Archive of Our Own

It all started with a mission that, on paper, was supposed to be simple.

The operations room was cast in shadow, lit only by the bluish glow of floating holograms — tactical maps, data streams, target names, and evacuation routes spinning above the central table. The base itself felt still, like it was holding its breath with the team.

Allison skimmed the intel on her tablet, eyes sharp. “With all due respect… why us? This is special forces territory. Arms trafficking, not monsters.”

Deaton didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her — calm, but unmoving — and started walking slowly around the table, hands behind his back.

“Agent Argent,” he said, voice clipped, “underestimating what humans are capable of is how cities fall. And as you once told me, your team’s only called in for the impossible. This is one of those times.”

He stopped beside Peter, distributing a stack of tablets like he was passing out final verdicts.

“They’ve already killed over three hundred. Not foot soldiers, but elite agents, military contractors. And now they’ve secured a bioweapon that could wipe Boston off the map in twenty hours.”

The silence was immediate. Jackson even stopped tapping his fingers on the table.

Peter leaned back with a smirk. “And rumor has it… Seraphim’s with them. Some say their leader is the man who made him. That’d explain the loyalty. Down to the bone.”

Lydia raised an eyebrow. Boyd shifted. Allison said nothing.

Jackson scoffed. “You’re joking. Seraphim? Come on, Peter. You’re too old for conspiracy porn.”

Peter didn’t flinch. He just reached across the table, swiped the air, and pulled up a new hologram.

The feed started grainy — crackling audio, static-laced video. Inside a warehouse, crates of weapons lined the walls, men in black moved with military precision. Then they froze. Something was coming.

And then he stepped in.

Seraphim moved like something not entirely human. Silver-gold hair shimmered under fluorescent lights. His white uniform fit like it had been painted onto him, trimmed in pale gold that caught the light when he moved. He didn’t run. Didn’t blink. Just walked.

A gunshot snapped through the air.

He moved fast. Bone snapped. A throat collapsed. A knife was reversed and buried before its owner even had time to scream. Each strike fast, silent, brutal.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t shout. Just moved.

One soldier tried to tackle him. Seraphim let him. Then wrapped his legs around the man’s neck, crossed his ankles, and squeezed. The man clawed at him. Seraphim didn’t blink. Just watched.

Another reached for a weapon — too late.

Two clean shots. Two bodies dropped.

The last tried to run. Slipped in blood.

Seraphim caught him by the hair and slammed his head against the table. Again. Again. Again.

Then he adjusted his sleeves, turned, and disappeared into the dark.

The footage cut.

Peter exhaled like someone finishing a story. “Anyone still think he’s just a myth?”

Boyd crossed his arms, tight. “If that’s real… we’re not walking into a fight. We’re walking into an execution.”

“Not necessarily,” Deaton said, voice steady. He switched to a map of Lublin. Red dots blinked over an old Soviet compound. “Last confirmed location. Underground facility. No official ties to any nation.”

Lydia leaned in. “If that’s where they’re making the weapon, that’s where he’ll be.”

Allison’s voice was flat. “So the mission is: infiltrate, disable the compound, destroy the weapon, and eliminate resistance.”

Jackson raised an eyebrow. “And by ‘resistance’ you mean Seraphim? Because no offense, but I don’t think saying please is gonna cut it.”

“If he’s protecting that weapon,” Deaton said, “then yes. He’s a threat.”

“He is a threat,” Erica muttered. “That wasn’t combat. That was art school murder.”

Peter grinned. “A living masterpiece. Perfectly engineered. And somehow still looks like a boy.”

Scott finally spoke. “He looked human. From far away. But up close… he was hollow.”

Isaac looked up. “But that can change, right? If he’s brainwashed or drugged we don’t have to kill him. Just neutralize.”

Jackson let out a laugh, incredulous. “Neutralize? Are you planning to read him poetry while he crushes you with his thighs? Jesus, Isaac, didn’t know you wanted to die suffocated by a twink.”

Peter chuckled, but there was no warmth in it. Just sharp edges.

Derek spoke up. “If there’s a way to end this without bloodshed, we’ll try it. But no hesitation. Not from anyone.”

Allison nodded. Boyd too. Erica cracked her knuckles. Lydia resumed typing, downloading the full layout of the facility.

Peter stood. “Time to load up, kids.”

Deaton powered down the holograms. The room dimmed again — only now the quiet was full of weight.

Outside, transport ships were being fueled.

In twelve hours, they’d be on enemy soil.

And one name — though no one said it aloud — rang through each mind:

Seraphim.

The angel of war.

The boy with no past.

The weapon that walked.

And maybe, just maybe — something still worth saving.

The base shifted into full operational mode.

Once-quiet corridors now buzzed with urgency — boots pounding against steel, drones being strapped to packs, weapons checked with fast, practiced clicks. The scent of oil, leather, and adrenaline hung in the air like a storm waiting to break.

Derek moved through the secondary hangar, silent and focused, eyes scanning the aligned transports. He passed two techs calibrating thermal scanners and found Boyd by the wall, loading heavy rounds into a rifle built to stop tanks.

“That enough to bring down a wall?” Derek asked.

“If we need to take the floor with it, it’ll do the job,” Boyd said, snapping the magazine into place.

Erica arrived a moment later, already geared up — black leather reinforced at the joints, combat knives hidden along her sleeves. Her braids were tight, her expression tighter.

