "He's not that bad. And besides, he's harmless. Probably safer than whatever steroid-fueled disaster you were going to go with."

Lydia groaned, but Octavia caught the faintest twitch of a smile on her lips.

As the trio approached the perfume counter, Allison leaned toward Octavia. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"Can you blame me?" Octavia replied her tone light but her gaze lingering on Stiles for a moment too long. "This is hilarious."

The trio of girls had only been in the department store for a few minutes, but it might as well have been hours for Stiles. Lydia Martin was a force to be reckoned with when it came to shopping; she was already on a mission. Stiles found himself holding an ever-growing pile of dress options, the fabric slipping in his arms as he followed her around the bustling dress department, silently cursing his decision to agree to this 'date.'

"Oh, okay." Stiles huffed, barely able to contain his exasperation as Lydia casually tossed two more dresses into the already towering pile.  "So are you just gonna try these on right now? All of them?" He shot a pleading look toward Octavia, standing nearby, studying a row of red dresses with an air of disinterest. "Is this a twenty-four-hour Macy's?" he added, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Octavia's lips quirked into a small smile, the laughter just below the surface. She could feel the tension rolling off him, but she didn't step in—not yet. Something far more pressing was occupying her thoughts, her senses tingling with a strange shift in the atmosphere around them. It wasn't just the usual chaos of a busy shopping floor. No, this felt different. Unsettling.

Her eyes flicked over the racks, landing briefly on Stiles. His pleading expression made her stomach flip uncomfortably, but she couldn't ignore the sensation crawling up her spine. The air around her thickened, dense with something darker—something dangerous. As she turned her head, her gaze locked onto Peter Hale, the Alpha standing across the room, talking to Allison. A sharp sense of unease settled in her gut.

Scott wasn't far. She could feel his presence, his protective instinct winding through the space, but this was different. There was a heaviness in Peter's voice that made her skin prickle. She didn't hesitate. She moved, the crowd parting in her wake as she strode toward the confrontation she already sensed would come.

Allison was fidgeting with a dress, clearly uncomfortable under Peter's calculating gaze. Her body language stiffened. "Because I'm pale?" Allison asked, her voice a touch too light to be entirely convincing.

Peter, ever the predator, flashed a smile that sent a cold shiver through Octavia. "Fair." He said, his tone too smooth, too measured. "I mean, you can't really call skin like yours 'pale.' Not skin that perfect."

Octavia could feel the disgust pooling in her chest, like a weight settling in her ribs. She wanted to shout, to break the tension Peter had created, but she held her ground, her hand clenching into a fist at her side. She didn't trust herself not to lash out. Not yet.

"Okay," Allison chuckled, clearly flustered by the compliment but suspicious. The two danced around the moment's awkwardness, trying to act casual, but Octavia could sense the rising unease beneath the surface.

"Trust me, I have a unique perspective on the subject," Peter continued, his eyes narrowing as he grabbed a silver dress from a nearby rack and held it up, the fabric sparkling under the store lights. He reached for Allison's hand, fingers brushing against her skin in an all-too-familiar manner. "Do you mind?" he asked, his voice low, a subtle command.

Before Allison could pull away, Peter had already begun to lift her hand, guiding it with practiced ease toward the dress, comparing it to her complexion. The touch was too intimate, too invasive. Octavia's stomach tightened, a fierce protectiveness flooding her veins. She watched Allison's subtle tension; her shoulders stiffened, and her fingers clenched around the jacket she was wearing.

"See? Much better," Peter said, placing the dress back on the rack as if nothing had happened. "You're not here alone, are you?"

"Nope," Octavia's voice cut through the moment like a blade. It was dry and unwavering, a firm declaration that she wouldn't stand by and let Peter play with her friend.

Peter raised an eyebrow, studying her for a moment before he returned his attention to Allison. "Shopping for dresses with friends?" he asked, his tone almost mocking. "High school dance?"

"Formal," Allison murmured, her voice soft, but Octavia could hear the underlying tension. She could feel it, too.

Octavia didn't wait for Peter to say anything more. Before he could utter another word, Octavia grabbed Allison's hand, her fingers wrapping around hers in a silent show of solidarity. It was instinct, the need to protect her friend from Peter's calculating eyes. The connection between them was instant, and for a split second, Octavia felt like she could breathe again.

