The Accident

Stiles sat hunched over his laptop in the dimly lit study, the soft glow of the screen reflecting in his eyes. Papers were scattered around him, each filled with notes and hastily scribbled diagrams. He tapped furiously on the keyboard, fingers moving almost independently as he cross-referenced the latest supernatural occurrence with ancient texts and online databases.

The clock on his desk ticked loudly, a reminder of the impending meeting with the pack. They were gathering in less than an hour to discuss their latest threat, a rogue werewolf rumored to be causing trouble on the outskirts of Beacon Hills.

"Stiles," his father's voice called from the hallway, breaking his concentration. Sheriff Stilinski stood in the doorway, dressed in his uniform, keys jingling in his hand. "You know what time it is?"

Stiles glanced up, momentarily disoriented from his intense focus. "Uh, yeah, Dad. I know. I'm almost done here. Just need a few more minutes."

The sheriff nodded, understanding but clearly concerned. "You're gonna be late to the meeting, son. I've got to head out soon too."

Stiles sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I know, I know. This research is crucial though. We need to figure out how to handle this werewolf before it causes more damage."

Sheriff Stilinski stepped further into the room, placing a reassuring hand on his son's shoulder. "You're doing good work, Stiles. I'm proud of you. Just make sure you wrap up soon."

Stiles managed a tired smile, grateful for his father's support even amidst their chaotic lives. "Thanks, Dad. I'll be there as soon as I can."

With that, Sheriff Stilinski left the room, the sound of the front door closing signaling his departure for another night shift patrolling Beacon Hills. Stiles turned back to his laptop, refocusing on the task at hand with renewed determination.

Minutes ticked by as he sifted through information, connecting dots that seemed disparate at first glance. Finally, he closed the last tab, satisfaction and a hint of exhaustion washing over him. He gathered his notes into a neat pile, stuffing them into his backpack along with his laptop.

With a quick glance at the clock, Stiles realized he was indeed running late. He hurried downstairs, grabbing his keys and phone before rushing out the door. Beacon Hills awaited, along with the pack who relied on his research and quick thinking.

As he sped towards their meeting place, thoughts of the looming threat and the safety of his friends filled his mind. Stiles knew one thing for certain—he wouldn't let them down, no matter how late he was.

The sound of tires screeching pierced the night air as Stiles approached the intersection near Derek's loft. His mind was still racing with thoughts of the impending meeting, the urgency of their situation pressing down on him like a weight. Gripping the steering wheel tightly, he barely had time to register the headlights of another vehicle coming from his right.

Time seemed to slow as Stiles realized the car wasn't slowing down. Panic surged through him, adrenaline kicking in as he instinctively slammed on the brakes. The impact was sudden and brutal, metal twisting and glass shattering as the two vehicles collided with terrifying force.

Stiles was jolted violently in his seat, his vision blurred and ears ringing from the crash. The world spun around him as his car was sent careening, metal grinding against asphalt. Pain shot through his body as he felt himself being tossed like a ragdoll, the sickening sensation of rolling over and over until everything came to a sudden, crashing halt.

Silence engulfed him for a moment, broken only by the distant sound of sirens. Stiles tried to move, groaning as he pushed against the crumpled door. His head throbbed, and he could taste blood in his mouth. Fear and confusion clouded his thoughts as he struggled to orient himself.