Void (The Youngest, Book 3.B.)

Chapter 二 (B)

Stiles was nearly stomping as he walked through the halls that morning and entered his class, his face a mixture of frustration and exhaustion. He was moving so quickly that he almost bumped into the girl sitting in his usual spot.

"Oh, sorry," he said, looking down at her as she stared back up at him. "But I usually sit there." She just kept staring at him before her hands began to move. Stiles paused, realizing she was signing to him. His face immediately flushed with embarrassment. "Okay, no problem, it's all yours." He backed away, feeling awkward, and moved to an empty seat a few spaces away.

He sighed and opened his textbook, ready to move past the moment, but then he noticed something strange. No one in the class was moving. Everyone was sitting perfectly still, staring straight ahead, eerily silent. Stiles blinked, glancing around. It dawned on him that he didn't recognize a single person in the room. A shiver ran down his spine. "That's weird..." he muttered.

Just as he was about to stand up to leave, he gasped as he caught sight of Coach Finstock standing at the front of the classroom, staring right at him.

"Oh, hey Coach," Stiles said, settling uneasily back into his seat. "Thought I was in the wrong class for a second." But Coach didn't answer. Instead, he started signing at him—hands moving in deliberate gestures, his face utterly expressionless.

"Uh... okay," Stiles stammered, feeling a chill work its way up his back. "I, um, don't actually know sign language. Didn't even know you knew sign language, or that it was an elective here." But Coach just kept signing, repeating the same sequence over and over, his vacant eyes locked on Stiles.

A sense of unease settled like a stone in Stiles' stomach. He shifted in his seat, nervously looking at the students around him. Suddenly, they all turned their heads to face him—dozens of blank eyes fixed on him. They began signing in unison, their hands mirroring the same movements as Coach's, the same gestures, over and over.

Stiles' breathing hitched. His chest tightened as if someone was slowly squeezing the air out of him. The eerie silence was replaced by a faint ringing in his ears, growing louder until it became an overwhelming whistle that echoed through his head.

He closed his eyes, pressing his fingers against his temples. "No... this isn't right."

Suddenly, the shrill sound of a whistle blew, jolting him back to reality. He snapped his head up to see Coach Finstock standing there, real this time, looking very much irritated.

"Stilinski!" Coach shouted.

"Huh?" Stiles mumbled, still trying to ground himself.

"I asked you a question."

Stiles shook his head, trying to dispel the lingering feeling of dread. "Uh, sorry Coach, what was it?"

Coach's glare sharpened. "It was: Stilinski, are you paying attention back there?"

Stiles leaned back, trying to regain his composure. "Um, well... I am now."

The whole class snickered, and Coach groaned. "Stilinski, stop reminding me why I drink. Every night."

Stiles sighed, slumping back in his seat, feeling his heartbeat slowly returning to normal. He looked over at Scott, who was staring at him with concern.

Scott frowned. "Dude, you weren't asleep," he said softly.

Stiles glanced down at his desk. His notebook was open, and his heart sank. There, in his own handwriting, were two words written over and over, covering the entire page: Wake Up. Each iteration was written in different styles and sizes, as if scribbled in a trance. Stiles stared, a chill creeping up his spine. He had no memory of writing any of it.