But before they could leave, the PA system crackled to life, lowering the music. A woman's voice echoed over the speakers, sending a ripple of confusion through the store. "Attention shoppers... To the owner of a blue Mazda, license plate-"

"Did she just say blue Mazda?" Allison asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.

"-5768. Your car is being towed."

"Oh, no." Allison gasped, her hand jerking away from Octavia's as she turned toward the door in a flurry of movement. "That's my car!"

Octavia didn't wait for her to say more. Her feet were already in motion, pulling Allison through the store, away from Peter's presence and the growing tension. She kept her grip firm on Allison's hand, her pace quickening, knowing that it wouldn't end well if Peter had any more of her attention.

After a rigorous afternoon spent in the clutches of beauty prep, Octavia finally admired her reflection. Her naturally curly hair straightened, falling effortlessly past her shoulders. Her makeup was done just right, enhancing her natural features without overwhelming them—a touch of shimmer on her eyelids and a bold, somewhat bold lip that didn't overpower the red of her dress, which fell just above her knees.

Lucas, in his classic black suit that seemed to accentuate his athletic build, couldn't help but throw a compliment her way as they made their final preparations. "I must say, McCall, in that dress, you're making it awfully hard for a guy to keep his cool."

Octavia shot him a playful glare as she adjusted an errant curl. "Keep your cool? Lucas, if you start sweating through that suit, I'm blaming you for any unsightly photos."

Melissa McCall had been relentless with her camera, her cheery voice echoing through the McCall household. "One more, just one more!" she'd insist, though everyone knew 'just one' meant at least a dozen more. Octavia had endured it with a grace only she could muster, throwing dramatic poses and exaggerated sighs that only made Melissa snap more pictures, claiming each one was better than the last.

By the time they had escaped Melissa's photographic fervor, Octavia and Lucas were ready to head to the dance. As Lucas navigated the familiar roads to Beacon Hills High, the car filled with the soft sound of the evening playlist Octavia had insisted on, claiming no car ride to a dance was complete without a proper musical prelude.

Pulling into the parking lot of Beacon Hills High, Lucas parked the car with a flourish. "And here we are, at the grand event. Ready to make an entrance that'll have them talking till graduation?"

Octavia laughed, checking her lipstick in the small mirror one last time. "Oh, they'd better talk, Lucas. I didn't suffer through an hour of my mom's photography to go unnoticed at my own dance."

Lucas grinned, opened his door, and stepped out to walk around to her side. "Well, let's not keep your adoring public waiting."

Lucas lifted their joined hands, his eyes catching the small gold charm dangling from Octavia's bracelet as it shimmered under the glow of the parking lot lights. "It's cute," he remarked, the words measured but betraying an edge of something else. "From Lydia?"

Octavia shook her head, a soft laugh escaping her lips as her fingers grazed the charm absentmindedly. "Lydia Martin doesn't do matching jewelry," she teased, her voice warm with affection. Stiles won it in some claw machine years ago. He was so smug about it, too. He turned his into a keychain." Her smile grew at the memory, the corners of her eyes crinkling.

Lucas's expression shifted, his easygoing demeanor faltering for a split second. The corners of his mouth flattened into a thin line, and his grip on her hand tightened—just enough for her to notice. "Of course," he muttered, his voice low and dry. His eyes flicked up just in time to see Stiles and Lydia approaching from across the lot, Stiles waving enthusiastically.

Octavia didn't miss the subtle change in Lucas's energy, the way his jaw clenched as he looked at Stiles, but she brushed it off. "You two are awfully close, aren't you?" he asked his tone light but carrying an unmistakable weight beneath the words.

She blinked, startled by the question. "He's my best friend, Lucas," she said, trying to keep her tone casual as her heels clicked against the pavement.

"Yeah, I know," Lucas replied, though there was a sharpness in his tone now. His eyes fixed on Stiles, who animatedly talked to Lydia a few feet away. "Just seems like he's always around, you know? Like he's... part of the package."

Octavia frowned, her steps slowing. She didn't like the direction this was heading. "Because he is part of the package," she said firmly. "Stiles has been there for me through everything. He's family."

Lucas stopped walking, forcing her to do the same. His gaze bore into hers, searching, conflicted. "I get that he's your best friend," he began, his voice quieter now, almost strained. "But it's always Stiles this, Stiles that. He calls you in the middle of the night, shows up unannounced, drags you into all his crazy schemes..." He trailed off, his hands falling to his sides as he exhaled sharply. "Do you even realize how much space he takes up in your life?"

