STILES
Bourbon Street is insane. In a good way. Loud music, drunk people dancing on balconies, somebody selling beignets out of a truck at midnight. It smells like sugar and rain.
I'm sitting at the bar just trying to blend in. I'm eighteen, new in town, hoodie, jeans, nursing a soda because I don't even like beer that much. I just like holding something so I look normal.
The guy next to me won't stop talking about crypto.
"Bro, you gotta buy in now," he says, clapping my shoulder. "You seem smart."
I laugh. "I was smart once. In high school. Then I graduated and my brain filed for workers comp."
He laughs. Good. Normal conversation. This is what I want. Normal.
I left home a while ago. Beacon Hills. My dad, my best friends Scott and Derek — they started looking at me different. Like I was a monster. I wasn't. I didn't hurt them. I never hurt them. But after a while, when everyone looks at you like you're dangerous, you start to feel like you should just leave. Give them space. So I left.
Time's been weird since then. Blurry. Like months go by and I can't remember what order stuff happened in. I get bored fast. I get restless. I thought maybe New Orleans would be good for me. Big city, lots of people, good food, live music. Have some fun. Clear my head. Maybe make some friends who don't already have an opinion about me.
That's it. That's the whole plan. Be nice. Be funny. Stay out of trouble.
Then the big guy shows up.
He's drunk and pissed and he shoves his girlfriend against the bar. She spills her drink.
"Stop," she says quietly. "Dale, stop, you're embarrassing me."
"You been looking at him?" Dale points at me. I haven't even looked at her. I've been talking about Bitcoin against my will.
"Hey, man," I say, hands up, smiling. Friendly. "I haven't even seen her. I'm just here for the music. You guys good? Can I buy you a round? On me?"
"I don't need your money, pretty boy."
"Totally fair. How about I just move down a few stools? Give you space? No problem at all."
I start to slide off my stool. Really. I'm trying. I don't want a fight. I hate fighting.
He shoves me. Hard. My stool scrapes back.
"Don't walk away from me."
My heart is pounding. Okay. Breathe, Stiles. Count to ten. Be kind. He's drunk. He's stupid. Just walk away.
"You're right, sorry," I say. "Sorry. My bad. Are you okay, miss?"
I look at the girl. She's got a red mark on her arm where he grabbed her. That makes my stomach twist.
Dale sees me looking and snaps. He grabs a bottle off the bar and raises it at her.
"Don't fucking look at him!"
And something in me just — stops.
Please, no. Not here. I'm trying so hard to be calm. Please don't do this—
MARCUS
My name's Marcus. I work two doors down. I come here after shift. I saw the whole thing.
That skinny kid was being nice. Like, actually nice. Trying to leave. Apologizing for stuff he didn't do.
When Dale lifted that bottle at his girl, the kid's face changed.
I don't know how to explain it. He didn't get mad like a normal person. His smile just... stopped. Not frown. Just blank. Then this weird, light, playful look came over him. Like a kid who just decided what game to play at recess.
"Okay," he said. Quiet. Happy. "You wanna play? Let's play."
Dale swung the bottle. The kid wasn't there anymore.
He was behind Dale. Moving so fast the lights flickered. His eyes went gold, then black around the edges, veins under his eyes, teeth sharp. He giggled. Actually giggled. Like this was fun.
Dale tried to hit him. The kid caught his wrist and broke it without even looking, still smiling that light little smile.
"My turn," he said.
What happened next took like four seconds. He toyed with him. Tripped him, caught him, spun him, laughed when Dale screamed. It wasn't a fight. It was like a cat with a toy. Then he was on the floor over Dale, biting into his neck and feeding. Blood everywhere. People screaming. The jazz band stopped.
The girl was crying. The kid looked up at her with blood on his mouth and said, cheerful, "Don't worry. He won't grab you anymore."
Then he blinked. Hard. Like waking up.
The playful look vanished. His eyes went back to normal brown. His face crumpled.
"Oh no," he whispered. "Oh, no, no, no. I did it again. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."
He scrambled back, hands shaking, looking at Dale's body like he was going to throw up.
