the vanishing of Stiles Stilinski

the witch

The room had settled into an uneasy quiet, the pack keeping a watchful eye on Stiles, who isn't tied to the chair. Derek remained close, his hand on Stiles' shoulder, providing what comfort he could. The tension from the earlier moments lingered in the air, thick and oppressive, as everyone tried to make sense of what had happened to their friend.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered by the sound of hurried footsteps echoing through the clinic. The door burst open, and a woman came running in, her face flushed with urgency. Stiles, jolted from his uneasy rest, snapped awake, his instincts kicking in. In an instant, he grabbed the gun he had hidden on himself, raising it and aiming directly at the woman who had just entered.

"Stiles, wait!" Scott shouted, his voice filled with alarm as he stepped forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. But Stiles didn't lower the gun, his eyes wild and confused, locked onto the woman who stood frozen in the doorway.

Scott looked at the woman, his breath catching in his throat as recognition dawned on him. "Allison?" he whispered, disbelief coloring his voice. But something was off—this woman looked like Allison, but there were subtle differences. Her hair was styled differently, and there was a hardness in her eyes that Allison never had.

The woman shook her head, a mixture of urgency and fear in her expression. "No, I'm not Allison," she said quickly, her eyes flicking nervously to the gun still pointed at her. "I'm Teresa."

"Teresa?" Stiles echoed, his voice low and confused. His grip on the gun tightened, his gaze narrowing as he struggled to process the situation. "What are you doing here, Teresa?"

The mention of the name sent ripples of confusion through the pack. Malia exchanged a bewildered look with Lydia, while Peter's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Who the hell is Teresa?" he muttered, glancing at Scott, who was just as perplexed.

"Allison died years ago," Scott said, his voice barely above a whisper as he tried to make sense of what was happening. "How could—?"

Before he could finish, Teresa spoke again, her voice sharp and urgent, cutting through the confusion. "Tom," she said, her tone commanding as she addressed Stiles. "I programmed your memory wipe and used the keyword 'Sourwolf' to wake you. Wicked knows you're awake, and they're coming."

The room went still, the air heavy with shock. Derek felt his heart skip a beat, his hand tightening on Stiles' shoulder as he processed Teresa's words. Tom? Memory wipe? What was she talking about?

Stiles/Thomas—lowered the gun slightly, his eyes darting between Teresa and the others in the room. There was a flicker of recognition in his gaze, but it was distant, like a memory long buried. He blinked, his breathing uneven as he tried to grasp the situation. "Wicked?" he repeated, the word foreign on his tongue but carrying a weight that made his stomach churn.

Teresa nodded, her expression grim. "Yes, Wicked. They're coming for you, Tom. We don't have much time."

The pack exchanged bewildered glances, the shock of the revelation settling in. Scott's mind was racing, trying to piece together the fragments of information they had just been given. Stiles wasn't Stiles—he was Thomas, someone with a past they didn't know, someone who had been taken and had his memory erased, someone who had been programmed with triggers they couldn't even begin to understand.

"What did they do to him?" Lydia whispered, her voice trembling as she looked at Teresa, desperate for answers.

But Teresa's focus was on Thomas—on Stiles. "I'm sorry, Tom," she said, her voice softening for the first time since she had entered. "I had to do it to protect you. But now that you're awake... they'll stop at nothing to get you back."