Octavia tilted her head, her brows knitting together. "What are you talking about? That's just Stiles. He's been like that forever. You're reading way too much into this."

"Am I?" Lucas asked, his voice hardening. "Because it doesn't feel like I am. It feels like... like I'm competing with him. For you."

She stared at him, dumbfounded. "Competing?" she echoed, her voice rising slightly. "Lucas, this isn't a competition. Stiles is my friend. You're—" She paused, the words catching in her throat as she tried to define whatever they were. "You're different."

Lucas gave a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Different? Sure. But not enough, apparently." His eyes flicked back to Stiles, who was now talking with Lydia, utterly unaware of the tension between Octavia and Lucas. "I'm not blind, Octavia. The way he looks at you... the way you light up when he's around. Don't tell me there's nothing there."

Her mouth opened, but no words came out. She felt heat rise to her cheeks but quickly shook her head. "There's nothing there," she said firmly. "Lucas, you're imagining things. Stiles and I—he's like a brother to me."

"Maybe that's how you see him," Lucas shot back, his voice rising. "But it's not how he sees you. And if you can't see that..." He trailed off, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "I can't keep doing this, Octavia. I can't keep pretending it doesn't bother me how close you two are."

The words hit her like a slap, cold and unexpected. "So, what?" she demanded, her voice trembling. "You want me to stop being friends with him? You want me to just cut him out of my life because you're insecure?"

"I want you to make a choice," Lucas said, his jaw tightening as he stepped closer, his voice low and steady now. "It's me or-"

"Him," She replied in an instant. "You're trying to make me choose, but it'll always be Stiles.

Lucas's expression tightened, his jaw clenching subtly as his mouth pressed into a straight line. His grip on her hand shifted—firmer, though not enough to hurt. It was enough for her to notice. "Of course," he muttered under his breath, his tone laced with something bitter.

Before Octavia could respond, she caught sight of Lydia and Stiles waving at them from near the entrance. Lydia, radiant as always in her form-fitting red gown, stood poised like she owned the night, while Stiles was his usual disheveled self, his tie slightly crooked but his grin as wide as ever. Octavia's face lit up instinctively at the sight of her best friend, and she lifted a hand to wave back, her bracelet jingling softly.

"You two are awfully close, aren't you?" Lucas asked, his voice low and measured, but there was no mistaking the edge beneath it.

Octavia turned back to him, brow furrowing slightly at the shift in his tone. "He's my best friend, Lucas. You know that," she said, keeping her voice light to smooth over the tension she could feel building.

Lucas stopped walking, his gaze fixed on Stiles as he spoke to her. "Yeah, I know," he replied, but his words were sharp, clipped. "Just seems like he's always around, you know?"

Octavia's steps faltered, and she gently tugged her hand free from his. "Because he is always around. That's what best friends do," she replied, trying to keep her frustration in check. "You're making this into something it's not."

Lucas's jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "I'm not blind, Octavia," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "It's always Stiles this, Stiles that. Every story you tell, every joke you laugh at—it's always him." He finally turned to look at her, his eyes dark and searching. "Do you even see me in any of it?"

Octavia blinked, stunned by the raw emotion in his voice. She opened her mouth to respond, but he cut her off.

"Don't say it's just friendship," Lucas said, his voice wavering between anger and something far more vulnerable. "Because maybe that's how you see it, but I'm not convinced that's all it is for him. And if I'm being honest, I don't think it's all it is for you either."

Her heart stuttered at his words, but she quickly shook her head. "You're wrong," she insisted. "Stiles and I—we're just friends. That's it."

"Then why does it feel like I'm always competing with him?" Lucas asked, stepping closer. His presence loomed, heavy with frustration and something bordering on desperation. "Why do I feel like I'll never come first with you, no matter how hard I try?"

Octavia hesitated, her stomach twisting into knots. "Lucas, this is ridiculous. You're asking me to choose between my best friend and my—whatever this is? Because of your jealousy?"

He flinched at her words, and for a moment, she thought he might back down. But instead, he squared his shoulders, his expression hardening. "Yeah. I am. I can't keep pretending it doesn't bother me, Octavia. It's him or me."