"Is he— is he breathing? Somebody call 911. Please. I'm sorry. He was going to hit her with a bottle, I just — I lost my temper. I hate when I do that. I'm really trying not to."
He pulled out his wallet with bloody hands and dropped like three hundred dollars on the bar.
"For the mess. And her drink. And — sorry. I'm sorry, everybody."
He looked at the girl. "Are you okay? Do you need a ride? I can call you a cab. I won't come with you, I don't want to scare you, but please let me pay for it."
She just stared at him, shaking.
He nodded, sad. "Yeah. Okay. I get it."
He wiped his mouth, pulled his hood up, and walked to me because I was closest to the door.
"Hey, sorry to ask," he said quietly, polite. "Do you know where the Mikaelsons live? Big compound place? I heard Klaus Mikaelson lives here. I was hoping to... I don't know. Meet people like me. Who can help me stay calm."
I pointed because I was terrified not to.
He smiled, sad and kind. "Thanks, man. Sorry you had to see that. I'm usually much funnier."
Then he left.
STILES
I hate myself right now.
I'm walking through the Quarter with blood on my sleeve that I can't get out, and my hands won't stop shaking. I bought tacos from a truck to try to feel normal again. The guy gave me extra napkins because I looked like I was going to cry.
I didn't mean to do that. I swear I didn't. I was being good. I was counting. I was breathing. And then he lifted that bottle at her and I just... stopped playing nice.
When I get really angry like that, when I stop trying to be calm, I turn into someone else. I do what I want. I don't think. I play. And then I come back and I have to clean it up.
I don't want to be that guy. I want to be funny. I want to be the guy who makes jokes and helps people move couches and remembers your birthday. Not... that.
My dad used to say I was the heart of the group. Scott used to say I was the human one. Then I changed. I got sick, I got bit, I got turned, it's complicated — werewolf stuff, vampire stuff, I can even siphon magic a little, I'm like a supernatural mutt — and suddenly I was too strong. Too fast. I broke a door once by accident and they all jumped. They didn't mean to look scared. But they did.
So I left. Because I love them. Because I didn't want them to be scared in their own house.
Time got blurry after that. A couple months? Longer? I can't remember. I get bored and my brain spirals and I start going a little crazy if I don't have people around. That's why I came here. New Orleans. Town full of monsters. Maybe here I wouldn't be the scariest thing. Maybe here I could have fun, feed safely when I need to — I do need blood, I'm not going to lie about that, but I try to be careful, bagged blood, or... well, tonight was not careful. Tonight was bad.
Okay. New plan. Go meet the Mikaelsons. Be polite. Be funny. Ask if there's a way to stay calm. Maybe the witch can help. Freya, right? Powerful witch. Maybe she knows a spell for... whatever this is in my head when I get mad.
I find the compound. Big iron gates. Old magic humming on them. I can feel it on my teeth. Tastes like oranges and pennies.
I knock politely. Three times. Because my mom raised me right.
"Hello?" I call out. "Sorry to bother you so late! My name's Stiles! I'm new! I bring tacos as a peace offering!"
HOPE
I'm eighteen and my family still treats me like I'm going to shatter.
"Stay inside tonight, Hope," Mom says, pacing. She's single now, doing her best, but she's stressed. "Freya felt something."
"What something?" I ask.
Freya comes downstairs, frowning, not scared, just confused. "Something powerful came into the city. On Bourbon. It siphoned a little magic, fed... and then stopped. Like it restrained itself. It's vampire and wolf and siphoner all at once. I've never felt anything like it. Old and young at the same time."
"Original?" Elijah asks.
"Stronger than an Original," Freya says. "But... not dark. Not like Hollow-dark. Just... hungry and sad."
Dad perks up from the balcony. "Sad and hungry and stronger than me? Finally. Interesting."
"Dad, no," I say.
Then someone knocks on the gates. Politely. Three little knocks.
Freya blinks. "He walked through my outer wards without breaking them. He just... asked them to let him through. Who does that?"
We all go to the courtyard. Dad and Elijah in front, Mom next to me, Freya with her hands ready but not glowing.