“I watched that video again,” she said. “Still looks like he was choreographed. Like someone designed his instincts. You think we’ll be able to predict his next move?”

“No,” Derek said. “But you’ll feel it. He shifts the air before he strikes.”

She gave him a look. “That’s either poetic or terrifying.”

“Both.”

She didn’t argue.

In the armory, Lydia and Allison stood over a translucent console, its interface casting shifting light across their faces. Lydia typed fast, overlaying heat signatures across a 3D map of the underground compound. 

“Heat’s spiking in the core sectors,” Lydia said. “They’re either generating power down there… or cooking something.”

“Or both,” Allison murmured. Her eyes were on a heavily protected quadrant. “That looks like a vault. Triple-sealed. I’d bet that’s where they’re keeping the weapon.”

“Or him.”

Allison didn’t answer. Just nodded.

Later, in the main hangar, the team gathered in front of the waiting transports. Engines purred, soft and low. The team suited up in silence — the kind that comes when fear’s no longer useful.

Isaac buckled his gear as Scott approached.

“You still think we should try talking to him?” Scott asked.

Isaac hesitated. “Yeah. If there’s even a piece of him left… someone has to try.”

Scott squeezed his shoulder. Just once.

Peter showed up last, gloves in hand, walking like he had a drink waiting for him afterward. His stride was loose, but his eyes were sharp, already measuring the exits.

Deaton followed. No armor — just his dark coat and a tablet under one arm. He stopped in front of them.

“You have the coordinates. You know the plan. The main gate cycles blind for five minutes every hour. That’s your window. Go fast, go quiet.”

He glanced at the group, gaze steady. “Primary objective: the weapon. Secondary: survival.”

“What about Seraphim?” Erica asked.

Deaton didn’t blink. “Whatever is necessary.”

No one responded, but the silence had weight.

Allison boarded first. Boyd and Erica followed. Lydia was next, already syncing her gear with the ship’s systems.

Peter was halfway up the ramp when he turned and muttered, “Let’s just hope the boy remembers how to bleed.”

No one laughed.

Derek stood at the base of the ramp for a moment longer, scanning the hangar one last time — the tools, the noise, the war already underway.

Then he followed them in.

Twelve hours.

And they’d be in his world.

The lights inside the aircraft flickered on — cold, clinical.

Engines whirred louder, and the doors sealed shut with a hollow thud.

════════════════════════════════

Far away, deep beneath the city of Lublin — in a place where Cold War echoes still clung to the concrete — a figure sat motionless in a room of white steel, bulletproof glass, and humming circuitry.

The silence was absolute, broken only by the low, constant hum of cables feeding power into the floor.

Seraphim sat upright on a metal bench, head slightly tilted. His white uniform looked freshly pressed. Hair draped down his back and over his shoulders in glistening waves. His hands rested on his knees, unmoving. Breath steady. Still.

A side door hissed open, pressurized air releasing with a sigh.

Light spilled into the room, tearing across the sterile quiet. Footsteps followed, not rushed, but measured. Each step carried the weight of total authority.

The man who entered seemed displaced from time. His coat was long, cut in the style of a bygone military — decorated with silver insignias and a triangular emblem over the shoulder: a coiled serpent encircling a sun. His grey hair was combed neatly back, and his eyes — an unsettling shade of translucent green — looked as though they had been designed to see through flesh, through thought, through soul. But there was something else in them: pride. Addiction. Obsession.

General Dr. Anton Malcov — creator of Seraphim.

He stopped a few feet from the bench, saying nothing at first. He simply stared — like an art collector admiring a piece too perfect to touch.

“Look at me,” he said, voice deep, rough, laced with awe and command.

Seraphim obeyed instantly.

His eyes — a metallic gold, too bright, too artificial — lifted to meet the General’s. No emotion flickered within them. Only a calibrated void.

Malcov gave a slight smile. It was paternal. Almost tender. Almost.

He lifted a hand slowly, reverently, as if approaching sacred ground. His fingers curled into Seraphim’s hair — soft and gleaming — and tugged, hard enough to tilt the boy’s head back, but not enough to dislodge a single strand.

Seraphim didn’t flinch. His eyes remained locked on the ceiling, golden and empty, while pain pulsed faintly at his scalp.

“You’re beautiful today,” Malcov murmured, voice thick with twisted affection. “My perfect angel. My masterpiece.”

His hand slid down to Seraphim’s face, fingers brushing his flawless cheek, then struck.

A clean, sharp slap echoed through the room, leaving a red mark blooming across his left cheek.

Seraphim didn’t blink.

Malcov smiled, pleased, and stepped back, hands folding behind his back again.

"They’re coming," he announced, as casually as if commenting on the weather. "An elite team. They think they can destroy us. That they can destroy you."

Seraphim remained still, but his eyes shifted to meet the General’s — waiting.

"I want you to greet them," Malcov continued, lips curling with cruel delight. "But don’t end it quickly. Play with them. Let them feel the fear. Let them understand, moment by moment, what it means to face something they cannot defeat."

He leaned in, breath warm against Seraphim’s face.

"Kill them. One by one. Slowly. Make them watch. Make them tremble."

Seraphim gave a slight nod.

"Yes, sir."

His voice was soft, melodic — entirely devoid of feeling.