The words hit her like a slap, cold and shocking. Her breath caught in her throat, her mind racing as she tried to process the ultimatum he had just laid before her. She looked at him, at the hurt and anger in his eyes, and then over at Stiles, who was standing by Lydia, utterly oblivious to the storm brewing across the parking lot.

For a long moment, she said nothing, the silence stretching between them like a chasm.

And then, softly but firmly, she said, "It's him."

Lucas's eyes widened, the finality of her answer sinking in. Octavia's voice grew steadier as she continued, her gaze unwavering. "It'll always be Stiles. He's been there for me through everything. And if you can't handle that, maybe you were never really here for me in the first place."

Lucas stepped back, his face a mixture of disbelief and pain. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came. Instead, he simply shook his head, his expression hardening once more as he turned on his heel and walked away.

Octavia watched him go, her chest tight with guilt and relief. She didn't understand why the thought of losing Lucas hurt so much less than the thought of losing Stiles. But as she turned back toward the entrance, where Stiles was waiting with his usual lopsided grin, she decided not to dwell on it. Not tonight.

Though still unmistakably a gym, it had been transformed into a half-decent dance venue. A disco ball hung lazily in the center of the dance floor, tapestries hung around the gym. The dance had kicked off what felt like an eternity ago, with couples and large friend groups piling in.

Octavia stood by the refreshment table, nursing a punch. She spotted Jackson Whittemore and Danny Māhealani near the table, their poorly concealed bottle of vodka making an appearance. Her lips quirked into a wry smile as Jackson glanced around before spiking their drinks. Typical.

Her gaze wandered to Mars May, who was somehow both awkward and mesmerizing as he performed an enthusiastic—if not entirely rhythmic—rendition of the sprinkler in the center of the dance floor. Clementine's absence wasn't surprising—her distaste for school events was legendary. "No point in spending any more time at school than absolutely necessary to graduate," she'd said, the same excuse she gave for skipping lacrosse games. And Fox? Well, Octavia doubted he'd ever willingly set foot in a place with this much forced enthusiasm. Octavia chuckled to herself, her attention momentarily caught by the spectacle of Mars's dance moves. Was it the sprinkler, or was he mimicking a flailing inflatable tube man? Hard to tell.

Stiles and Lydia sat two tables over, equally bored and slightly uncomfortable in each other's silent presence. Stiles had managed to compliment her honestly on her beauty, though the warm response was short-lived as she now fidgeted with her purse.

His restless energy was palpable as he tapped his fingers against the table's edge, occasionally sneaking glances at Lydia.

Stiles perked up as his eyes caught Allison and Jackson moving to the dance floor. He turned to Lydia, a hopeful grin spreading across his face. "Wanna dance?" he asked, his voice too eager.

Lydia barely spared him a glance, her lips curving into a tight smile. "Pass."

"You know what? Let me try that again." He stood up, feeling as if trying to seem more prominent in front of a bear. "Lydia, get off your cute little ass and dance with me now."

This earned him a raised eyebrow and a look of mild amusement. "Interesting tactic, " she said snidely. I'm gonna stick with no."

"Lydia, get up, okay? You're gonna dance with me. I don't care that you made out with my best friend for some weird power thing. I don't-" He sighed. " Lydia, Birdie has been friends with you since the third grade... And I know that somewhere inside that cold, lifeless exterior, there's an actual human soul. And I'm also pretty sure that I'm the the only other person who knows how smart you really are.

Uh-huh. And that once you're done pretending to be a nitwit, you'll eventually go off and write some insane mathematical theorem that wins you the Nobel Prize."
She looked away, smiling slightly to herself. "A Fields Medal." She corrected quietly.
"What?"

She stood up, walking closer to him. "Nobel doesn't have a prize for mathematics. The Fields Medals' the one I'll be winning."

Stiles grinned despite himself. "See? I knew it. You're already planning your acceptance speech, aren't you?"

Lydia shook her head, a soft laugh escaping her. She glanced toward the refreshment table, where Octavia stood now, laughing at something Mars had done. Her bracelet caught the light as she gestured animatedly, her smile wide and unguarded.

"You should ask her to dance," Lydia said suddenly, her tone casual but pointed.

Stiles blinked, taken aback. "What?" His voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat in embarrassment. "What are you talking about?"

"Octavia," Lydia repeated, nodding toward the refreshment table. "You should ask her to dance."