"Come in," Dad calls.
The gates open and a boy walks in holding a paper bag of tacos.
He's my age. Skinny, hoodie with a bloodstain on the sleeve he's clearly tried to wipe off, messy hair, brown eyes moving everywhere. He looks nervous. And sad. And trying really hard to smile.
"Hi," he says. "Sorry. Hi. I'm Stiles. Stiles Stilinski. I'm eighteen. I'm... a lot of things. Werewolf, vampire-ish, I can siphon magic, long story. I'm unkillable, which sounds braggy but it's actually super annoying, trust me. I just moved here from California. Beacon Hills. I left because... my friends and my dad started being scared of me. I didn't hurt them. I swear. I just got too strong and I broke stuff and I have a temper problem when I get really mad and I didn't want them living like that."
He holds up the tacos like a shield.
"I heard Klaus Mikaelson lives here. You're Klaus, right? The... the big guy? The killer who worked really hard to be scary? Sorry, that sounded meaner in my head. I meant it as respect. You figured out how to control it. How to be a monster and still have a family. I can't figure that out. I woke up like this one day and I don't know what's wrong with me. Time feels shattered in my brain, months blur together, I get bored and restless and I'm going a little crazy being alone. I came here to have fun, meet people, feed safely, enjoy my life, maybe figure out how to stay calm. That's it."
He looks at all of us. Freya, Elijah, Mom, Dad, me.
"I'm not here to take your city or fight anybody. If you want me to leave, I'll leave. I just... I fed tonight on a guy who was about to hit his girlfriend with a bottle. I lost my temper. I stopped playing nice and I... I did what I wanted. And then I felt terrible. I paid for the mess and I left. I'm trying to be good. I'm funny, I swear. I'm usually the funny one. Ask anybody. Well, don't ask Scott, he's mad at me right now. But I'm trying."
He finally notices me staring and smiles, nervous and goofy.
"Hi. You're Hope, right? The wards whisper about you. Hope you're... sorry. Pun. I'm nervous. You're eighteen too? Cool. Cool cool cool."
I don't know what I expected. A monster. A villain. Not this awkward taco boy with blood on his sleeve apologizing for existing.
Mom looks at me. I look at Mom. We both think the same thing: oh no, he's cute.
STILES
Okay, they're all staring at me. Good staring? Bad staring? Klaus staring is hard to read. He's doing the whole Original hybrid king thing, arms crossed, head tilted.
"You're a child," Elijah says. Not mean. Just factual.
"Eighteen," I say. "Forever eighteen. I got turned really young. It's like being stuck as a senior in high school forever but with fangs and no prom."
Freya steps forward. "Can I... can I check what you are? I won't hurt you. I just need to see."
"Yeah! Of course. Consent is sexy. Do your witch thing."
She puts her hand near my chest without touching me and closes her eyes. Her eyebrows go up.
"Upgraded Original vampire... werewolf... siphoner with your own magic too... and you feed on blood... and you're truly immortal. Nothing can kill you." She opens her eyes, shocked. "A powerful spell could put you down for a bit, but that's it. You'd just heal."
"Yeah," I say, scratching my neck. "It's a whole thing. I don't love it. Paper cuts heal instantly, which ruins all my excuses for getting out of dishes."
Hayley — that's Hayley, right? Wolf mom, fierce eyes, pretty — steps forward. "You said you have a temper. What happens when you get mad?"
My smile fades a little. I don't want to lie.
"When I get really angry... when I stop trying to be calm... I change. I get... playful. Mean. I do what I want and I don't think about consequences. Like tonight. I don't like it. I don't want to be like that. The second I'm back to normal I feel sick. I'm working on it. Breathing. Counting. Leaving. Tacos help."
I offer her the bag. "Taco? It's carnitas. I got extra lime."
She almost smiles. She doesn't take the taco, but she almost smiles.
Klaus walks up to me, slow. "You walk into my home, covered in a man's blood, claiming to be immortal, offering my family tacos. Do you think I'm a fool, boy?"