Malcov’s smile deepened. He ran his hand once more through Seraphim’s hair, this time a mockery of tenderness.

"Good boy."

He turned and walked toward the door. His footsteps echoed with purpose. But just before crossing the threshold, he paused and glanced over his shoulder.

"Oh, and Seraphim?"

The boy looked up, sharp, alert.

"Don’t let any of them touch you. You’re mine."

The door shut behind him with a quiet click.

Seraphim was alone once more.

His fingers twitched once — barely — atop his knees. A reflex. Something that, in another life, might’ve been nerves.

But there was no anxiety here. No fear. No doubt.

Only the mission.

Only the orders.

He closed his eyes and waited.

In the corridor outside, General Malcov stood before a monitor displaying the thermal signatures of Derek’s team closing in on the facility. His lips curled into a slow, predatory smile.

"Come, then," he whispered. "Come and witness what I’ve made."

And somewhere, deep in the heart of the complex,

a weapon waited in silence — ready to awaken.

The countdown had begun.

════════════════════════════════

The aircraft cut through the night like a black blade — invisible to radar, its hull swallowing electromagnetic waves as if tearing a hole in space. Inside, the team sat in tense silence, each wrapped in their own thoughts. The steady hum of engines was the only sound, vibrating deep in their bones.

Allison checked her weapon again, fingers gliding over the holster with practiced precision. Her eyes were cold, sharp, but beneath that flickered a quiet unrest she refused to acknowledge. Beside her, Boyd adjusted his rifle’s thermal scope, muscles taut even in stillness.

Erica sharpened a knife slowly, deliberate strokes catching the blue cabin light. Her eyes burned with fierce anticipation, the thrill of coming violence alive within.

Lydia’s fingers danced over a portable terminal, monitoring vitals and live data from the facility. Her face stayed focused, but her eyes betrayed the quick calculations racing through her mind — every possible outcome already playing out.

Jackson sat in the darkest corner, elbows on knees, fingers laced. His gaze was fixed on the floor, still as stone, but his body thrummed with predator’s tension — waiting for the moment to strike.

Isaac and Scott whispered near the rear, shoulders nearly touching. Scott’s jaw was set, determination carved into his features, while Isaac’s blue eyes clouded with worry he couldn’t — or wouldn’t — hide.

Peter watched them all, a faint, unreadable smile playing on his lips. His fingers tapped lightly on his weapon’s holster, but his gaze drifted elsewhere — often settling on Derek, who stood motionless by the drop hatch.

Derek inhaled deeply, feeling the weight of armor pressing down, the rough straps biting his shoulders. His eyes closed for a moment; his mind mapped every sound, every subtle shift around them. When he opened them, his gaze locked briefly with Allison’s — a silent, heavy understanding, forged through years of war.

The pilot’s voice cut through the speakers, flat and steady. “Approaching target. Five minutes to insertion.”

The cabin shifted instantly. Spines straightened, weapons came up, breaths slowed. They moved from seven individuals into a single unit.

The aircraft descended, gravity tilting slightly as it angled toward a concealed landing zone near the target. The engines’ roar softened to a low growl before cutting out completely. The landing was smooth, almost imperceptible.

The hatch hissed open, releasing a rush of cold Polish air thick with the scent of damp earth and rusted metal. Outside, the forest stretched like a black sea beneath the starlit sky. Deep below, buried like a cancer, was the underground complex.

Derek was the first out, footsteps nearly silent despite the gear’s weight. A quick hand signal, and the team melted into formation, each moving with practiced ease.

Allison followed close, weapon raised, eyes sharp for movement. Boyd and Erica flanked the sides, guns ready. Lydia held the center, her terminal’s pale blue glow illuminating her focused face.

Scott and Isaac covered the rear, bodies tense but steady. Jackson and Peter closed the line, Peter’s faint smile lingering as if savoring the electric tension.

Derek raised a hand. Instantly, the world seemed to hold its breath. He pointed to a rusted service hatch, half-hidden beneath creeping vines — an entry into the sewer system below.

“This is our way in,” he whispered. “Five minutes between patrols. Lydia?”

Lydia’s eyes flicked to her terminal. “Three minutes until the next window. All clear.”

Derek nodded once.

“Let’s move.”

The team moved like a collective shadow — gliding through the underbrush until they reached the entrance. Lydia knelt beside the rusted door, connecting a small device to the corroded control panel. Her fingers moved swiftly, and after a few seconds, a soft click signaled the lock had disengaged.

The door creaked open, revealing a darkness even deeper than the forest behind them. The air that escaped carried the stench of mold and stagnant water, laced with a faint chemical tang that made Scott wrinkle his nose.

Derek stepped inside first, his natural night vision adjusting instantly to the gloom. The tunnel was narrow — its concrete walls fractured and laced with moss. Somewhere in the distance, water dripped steadily, echoing like a macabre clock.

The rest of the team followed, sealing the door silently behind them.

Now they were in.

The game had begun.

The tunnels twisted beneath the earth like a damp and rotting labyrinth, but Lydia navigated them with certainty — her terminal projecting a holographic map only she could see clearly. Her steps were precise, every motion calculated to avoid traps or sensors.

After several minutes of silent advance, they reached a fork. Derek raised a closed fist, bringing the team to a halt. He glanced at Lydia, who studied her terminal before pointing to the left.