Stiles followed her gaze, his eyes landing on Octavia. She was radiant, her laugh cutting through the noise of the gym like a melody. His heart did an annoying flip, but he quickly shook it off. "I mean... she's fine. She looks like she's having fun."

"Does she?" Lydia asked, arching a perfectly manicured brow. "Because from here, it looks like she's standing by herself, nursing a punch, and trying to pretend she's not bored out of her mind."

Stiles hesitated, his fingers fidgeting with his tie. "She doesn't want to dance with me," he muttered, avoiding Lydia's gaze.

"Don't be ridiculous," Lydia said, her tone sharp but not unkind. "She'd say yes. You two have that... thing."

"What thing?" Stiles asked, his voice rising slightly as his cheeks flushed.

Lydia smirked. "The thing where you're both completely oblivious to how much you care about each other. It's painfully obvious to everyone but you two."

Stiles stared at her, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "That's not a thing," he finally managed, his voice defensive. "We're just friends."

"Sure," Lydia said, her smirk widening as she sat back down. "But if you don't ask her, someone else might."

The words hit him harder than he expected, and his eyes flicked back to Octavia, who was now chatting with some lacrosse player, her bracelet catching the light again as she laughed. His stomach twisted, and he forgot how to breathe for a moment.

Lydia's voice broke through his thoughts. "Clock's ticking, Stilinski. Don't make me regret giving you good advice."

"And what about you?" Stiles asked; though he wasn't having the greatest time with her, he couldn't help but feel guilty at the thought of letting her sit alone at the table.

"Hey, Lydia!" Mars said before Lydia could even reply, his voice a touch too loud but filled with genuine excitement, still riding the high of being the life of the party. "You look... uh, really nice tonight. Like, really nice."

Lydia gave Stiles a look as if to say, 'See? I'll be fine,' before turning to Mars and smiling politely. Stiles gave a short nod before taking his leave, approaching Octavia.

Mars beamed, rocking on the balls of his feet. "So, uh, I was wondering... would you like to dance? I mean, not that you have to or anything, but, you know, if you're not busy—"

Stiles looked over his shoulders just in time to see Lydia pull Mars onto the dance floor before he squared his shoulders, running a hand through his hair as he started toward the refreshment table. His heart was pounding so loudly that he was sure Octavia would hear it the second he got close. She was still chatting with the lacrosse player, her smile polite and guarded, her bracelet glinting under the string lights.

"Hey," he said, his voice cracking slightly as he reached her. He cleared his throat quickly, trying to recover. "Hey, Birdie."

Octavia turned, her expression lighting up when she saw him. "Stiles! Finally tearing yourself away from Lydia's side, huh?"

He scratched the back of his neck, his cheeks warming. "Yeah, well, she's busy... dancing with Mars now." He gestured vaguely toward the dance floor, where Mars was attempting another overly enthusiastic move that made Lydia laugh despite herself.

Octavia followed his gaze, her lips curving into a grin. "I'll admit, I didn't see that one coming. Good for Mars, though. He's been trying to work up the courage to ask her all week."

"Really?" Stiles asked, genuinely surprised. "Well, he's got guts. Way more guts than I do."

Octavia raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "What do you mean?"

Stiles hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "I mean... well..." He glanced at the dance floor, where couples swayed and spun to the music. "I mean, do you want to dance? With me?"

Her eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by the question. "You want to dance? With me?"

"Yeah," he said quickly, his voice rushing to fill the space before she could say no. "I mean, it's not like, you know, a thing. It's just... it's a dance. And we're here. So... why not?"

Octavia blinked, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Stiles Stilinski, are you nervous?"

"What? No!" He laughed a little too loudly before rubbing the back of his neck again. "Okay, maybe a little. But you're not making this any easier."

She laughed, warm and genuine, and the sound sent a rush of something indescribable through him. Relief, joy... something else entirely. "Alright, alright," she said, placing her punch cup on the table. "Let's dance."

Stiles held out his hand, his palm a little sweaty but steady. His heart nearly leaped out of his chest when she took it, her bracelet jingling softly as they made their way to the dance floor. The crowd seemed to part around them, the lights shifting as the song transitioned into something softer, slower.

He placed one hand on her waist, the other still holding hers. Her free hand rested lightly on his shoulder. They swayed together, moving in time with the music, and for a moment, the noise and chaos of the gym seemed to fade away. It was just them, the steady rhythm of the song and the glow of the disco ball above.