"No, sir," I say quickly. "Mr. Mikaelson. Klaus. I think you're terrifying. I think you're the guy who tried to become a monster so nobody could hurt your family, and it worked, and now you have a family and a city. I want that. Not your city! Your... control. Your family dinners where nobody's scared. I had that once. Scott, Derek, my dad. We did movie nights. I miss it."
My voice cracks. God. Embarrassing. Crying in front of Klaus Mikaelson on night one. Great job, Stiles.
Hope steps forward. "Dad, stop scaring him."
"I'm not scaring him," Klaus says, but he's less tense. He's watching me cry and apologize and hold tacos. Hard to look evil while doing that.
Elijah moves fast — I see him coming, I could dodge, but I don't, because I want them to trust me — and he snaps my neck. Quick. Clean.
I drop.
HAYLEY
Elijah snaps his neck and Hope screams.
"Why did you do that?!" Hope yells.
"To test his claim," Elijah says calmly.
The boy is on the ground, neck bent wrong. I'm about to yell at Elijah too, because the kid was being polite, he was crying, he brought tacos — and then the kid giggles from the floor.
"Ow," Stiles wheezes, head sideways. "Okay. Rude. Effective, but rude."
He sits up, holds his own head with both hands, and pops it back into place with a crunch that makes me flinch.
"See?" he says, rolling his neck, tears still wet on his face but grinning now. "Unkillable. Annoying, right? I can't even get a sick day."
Hope laughs. She tries not to, but she does. A short, surprised laugh. He lights up when he hears it.
"There it is," he says softly. "Laugh. First laugh of the night that isn't somebody screaming. I'll take it."
Freya looks at Klaus. Klaus nods. She raises her hands.
"Sorry, Stiles," Freya says. "I need to try."
"I get it," he says, sitting cross-legged on the ground like a kid waiting for storytime. "Do your worst. Nap time."
She hits him with a spell that makes the courtyard lights explode. His skin burns, he gasps, falls over. For about ten seconds, he's down. Breathing hard. Siphoning little bits of her magic automatically to heal faster — I can see it, little threads of light going into him.
Then he pushes himself up, skin knitting back, hair growing back.
"Okay," he coughs. "Yep. That put me down. Ten seconds. New record. You're really strong, Freya. That was... that was a lot. Thank you for not going harder. I know you could have."
Freya stares at her hands, then at him. "You just... thanked me for burning you."
"Well, yeah. You held back. I could feel it. You didn't want to hurt me more than you had to. That was kind."
He stands up, wobbly, taco bag somehow still intact.
Klaus looks at the blood on his sleeve. "You fed tonight."
"Yes, sir," Stiles says quietly. "On a bad man who was hurting someone. I don't feel good about killing him. I do need blood to live. I try to use bagged blood. Hospitals. Or... people who are hurting other people. I don't take from innocents. I don't take from friends. Ever."
He looks at me, then Freya, then Hope.
"You three... you smell like pack. Like family. Wolf and witch and... Hope, you're all three, right? That's amazing. You must be exhausted all the time."
Hope smiles a little. "You have no idea."
"I have some idea," he says. "I'm also all three-ish. We should start a club. Overpowered teenagers who need naps."
I laugh before I can stop myself. He grins at me, bright and goofy and kind. No menace. No hunger. Just a kid who wants friends.
God. I'm single, I'm lonely, my daughter is eighteen and making eyes at the new boy, and I'm making eyes at the new boy. What is happening tonight?
FREYA
He's telling the truth. Every word. I can feel it.
He's eighteen, immortal, powerful enough to walk through my wards and survive Klaus. And he's sitting in our courtyard apologizing for bleeding on our stones.
There's no darkness in him right now. No evil plan. When I scanned him, all I felt was hunger, sadness, and this desperate want to be liked. To be calm. To belong.
Whatever happened on Bourbon — and I can feel the echo of it, a brief, terrifying spike of playful cruelty — it's gone now. Locked away. He hates that part of himself. He doesn't dwell on it. He doesn't savor it. He apologized and paid for damages and left.
He's not corrupting anyone. If anything, Hope hasn't smiled like that in weeks. Hayley hasn't laughed like that in months. He's... good for them. So far.
