Void (The Youngest, Book 3.B.)

Chapter 二十三

Scott, Lydia, and Isaac were sitting together on a bench in the Sheriff's station. Kylie was sitting on her brother's knees, her tiny hands clinging tightly onto his shirt. Every once in a while, a small hiccup would escape her lips, her face buried in Scott's chest. No one spoke. They just sat there, lost to their own separate despairs, the weight of Allison's loss pressing down on them.

Scott stared absentmindedly at a spot on the opposite wall, his gaze unfocused. He wasn't really looking at anything. His mind kept replaying Allison's final moments—the look in her eyes, her whispered words, the feeling of her slipping away in his arms. It felt surreal, as if he could just blink and be back to moments before, where he could still do something. The sensation of her blood on his hands was still vivid, and he rubbed Kylie's back mechanically, trying to ground himself.

Kylie clung to him as if her life depended on it, her small body trembling with the occasional hiccup that broke the heavy silence. Her eyes were closed, face pressed against Scott's chest, searching for comfort in the only person she felt safe with. Scott tightened his hold on her, pressing his lips to her hair in an attempt to console her. But really, he was trying to console himself too.

Lydia sat beside them, her eyes distant and red-rimmed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Every now and then, she would look over at Scott and Kylie, her heart aching with a mixture of sorrow and guilt. Isaac was next to her, his elbows resting on his knees, his head hanging low. His usually confident demeanor was gone, replaced by a shell of a boy who had just lost someone dear.

The silence between them was broken only by Kylie's occasional hiccup or a sniffle from Lydia. The world around them felt muted, like they were underwater, the sounds and sights dull, drowned out by grief.

Scott's thoughts drifted to the conversation he had had with Chris after everything had happened—the way Allison's father had to snap him back into focus, pulling him out of his stupor, trying to make sense of it all.

"Scott, look at me. Look at me!" Chris had yelled, his voice sharp, his eyes blazing. "You called Stilinski first!"

Scott had blinked, dazed, his head feeling too heavy. "Uh, I called him first," he repeated mechanically.

"You say Stiles' dad or the Sheriff," Chris said, his tone pointed, trying to keep Scott focused.

"I called Stiles' dad first," Scott had managed to get out.

Chris had nodded, his expression hard. "Okay, what else?"

"There... there were two of them," Scott had said, his voice barely a whisper. "They wanted our car. They were wearing masks. One had a knife."

"You think," Chris had cut in, his voice stern. "Don't get specific, Scott. You saw something sharp and metallic. You think it was a knife." Scott had nodded, his breath shallow. "What do you say next? If you get confused, what do you always repeat?"

"Uh, it happened so fast," Scott had said, his voice breaking slightly.

"That's right. Now say it again." Chris had watched him closely, waiting, but Scott's gaze had drifted away, his eyes clouded with grief.

Chris had grabbed his shoulders, forcing Scott to look at him. "Scott. Say it again."

Scott had shaken his head, his eyes welling up. "How are you doing this?" he had whispered, his voice cracking.

Chris had paused, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears. He had taken a shaky breath before replying, his voice low and haunted, "It's what we do." He had turned away, his shoulders slumping as he repeated, almost to himself, "It's what we do."

Scott's memory of that conversation faded as he stared blankly at the wall, his hand still rubbing Kylie's back. He looked down at his sister, her small face tear-streaked, her eyes puffy from crying. She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face for something—reassurance, comfort, anything that made sense of the world that had suddenly become so cruel.