“The main complex is five hundred meters this way. There's a service entry that leads directly to the storage sector.”

Derek nodded and signaled the team forward. They moved like phantoms, their presence nearly imperceptible in the dark.

Then Scott froze, his body going rigid. Slowly, he turned his head — as if hearing something the others couldn’t. His eyes locked with Derek’s, and even in the shadows, the warning was clear.

Something was wrong.

Derek raised his hand again, and the team halted instantly. Weapons raised. Every sense stretched tight.

Then the air shifted.

A subtle ripple passed through the tunnel, as if reality itself bent just enough to crack.

Out of the darkness, a figure emerged — pale and almost glowing faintly against the gloom.

Seraphim.

He stood a few meters away, his white uniform faintly luminescent, golden eyes burning with a fierce intensity that felt like pain. His hair flowed down his back in waves, nearly touching his waist. Though his hands hung loosely by his sides, everyone knew better.

For a heartbeat that stretched into infinity, no one moved. The silence between them was so fragile it felt as if even a breath might shatter it.

Isaac was the first to speak, voice low and rough. “Seraphim... we don’t want to fight.”

The golden eyes flicked to him but showed no recognition — just a terrifying emptiness, colder than rage. Seraphim tilted his head slightly, like a predator appraising prey it has already marked for death.

Allison raised her weapon, but Derek’s arm shot out, steadying her with a soft, urgent “Wait.”

Scott stepped forward carefully, hands open and calm. “You don’t have to do this. We know you’re being controlled. We can help.”

Seraphim’s gaze swept over them, calculating—searching for weakness, vulnerability.

Then, without warning, he moved.

The ground beneath Jackson cracked open silently — a jagged black rift swallowing him whole before a scream could escape. The fissure snapped shut with a dry finality.

“Jackson!” Erica shouted, but it was too late.

Chaos exploded.

Allison fired, bullets tearing the air toward Seraphim — but he vanished before they hit. In a heartbeat, he reappeared behind Boyd.

Boyd barely twisted around before Seraphim’s hand slammed into his throat, crushing it with a sickening snap. Boyd dropped, gasping, clawing at his own neck.

Derek surged forward, blade flashing — swift, precise, deadly. But Seraphim danced around every strike with unnatural grace, as if reading the moves before they came. Then, a kick struck Derek’s block with brutal force, sending him hurtling backward several meters.

Erica leapt, claws flashing in the gloom. She raked Seraphim’s shoulder, slicing through the white of his uniform — but he didn’t flinch. His hand closed around her wrist and twisted. The snap echoed. Her scream cut short as he hurled her into the wall hard enough to crack concrete.

Lydia stumbled back, her terminal slipping from her hands. She was already seeing fractured timelines — and they terrified her more than the room itself. Seraphim turned to her, hesitated, then raised a hand and curled his fingers. Lydia screamed as her body lifted off the floor, suspended like a puppet pulled by unseen strings.

Scott and Isaac charged — Isaac blurring at impossible speed, Scott flickering in and out of visibility. Seraphim lifted his other hand and, with a flick, flung them both back like rag dolls. Scott reappeared mid-air, helpless.

Allison reloaded and fired. This time the round struck Seraphim’s chest. He staggered — looked down. No blood, just a blackened mark on the uniform. Then he looked up at her.

And something crossed his face. Not pain. Not rage. Something quieter. Recognition?

That was when Peter moved.

He had been still, watching. Now he lunged — faster than sight — his blade flashing silver. It struck Seraphim's side, deeper than Erica’s claws.

Seraphim twitched — barely — a blink too fast to catch. He spun, tore the blade free, and hurled it backward in one smooth motion, embedding it deep in the wall.

Peter smiled, as if confirming a theory. But before he could speak, Seraphim struck him in the chest with an open palm. The sound was almost silent. Peter flew back like a missile, slamming into Derek. They crashed in a tangle of limbs and momentum.

Allison seized the moment, dragging Lydia away as Seraphim turned. She hauled her upright. Behind them, Seraphim's golden eyes flared.

Scott rose. Bloody. Shaking.

But standing.

He didn’t attack. Instead, he reached out a hand.

"Seraphim," he said, voice rough but steady. "I know you’re still in there. Beneath all of it. You remember. You’re more than just a weapon."

For a second, Seraphim paused. His golden eyes flickered, flame fighting wind. A crack in the perfection Malcov had carved.

Then — like a switch — the light vanished. Blank again, he raised his hand.

Scott slammed into the wall with a sickening crack. He dropped, unmoving.

Allison raised her weapon — hopeless, but defiant. Derek stepped beside her, blade drawn. Erica, wrist broken, grabbed a fallen knife with her good hand. Behind them, Lydia trembled, the terminal forgotten on the ground.

Peter said nothing. The smile was gone.

Seraphim stared at them, ready to end it.

Then the lights went out.

Not just the tunnel. Everything. A blackout so complete it felt like drowning.

In the dark, Allison heard it — a breath. Quiet. Almost... relieved. Then footsteps. Retreating.

When emergency lights flickered on, Seraphim was gone.

The team stood frozen. Breath ragged. Eyes wide.

Boyd writhed on the floor, every gasp a choking rattle. Jackson was missing. Erica leaned against the wall, clutching her wrist. Scott was unconscious, but breathing. Peter stood again, silent, unreadable.