Klaus crouches in front of him. "If you lose your temper in my city again, boy—"
"I'll leave," Stiles says immediately. "I will. Or I'll come straight here and let Freya put me down for a nap until I calm down. Deal? You can even charge me rent for the nap spot. I'll do dishes. I'm great at dishes now that I can't get paper cuts."
Klaus stares at him for a long moment. Then, incredibly, he smiles. Small. Real.
"You are either the bravest or stupidest child I have ever met."
"Why not both?" Stiles says. "That's my brand. Brave, stupid, funny. With tacos."
Elijah helps him up. Actually helps him up. "Go home, Stiles. Sleep. Come back tomorrow in daylight. We'll talk."
"I don't have a home yet," Stiles admits. "Motel on Canal? Bedbugs included, free of charge."
Hope and I say at the same time: "He can stay in the—" We stop, look at each other.
"No," Hayley says quickly. "No. He cannot stay in the compound on night one. Absolutely not."
"Fair!" Stiles says. "Totally fair. Stranger danger. I get it. I'll be at the motel. No bedbug bites can kill me, so jokes on them."
He backs toward the gates, waving.
"Thanks for not killing me. Thanks for testing me gently-ish. Freya, amazing spellwork, ten out of ten, would get burned again. Elijah, great neck snap, very professional. Klaus, love the dad energy, terrifying but warm. Hayley, sorry for bleeding near your daughter. Hope... thanks for laughing. I needed that."
He's gone. Fast, but not scary-fast. Just... gone.
Hope touches her chest, staring at the gates. Hayley stares at the taco bag he left behind. I'm still shaking from how much power just bowed to us and asked for friends.
"He's kind," Hope whispers. "He's really kind."
"He is," I say. "Right now."
HOPE
I can't sleep. Again.
Not because I'm scared. Because I keep hearing him say "Thanks for laughing. I needed that" in that sad, goofy voice.
Mom knocks and comes in. "You okay?"
"Yeah," I say. "Just thinking about... him. Stiles. He was nice."
"He was," Mom says, sitting on my bed. "Too nice for someone that powerful. You believe him? About the temper?"
"Yeah," I say. "Did you see his face when he talked about it? He hates it. He wasn't bragging. He was ashamed."
A soft knock on my window. We both jump.
Stiles is on my fire escape — second floor, but he climbed, he didn't use vampire speed, he's trying to be normal — holding up an ice pack and a new bag of tacos.
"Sorry!" he mouths. "Can I apologize properly?"
Mom opens the window, annoyed but not scared. "How did you get past the wards?"
"I asked them," he says, crawling in awkwardly, careful not to touch anything. "Politely. Freya's wards are really nice when you say please. I brought peace offering tacos round two. And an ice pack for... I don't know. Emotional damage from watching Elijah snap my neck? That was traumatic for all of us."
I laugh. Mom laughs.
"You're ridiculous," I say.
"Thank you," he says, serious. "I work hard at it."
He looks at me, nervous. "Hey, can I ask you something weird? You... you have all three too. Wolf, witch, vampire. How do you stay calm? When the hunger hits? When the magic wants out? When time gets blurry and you're bored and restless and you feel like you're going crazy alone?"
My smile fades. Because that's exactly how I feel sometimes. Bored. Restless. Too much power. No one my age who gets it.
"I don't always," I admit. "I journal. I run. I call Freya. I annoy my mom."
"Hey," Mom says.
"I'm eighteen," I say to him. "You're eighteen. We're stuck being teenagers with ancient problems."
"Forever teenagers in my case," he says. "Puberty forever. My voice already cracked twice tonight and I've been dead for years."
We laugh. Mom shakes her head, but she's smiling.
Then I say it before I can stop myself. "Can I see your fangs? When you feed? Is it... does it hurt?"
Mom tenses. "Hope—"
"No, it's okay," Stiles says quickly. "Fair question. Um. It doesn't have to hurt if I do it right. I try to be gentle. I don't... I don't like hurting people. Tonight was... not gentle. I lost it. I don't want to do that again."