"You're not bad at this," Octavia teased, her eyes sparkling as she looked up at him.

"Don't sound so surprised," he shot back, his lips curving into a grin. "I've got moves, McCall. You just haven't seen them all yet."

She laughed again, and Stiles felt like the air around them had changed. Her laughter wasn't just a sound. It was warmth, comfort, and home. He grinned back at her, but his mind was racing, his thoughts tripping over themselves in their urgency.

She was beautiful.

Not just tonight, not just because of the dress or how the lights framed her. She was Octavia. She had always been beautiful. He knew that better than anyone.

His chest tightened, and the air in the gym suddenly felt too warm and too close. He was barely moving now, his feet rooted to the spot as the world blurred into a mess of noise and color. His heart thudded violently against his ribcage, and his thoughts—usually so quick and sharp—felt sluggish, overwhelmed by the weight of what he was feeling.

This wasn't normal. This wasn't just a dance, or just a laugh, or just Octavia. This was something else. Something terrifying.

And for the first time, he couldn't ignore it.

He tried to brush it off and shove it back into the box where he kept all his other complicated feelings, but it was too big now and loud to ignore. He looked at her, really looked at her, and it hit him that he didn't just care about her. He was in deep. Maybe he had been for a while.

I think I'm in love with her.

Her laughter brought him back, grounding him as she playfully bumped his shoulder with hers. "Earth to Stiles? You okay over there? You look like you're about to pass out."

He blinked, startled, before forcing a grin onto his face. "What? No, I'm fine. Just, uh... concentrating. You know, making sure I don't step on your feet. Very serious business."

"Uh-huh," she said, clearly unconvinced but too amused to press him further. "Well, you're doing a great job so far, Fred Astaire."

"Thanks, Ginger," he shot back, the banter automatic, but his heart still racing.

Her bracelet jingled softly again as she shifted her weight, and the sound tugged at something deep in him. That bracelet was such a small thing, a silly little charm from years ago, but she'd kept it. She wore it like it meant something like he meant something.

"Stiles?" Octavia's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts, her tone soft with curiosity.

"Hmm?" he hummed, snapping back to the present. Her face was so close now, her brows furrowed slightly as she studied him.

"You okay over there? You look like you're about to pass out," Octavia asked, her voice tinged with concern.

"Yeah," he said quickly, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat, forcing another grin. "Totally fine. Just... thinking."

"About what?"

"Uh..." He glanced toward the dance floor, trying to find a safe answer. "About how ridiculous Mars looks right now. I mean, seriously, what even is that move?"

Octavia turned to look, and her laughter again filled the space between them. It was warm and unrestrained, and it hit him all over again. He was a goner.

But she didn't know. She couldn't know. Not yet.

For now, he would keep it to himself, bury it beneath the banter and the laughter, and wait for the moment when he was brave enough to face it head-on. Until then, he'd hold onto this dance, this moment, and her smile.

He was in love with Octavia McCall. And she had absolutely no idea.

The gym was a whirl of motion and sound, with the thumping bass of the music setting a relentless pace and the disco ball casting dizzying shards of light across the dancers. For a brief, blissful moment, Octavia had let herself get lost in the rhythm of the dance, the warmth of Stiles' hands resting gently on her waist. Her head had leaned lightly against his shoulder, her body moving in sync with his, the world around them fading into a distant hum. But then it hit—an unwelcome, sharp, and unrelenting jolt sent her nerves skittering.

Her head shot up, her body stiffening as a wave of cold dread washed over her. The noise of the gym, which had been background filler just moments ago, now felt deafening, each bass drop reverberating through her chest like a sledgehammer. The laughter and chatter of the crowd sounded warped, almost hollow, and the lights from the disco ball pierced her eyes like tiny needles.

Her chest tightened, her breath catching as if the air had thickened, refusing to fill her lungs. Something was wrong. She could feel it, stark and unyielding, a sensation that clawed at her insides and made her stomach churn. Her eyes darted across the room, scanning faces and corners for some sign of danger, but everything seemed... normal. Too normal.

Her fingers dug into Stiles' shoulder instinctively, her grip tense and trembling. He noticed immediately, his body freezing as he looked down at her with wide, concerned eyes. "Birdie?" His voice was soft but urgent, laced with confusion and worry. He tilted his head, trying to catch her gaze, but her eyes kept darting around the room, frantic and searching.