And Derek — Derek looked at Allison. In her eyes, he saw the same question pounding in his own mind:

What the hell was that?

But there was no time to ask.

Lydia was already moving, snatching up her terminal and scanning vitals. “We need to go. Now. Before he comes back.”

Allison helped Erica to her feet. Derek checked on Scott. Peter, silent, drifted toward the space where Seraphim had stood, eyes scanning the floor for something unseen.

“He hesitated,” Peter murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “Interesting.”

Derek glanced his way but said nothing. He turned to the team. “Let’s move. We still have to reach that weapon before it’s too late.”

They regrouped, carrying the wounded, limping forward. Their steps heavier now — wearier. And deeper into the tunnel they went, toward the complex’s heart.

The walls seemed to close in, damp and oppressive. Emergency lights flickered, casting jagged shadows that slithered along the concrete like things alive. The air was thick — mold, blood, and something else... metallic, synthetic, sharp on the tongue.

Derek led, bearing Scott’s weight across his shoulders. The boy breathed, but barely, head limp, blood trickling from temple to jaw. Allison followed, arm around Erica’s waist, her friend stumbling beside her, teeth gritted against the pain. Lydia moved with Boyd and Isaac, the larger man groaning with each breath, his lungs rasping like torn fabric.

Peter brought up the rear, eyes on the darkness behind. Every so often, his fingers grazed the blade at his waist, poised for another strike from the dark.

No one spoke. What was there to say? Jackson was gone. Boyd was dying. Erica was hanging on by threads. Scott unconscious. And Seraphim — Seraphim was out there, somewhere.

Lydia stopped.

Her eyes had locked on a rusted door just ahead — faint, faded radiation symbol barely visible on the surface.

“Here,” she whispered. “The main lab’s behind this door. That’s where the bioweapon should be.”

Derek nodded and gently lowered Scott against the wall. He checked his gun — three rounds left. The others did the same. Everyone was running dry. Everyone knew the odds.

Everyone but Peter.

He lingered apart from the group, eyes sweeping over them like an audience member watching a tragedy unfold. Then, without a word, he stepped back. Then again. Until he vanished into a narrow fork no one had noticed before.

Allison caught his eye just before he disappeared. He gave her a faint smile, almost kind, and raised a finger to his lips.

A secret. A promise.

Then he was gone.

Allison started to call out, but Boyd let out a groan and she snapped back to the present. No time to chase him. Not now.

Derek stood at the door, hand on the corroded control panel. He looked at Lydia. She gave a small nod — no alarms, no traps.

“Three... two... one...”

The door groaned open like a dying beast.

The lab inside looked torn from a nightmare. Rusted steel benches covered in tubes, canisters, ancient medical equipment. At the center — a massive glass chamber glowed with green fluid, pulsing like a sick heart. Inside, something writhed — a living mass, pressing against the container walls, desperate to escape.

“The weapon,” Allison murmured, her stomach turning.

But before anyone could move, the air twisted. A shimmer, like heat rising from pavement, and then...

Seraphim stood before the capsule.

His uniform was pristine, untouched by battle. His eyes burned through the gloom, fixed on them, expression unreadable, motionless as a statue bathed in poisonous light.

The room froze. Air turned leaden. Allison raised her weapon, Derek braced to strike, Erica growled low through clenched teeth.

Then Seraphim trembled.

His eyes widened — not in rage, but confusion. Something had shifted. Something he didn’t understand.

And then footsteps. Calm. Measured. From the far end of the hall.

Peter emerged from the dark ,a tall figure ahead of him, forced forward at gunpoint: General Dr. Anton Malcov.

The barrel of Peter’s weapon pressed into the back of the old man’s skull.

Malcov didn’t look afraid. He looked annoyed, like a teacher interrupted by an insolent child.

“Apologies for the delay,” Peter said, his voice soaked in mischief, eyes gleaming with something far from remorse. “Had to persuade our good doctor here to tag along. He wasn’t exactly eager.”

Seraphim froze. His lips parted, as if to speak, but no sound followed. His gaze darted from Peter to the General — and for the first time, a crack appeared in that perfect mask of composure. Confusion leaked through it like light through fractured glass.

“Peter… what are you—” Erica began, but he cut her off with a sharp flick of his hand.

“Shhh, sweetheart. This is between me and the little angel.” He nudged the General with the muzzle of his gun. “Tell him to bring back the blond one. The one you sent straight to hell. Now.”

The General let out a dry, mirthless laugh. “You honestly think he’ll obey you?”

Peter pressed harder, forcing the old man’s head forward. “No. But he’ll obey you. And unless you want a bullet through that wrinkled skull of yours, I suggest you start giving orders.”

No one breathed. Seraphim stood taut as a drawn bowstring, hands clenching and unclenching, his whole frame trembling with suppressed energy.

Finally, the General sighed. “Child. Retrieve the soldier. Intact.”

Seraphim hesitated. One beat. Two. Three. Then nothing. No portal, no glow, he simply vanished, like air displaced by thought.

Silence clung to the room, save for the low hum of machinery. Allison glanced at Derek, who hadn’t unclenched his fists. Lydia seized the moment, slipping closer to the capsule, her fingers dancing over its ancient control panel.

Then, with the force of a thunderclap, Seraphim reappeared. And with him, Jackson, slick with a viscous black sludge, coughing and retching. His eyes were wide, feral, but alive.