He looks down at his hands. Big, scarred, shaking a little.
"I do feed," he says quietly. "I need to. But I swear I don't take from friends. I don't take from innocents if I can help it. Bagged blood tastes like cardboard but it works."
I step closer. Brave. Curious. Stupid, maybe.
"Feed on me," I say.
"WHAT?" Mom and Stiles yell at the same time.
"No," Stiles says immediately, backing up, hands up. "No no no. Absolutely not. Hope, no. You're my friend. I just met you, but you're my friend. I don't feed on friends. I don't want to hurt you. I like you. I like your mom. I like Freya. You're pack. No."
"Just a little," I say. "I want to know what it's like. I want to know if I can trust you. If you can stop."
"You can trust me without bleeding!" he says, panicked, funny even now. "I can give you references! My Jeep! My Jeep loves me!"
Mom grabs his arm. "Stiles is right. No."
But I'm already tilting my head. Not to seduce. To test. To understand. "Please. Just... show me you can be gentle. Show me you're not just saying it."
He stares at me, then at Mom. Mom looks torn. She trusts him a little. I can see it. She nods, slow. "One sip. And if you hurt her, Freya will burn you for real."
"I won't hurt her," he whispers. "I swear on my mom's grave. I swear on my stupid Jeep."
He steps close, shaking. His eyes go gold — soft gold, not scary, warm like sunset. Little fangs slide out. He cups my face like I'm glass.
"Tell me to stop and I stop instantly," he says. "Okay? Promise me you'll tell me."
"I promise."
He leans in, slow, asking with his eyes the whole time. His mouth touches my neck, gentle. A tiny prick. No pain. Just warmth.
Oh.
His groan is soft, surprised. My blood is strong — tribrid, eighteen, buzzing. He takes one small sip. Just one. Then he pulls back immediately, eyes wide, wiping his mouth.
"Oh wow," he breathes. "Oh wow, you're... you're really powerful. That's... thank you. Are you okay? Are you dizzy? Sit down. Drink water. Mom, get her water. I'm sorry. Are you okay? Did I hurt you?"
He's fussing over me, checking my neck — already healing, two tiny dots fading — handing me water, apologizing ten times.
I laugh, lightheaded but fine. "I'm fine. You stopped. You really stopped."
"Of course I stopped," he says like it's obvious. "You're Hope. You're my friend. Friends don't drain friends. That's like rule number one in the Stiles handbook. Rule number two is always bring tacos."
Mom stares at him, soft now. No fear. Just... fond.
"You're a good kid, Stiles," she says quietly.
He smiles, sad and happy at once. "Trying to be. Really trying."
STILES
I'm walking back to my gross motel at 2 AM with an empty taco bag and a full heart, which is cheesy but true.
Hope let me feed. Just a sip. She trusted me. And I was gentle. I stopped right away. I didn't lose it. I didn't play. I stayed calm.
Hayley called me a good kid. Freya smiled at me. Even Klaus didn't kill me. Elijah helped me up. That's... that's more family than I've had in months.
Time still feels blurry. My brain still feels restless. I'm still bored and a little crazy and sad about Scott and Derek and Dad. I still miss movie nights.
But tonight was good. Tonight I was funny. I was kind. I made Hope laugh. I made Hayley laugh. I apologized for losing my temper and I meant it.
I don't want to be the guy from the bar. That playful, mean guy who does what he wants when he stops caring. I hate that guy. I'm going to keep him locked down. Breathing. Counting. Tacos. Friends.
Maybe New Orleans can be home. Maybe the Mikaelsons can be... I don't know. Not family. Too soon. But friends? Pack?
I look up at the moon — full in two days, my wolf side stretching happy — and grin.
"Okay, Stiles," I tell myself out loud like a dork. "Day one: didn't die — can't die — made friends, didn't scare them too much, only one temper slip, apologized, brought tacos. That's a win."
Tomorrow I'll come back in daylight like Elijah said. I'll be polite. I'll be funny. I'll be kind.
And I'll keep that other face buried so deep nobody ever has to see it again.
Especially not Hope.