Her lips parted, but no words came out at first. Her throat felt dry, her thoughts too tangled to make sense of. She forced herself to take a breath, though it came out shaky. "Something's wrong," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the music. "I can feel it."

Stiles frowned, his grip tightening slightly on her arms, steadying her as her knees threatened to buckle. "What do you mean? What do you feel?" he asked, his tone cautious but coaxing, as though speaking too loudly might shatter her completely.

Octavia shook her head, her eyes scanning the crowd again. The disco ball's fragmented light made focusing hard, faces blending into the pulsing haze. She spotted Mars at a nearby table, his exuberant laughter carrying over the din, but it felt disconnected, out of place. Her heart sank further when her gaze swept past and landed on the empty chairs where Lydia had been sitting just minutes ago.

"Where's Lydia?" she asked suddenly, her voice trembling as she turned back to Stiles. Her chest heaved, her breaths shallow and erratic. "She's gone, Stiles. She's not here."

Stiles followed her gaze, his brow furrowing as he scanned the room. "I don't see her," he admitted, his voice low, trying to keep calm. "But that doesn't mean—"

"Something's not right," Octavia cut him off, her words rushing out as her panic grew. "The lights, the music—it's too much, all wrong. And Lydia's gone, and I just... I feel like something's going to happen. Something bad."

Her voice cracked on the last word, and Stiles felt his stomach knot. He had seen Octavia overwhelmed before—her empathic abilities sometimes left her vulnerable to strong emotions in a room—but this was different. This was raw and visceral fear written all over her pale face.

"Okay," he said, his tone firm despite the rising anxiety curling in his chest. "We'll find her. We'll figure it out. Just stay with me, alright?"

He took her hand, his touch grounding her for a fleeting moment as he led her through the crowded gym. The air felt heavy, pressing against her as they weaved through clusters of students laughing and dancing, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in her mind. Every flicker of movement in her peripheral vision made her heart jump, her senses on overdrive as she scanned for Lydia—or for whatever it was that was setting her off.

When they reached Mars's table, he looked up with his usual easygoing grin, but it faltered when he saw Octavia's face. "Tav?" he asked, his voice softening with concern. "You okay? What's going on?"

"Have you seen Lydia?" Stiles asked, his voice tight, urgency seeping through his words.

Mars blinked, glancing around the room. "She said something about finding Jackson," he offered, his brow furrowing as he looked back at Octavia. "Why? What's going on? Tav, what are you feeling?"

Octavia opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat. The knot of anxiety in her stomach twisted tighter, the sensation so strong it made her dizzy. Her knees wobbled slightly, and Stiles was immediately at her side, his arm steadying her before she could falter ultimately.

"It's... it's like everything's closing in," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "The lights, the noise... I can't shake it, Mars. It feels like—" Her voice broke again, and she clutched Stiles' arm for support. "It feels like something's about to go horribly wrong."

Mars's face darkened with concern, his carefree demeanor evaporating as he exchanged a worried glance with Stiles. "Alright," Mars said, his voice firming. "Let's split up and find her. I'll check around her. You two start with the halls."

Stiles nodded, his jaw tightening as he turned back to Octavia. "We'll find her," he promised, his voice steady even as his own nerves frayed. "We'll find Lydia, and whatever's going on, we'll deal with it. Together."

Octavia nodded weakly, her breath still coming in shallow bursts. She clung to his arm as they moved, her mind racing with every possibility—each one worse than the last.

And as they wove back into the crowd, the weight of her dread hung over them, unrelenting and suffocating.

Octavia's heart was pounding in her chest, each beat echoing louder than the music inside. The weight in her chest hadn't eased; if anything, it had grown heavier, pressing down on her like a lead blanket. Her fingers gripped Stiles' arm tightly as her eyes scanned the dimly lit surroundings.

And then they saw him.

Jackson stood by the side of the building, his usually confident posture replaced by something uncertain, almost hesitant. His hands hung awkwardly at his sides, and his head tilted down as if he couldn't fully meet their gaze. The sight sent a cold jolt through Octavia's body, her instincts screaming that something was wrong—very wrong.

Stiles pulled his phone from his ear, where he'd been mid-call, and exhaled. "Where the hell have you been?" he demanded, his tone sharp but undercut with unease. "Did Lydia ever find you?"