“What the fuck—” he gasped, swiping at the muck dripping from his face. “Where the hell was I?”

No one answered. All eyes were locked on Peter and the General.

Peter smiled. “Thank you, kid.”

And pulled the trigger.

The shot cracked like lightning in the enclosed space. General Malcov crumpled forward, a neat hole between his brows — the sneer still frozen on his face as he collapsed with a dull thud.

“No!”

The cry tore from Seraphim, not a human sound, but something primal, fractured, ripped from the core of his being. He dropped to his knees beside the body, trembling hands hovering just above it, afraid to touch, afraid not to. His shoulders heaved. And when he lifted his face, the gold in his eyes was drowned in tears.

“No, no, no, no—” Seraphim choked, his voice breaking, childlike. He clutched at the General’s coat, shaking the corpse gently, as if it might stir. “Sir? Please, sir—”

Allison stood frozen. It was like watching a machine collapse in on itself, like watching code unravel. Seraphim wept openly now, head bowed, shoulders caving beneath a weight no one else could see.

Lydia didn’t waste the moment. Her fingers hit the final command on the panel. With a sharp hiss, the capsule began to drain, the neon green liquid gurgling down steel pipes. Inside, the grotesque mass writhed and shrank, shrieking in silence as it died.

“Done,” Lydia whispered, just as her terminal beeped in warning. Her face went pale.

“Fuck. Fuck! They know it’s been deactivated. We’ve got less than three minutes before this place seals or worse.”

Derek didn’t hesitate. On instinct, he moved to Seraphim — still curled around the General’s lifeless body — and hauled him up by the waist. The boy was startlingly light, like bones carved from glass. He didn’t resist, just let the General’s coat slip from his grasp, eyes hollow and dazed.

“Move,” Derek growled, slinging him over his shoulder. “Everyone out. Now.”

No one needed telling twice. Allison and Erica grabbed Boyd between them; he staggered, barely upright. Isaac and Jackson supported Scott, who was starting to stir, his speech slurred and confused. Lydia led, her terminal casting a path through the maze.

Peter lingered, staring at Malcov’s body. Then, with a theatrical sigh, he turned and followed.

The alarms howled — a shrill, metallic wail — as a synthetic voice boomed through every corridor: “Auto-destruction protocol engaged. Evacuate immediately.”

The floors shook. Concrete rained from the ceiling. Lydia led them down side routes, dodging the main tunnels already sealed with thick slabs of steel. Seraphim hung limp in Derek’s arms, face buried in his shoulder, whispering broken pleas to a man already gone.

At last, they reached the emergency hatch, a rusted ladder leading up to the forest surface. The complex beneath them groaned like something dying.

One by one, they climbed, emerging into the crisp Polish night, beneath a sky strewn with indifferent stars.

They didn’t stop.

They ran.

The cold bit their faces as they sprinted through the trees. The ground shivered beneath their feet, hairline cracks spidering through the soil. Behind them, the earth screamed, a low, grinding roar as the installation gave way, collapsing into itself.

Derek kept running, Seraphim pressed close, his skin unnaturally hot. The boy didn’t speak. He just breathed — soft, shallow, rasping breaths — as if learning the rhythm of life for the first time.

Allison reached the ship first. She spun and helped Erica and Boyd up the ramp. Boyd was nearly gone — white-lipped, blue-tinged, breathing in shallow gasps. Jackson and Isaac followed with Scott, half-conscious, mumbling nonsense.

“Hurry!” the pilot shouted over the engines and the chaos behind them.

Lydia scrambled aboard, then Peter — still clutching the small device he'd taken from the General. He didn’t speak, didn’t smirk, just paused to look back at Derek and Seraphim.

Derek’s muscles screamed as he climbed the ramp, Seraphim’s weight pulling at his shoulders. The boy burned against him, feverish and silent, fingers clutching weakly at his coat like a frightened child.

As his boots hit the deck, a tremor rocked the earth beneath. Derek stumbled but didn’t fall.

“Seal it!” he barked. The pilot obeyed, the ramp retracting with a deep groan of steel just as the ship began to lift.

Through the narrow windows, they watched the ground vanish — swallowed whole by a yawning black void where the complex had once stood. Smoke and debris rose like a funeral pyre, lit from below by explosions that painted the sky in blood-orange and ash.

Derek sat back hard, one arm still around the boy curled against his chest. Seraphim clung to him, trembling, silent. His fingers gripped Derek’s jacket like it was the only solid thing left. His eyes — raw, swollen — stared at nothing.

The ship shuddered upward, engines howling. Inside, the noise blurred: Lydia’s commands, Allison’s muffled groan as Erica set her wrist, Boyd’s labored breath, Isaac whispering comfort he didn’t believe in. The air reeked of blood and metal. It smelled like a battlefield.

Derek didn’t speak. He just held the boy tighter.

"Hey," he murmured eventually. No answer.

He touched Seraphim’s shoulder. "Can you hear me?"

A slow blink. Distant, confused eyes met his.

"Where…" Seraphim's voice cracked, barely more than breath. "Where is the sir?"

Derek froze.

"He’s gone," he said. Careful. Low.

The boy frowned. "Will he… come back?"

The words hit like a punch. Derek felt his throat tighten.

"No. He won’t."

Seraphim stared, unmoving — then began to shake. Tears slipped down his face, silent, steady.

"I failed," he whispered. "He was my only thing. My only thing."

Derek didn’t speak. He just wrapped both arms around him, pulled him close. The boy let himself be held, small and fragile, body burning with fear and something deeper — a grief too old for his face.

"Do you have a name?" Derek asked after a long while, voice barely above the ship’s hum.

The answer came slowly. "I am… the Seraphim."

"That’s not a name."

A pause.

"I was… 07. Before."

Derek closed his eyes. A number. A designation. Not a child.

"Do you know how old you are?"

Seraphim shook his head against Derek’s shoulder. "The sir said I didn’t need to know. Only to obey."

Across the ship, Allison turned sharply. Her eyes met Derek’s, dark and unreadable — but he saw the flicker of rage there. The quiet kind. The kind that didn’t burn out.

"Are you hurt?" Derek asked softly.

Seraphim looked down at his stained hands, fingers twitching. "I don’t know."

Derek gestured to Allison. She stepped forward with a damp cloth, but Seraphim flinched hard, recoiling. His body tensed, one hand rising defensively — no power behind it now, only instinct.

"She won’t hurt you," Derek said, quiet. "She’s here to help."

Seraphim stared at her like she was a puzzle he didn’t understand. Then, slowly, hesitantly, he stilled.

Allison worked in silence, wiping blood from his skin with care. Seraphim didn’t move, didn’t speak — just blinked as if trying to stay awake inside a world he didn’t recognize.

"What happens to me now?"

The words came out small. Flat.

Derek hesitated. There was no easy answer.

"You’re coming with us," he said finally. "You’re not theirs anymore."

Seraphim stared. Something behind his eyes flickered — faint and distant, like the last ember of a dying flame.

He nodded, once. Then again. And let his head rest on Derek’s shoulder.

For a long moment, Derek just looked at him. The grime on his face. The tear tracks. The thin body crushed into his arms like something not meant to exist outside a cage.

And in that moment, Derek didn’t see a weapon. Didn’t see a threat.

He saw a boy.

A boy who had never been allowed to be anything else.

The ship rose through smoke and silence, dragging them away from the rubble. But the wreckage inside the boy — that would take longer to leave behind.

And Derek knew, without question, that the hardest part hadn’t even begun.

════════════════════════════════

The operations base was buried deep beneath the Romanian mountains — a concrete block sunk into the earth like a wound stitched shut. Cold corridors, metal walls, reinforced ceilings. No windows. No sky.

The aircraft touched down in the underground hangar with a low, groaning hiss. A medical team was already there, sterile gloves snapping on, gurneys ready.

Boyd was first — pale, drifting in and out. Scott stumbled behind him, one arm slung over Isaac’s shoulder. Erica followed, her wrist twisted at a wrong angle, teeth grit against the pain. Jackson, soaked in a black, tar-like substance, was pulled aside by two agents in hazmat suits. He didn’t speak.

And then there was Seraphim.

He hadn’t moved since the ramp opened. Just stood in the center of the hangar, eyes scanning every corner like he was back in a cell with no walls. His uniform clung to his thin frame, stained with blood and ash, and his silver-blonde hair hung in tangled strands around his face.

He looked... hollow.

Not scared. Not angry.

Just empty.

Derek approached slowly, instinct telling him not to crowd. The boy was still as stone, watching everyone, muscles coiled tight beneath the stillness.

"You’ll need to come with us," Derek said softly. Calm. Like talking to a cornered animal.

Seraphim blinked. Then looked at his hands. "I have nowhere to go."

The words were flat. Lifeless. But they scraped at something inside Derek just the same.

Lydia stepped in beside them, posture straight, tablet smudged with dried blood. Her voice came clipped and cold.

"He goes into containment. Deaton needs to assess him before we even think about protocol."

"No," Derek said, sharper than intended. "He’s not a prisoner."

Lydia turned her head slowly, eyes narrowing. "Derek, you saw what he did."

"He wasn’t in control."

"And how do you know he’s in control now?" she shot back, voice low and deadly. "What if he snaps again in the middle of the base? What if this—"she gestured at Seraphim, "is just him recalibrating?"

Allison stepped forward too, arms crossed. Her expression wasn’t angry, but guarded — steady and cold.

"You feel sorry for him," she said. "But that doesn’t make him safe."

"I don’t feel sorry for him," Derek replied. "I just... I know what it looks like. When someone’s been broken."

Seraphim watched all of it in silence. His head tilted slightly to the side, eyes tracking each speaker like someone trying to understand a conversation in a language he’d never learned.

Derek turned to him. "Are you going to hurt anyone here?"

"If you tell me not to," Seraphim said quietly, "I won’t."

The answer hung there, echoing in the space like it didn’t belong to a weapon — but a child. One who had been trained not to think, only obey.

It made Allison flinch, just slightly. Lydia didn’t.

"That's not good enough," she said.

But she didn’t argue further. Instead, she tapped a few commands into her tablet and motioned to the guards.

"Surveillance. Constant. No unsupervised contact. No unlocked doors."

Derek gave a small nod. It was more than he expected.

Six guards flanked Seraphim as he was led down the corridor — not cuffed, not chained, but surrounded on all sides. The base seemed to hold its breath as they passed. Eyes followed them through the reinforced glass, some wide with fear, others sharp with suspicion. No one spoke.

And no one got too close.