Jackson didn't answer immediately. He shifted on his feet, his gaze flicking between them. His lips parted, but no words came out. He looked... shaken. It was a sight Octavia wasn't used to—Jackson, the ever-arrogant, ever-composed Jackson, standing there, vulnerable and unsure.

"Jackson," Stiles prompted again, his irritation giving way to worry as he moved his arm, taking Octavia's hand instead. His grip was steady and grounding, but it did little to quell the rising panic in her chest.

"What?" Stiles pressed. "What's wrong?"

Jackson hesitated, his mouth opening and closing as if choking on the words. The hesitation only made the air feel heavier and thicker. Octavia's breath hitched, and the knot of anxiety in her stomach twisted tighter.

"I was out behind the school," Jackson finally said, his voice quiet, almost shaky. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly. "And I—I was out—"

"Jackson, what did you do?"

The lacrosse field was shrouded in darkness, a void that seemed to swallow sound and light alike. Standing alone near the center, Lydia called out for Jackson, her voice echoing faintly against the empty stands. The stadium lights flickered to life suddenly, popping and buzzing as they cast stark white beams across the field, segmenting the darkness into harsh patches of light and deep shadows.

"Jackson?" Lydia's voice wavered as the illumination grew, her eyes squinting against the sudden brightness. She spun around, her heart pounding, as a figure materialized from the far end of the field. "Jackson, is that you?" she called out, more uncertain this time.

The figure continued to approach, its movements too smooth, too deliberate. Lydia's hope faded as she realized it wasn't Jackson. Her voice dropped to a whisper, "Jackson?" knowing now it was someone—or something—else.

Meanwhile, Stiles and Octavia were sprinting across the field, the grass slick beneath their feet as they dodged the bright patches of light. Stiles gripped Octavia's hand tightly, his breath ragged as he shouted, "Lydia, run!" But his warning sliced through the air too late.

Peter Hale stepped into a pool of light, his transformation horrifying in its intensity. His jaw unhinged grotesquely, monstrous fangs glinting as he snarled, a predator unveiled. The sight paralyzed Octavia momentarily, her feet stumbling as they drew closer.

Lydia backed away slowly, her eyes wide with terror as Peter advanced. Stiles and Octavia arrived just as Lydia fell, Peter pouncing with lethal precision. Stiles threw himself to the ground beside her, his hands raised defensively as Peter's mouth came away from Lydia's neck, blood dripping grotesquely down his chin.

"Don't kill her," Stiles pleaded, his voice cracking with desperation. "Please."

Peter chuckled, a sound chilling in its nonchalance. "Of course not!" he replied, his tone dripping with feigned sweetness. "Just tell me how to find Derek."

Standing beside Stiles, her fists clenched, Octavia felt a surge of purpose. "What?" she gasped, staring at Peter in horror and confusion.

"Tell me how to find Derek Hale," Peter repeated slowly, his clawed finger tracing a cold path along Lydia's cheek.

"We don't know that," Stiles stammered, his voice barely holding steady. "How would we know that?"

"Because you're the clever one, aren't you?" Peter taunted, his gaze piercing as he looked between Stiles and Octavia. "And because deception has a particularly acrid scent, Stiles. Tell me the truth...or I will rip her apart. Then..." His finger shifted menacingly towards Octavia, who felt a chill ripple through her. "Well...let's just say you'll be next."

"Look—I don't know, okay?" Stiles's voice broke, his fear palpable. "I swear to God, I have no idea."

"Tell me!" Peter's voice thundered, his roar echoing off the stands.

Stiles flinched, his body tensing as he searched desperately for an answer. "Okay, okay, look, I—I think he knew—"

"Knew what?" Peter pressed, his impatience tangible.

"Derek, I think he knew he was gonna be caught," Stiles continued, his thoughts racing. "By the Argents."

"And?" Peter leaned in, his eyes narrowing.

"When they were shot, he and Scott... I think he took Scott's phone," Stiles said, the pieces coming together even as he spoke.

Peter cocked his head, intrigued. "Why?"

"They all have GPS now. So, if he still has it, and if it's still on... you can find him."

┗━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━┛

chat, did i eat?

i promise promise promises this is going to be a gut wrenching slow burn but i desperately needed him to start pining

nearly 10,000 words so consider showing some love perhaps?

also can we talk about how good dylan looked at sundance this past weekend? insane. criminal. people(me) DIED

𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚟𝚘𝚝𝚎