The room Deaton had prepared was small — intentionally so. Sterile. Windowless. The kind of space where silence pressed against the skin like damp cloth. Gray walls wrapped tight around them, the single round table at the center like a surgical tray waiting for the next cut.

There were no restraints, no mirrored glass, no bright overhead light — only a dim ceiling fixture and the weight of eyes that had seen too much. It wasn’t an interrogation room by name, but the air already knew what it was.

Deaton stood beside one of the chairs, arms crossed loosely, his face as unreadable as ever. But the stillness in his body wasn’t calm. It was something colder. Beneath his usual composure, his gaze held a wary tension, like someone watching a weapon that hadn’t quite decided if it was loaded.

“Seraphim,” he said, softly — testing the name as though it might shatter between his teeth.

The boy didn’t speak.

He sat motionless across from them, posture unnervingly perfect, eyes forward, hands folded loosely in his lap. Every part of him was too still — not relaxed, not tense, but restrained, like a wire pulled tight beneath the surface.

“Do you know why you’re here?” Deaton asked.

There was a moment where he seemed not to register the question. Then Seraphim turned his head slightly, his eyes shifting toward Derek — as if needing permission to speak.

Derek met his gaze. He didn’t smile, didn’t soften, just gave a slow, deliberate nod.

Seraphim turned back. “The Sir is dead,” he said, voice steady but stripped bare. "And I no longer have orders."

The words hung there for a moment — quiet and hollow, like a dropped match in an empty room.

Deaton studied him in silence. Then: "And what happens when you don’t have orders?"

Seraphim blinked. He looked down at his hands, tilted them slightly. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" Deaton echoed.

"Yes. There is no directive to act. So I... wait."

The bluntness of it chilled the air. No curiosity. No initiative. Just a system in standby, waiting for a new voice to fill the void.

Allison shifted near the wall, her body tense. Her hand drifted to her belt, almost unconsciously — fingers brushing a blade that wasn’t there. Lydia’s tablet remained in her hands, but her typing had stopped. 

Deaton’s tone softened. "Do you remember anything from before General Malcov?"

Seraphim frowned, just slightly. "Before?"

"Before you were Seraphim. Before the missions. Before the lab."

"There was no before." He said it like a fact, not a loss. "All prototypes were grown in the labs. Born to optimize memory conditioning. That is where I came from. That is where the others ended."

The word ended drew a subtle flinch from Allison. Lydia didn’t react, but her eyes were on him now — sharp and cold.

Deaton exhaled slowly. "Alright. Then let’s take it slow." He pulled out a chair and sat, leveling himself with the boy. "Tell us about your ability. The portals. How do you do it?"

Seraphim looked down again. He studied his palms, then turned his hands over like he was searching for something written beneath the skin.

"I open," he said quietly. "Wherever I want."

Deaton tilted his head, brows knitting. "Open what?"

He hesitated. "The crease. In the fold."

Deaton waited. No one else moved.

"The world is layered," Seraphim said at last, slower now, like it was hard to find words. "Stacked. Like paper folded wrong, over and over. I feel where the crease is — and I pull it open."

Lydia blinked, lips parting. Allison’s arms folded across her chest, as if bracing herself.

Derek’s voice was quiet. "You unfold... reality?"

Seraphim glanced at him, frustration flickering for the first time. "Not unfold. Step over. Like... crossing a river. From one stone to another. Except the stones are places. Moments. And sometimes... they’re not meant to be touched."

"Not meant to be touched?" Lydia asked, voice sharper now.

Seraphim went still.

"There are places where the air screams," he said. "Places that don’t end. Places where color is wrong, and time doesn’t hold. Places that claw your mind apart if you stay too long." He blinked again. Harder this time."

This time, Allison stepped forward. “How many of that places?”

He didn’t look at her. Just counted on his fingers. One hand, then the other. Then started again. “Seventy-four.”

The number sat like frost between them.

Lydia’s grip tightened around the tablet. "Seventy-four realities?”

He nodded.

"And you survived all of them."

Another nod. Slower now. "Some pieces came back wrong. But I... stayed."

The silence was thicker now. The kind that builds before something breaks.

Deaton looked at him carefully. "And the mind? Can you enter it? Can you see how someone’s going to attack before they move?"

"No," Seraphim said, automatic. "I don’t need to. All prototypes were trained to perfection. Reading thoughts is inefficient."

Inefficient.

Derek’s jaw clenched. Something deep in his chest turned cold.

Lydia’s voice cut through. "And how did Malcov control you?"

Seraphim looked up. Confused. "He was my sir."

"Yes, but how?" Lydia pressed. "Was there a device? A drug? A trigger word?"

The boy frowned. “I obeyed. That was my function."

"You chose to obey?" Allison asked, something fierce and bitter behind the question.

"No. There is no choice in protocol. You obey the one who gives orders. That’s how we’re made."

Deaton didn’t speak. Neither did Derek. The implications rang louder than any answer.

No control mechanism. No remote trigger. Just engineered loyalty. Obedience coded into bone and blood.

Deaton’s next question came quieter. "Do you feel pain?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever cried?"

A pause. "Yes."

"What makes you cry?"

Seraphim didn’t speak for a long time.

When he finally did, his voice was different. Smaller. Thin and trembling around the edges, like glass under pressure.

"When he left me in the dark," he whispered. "Because there, no one tells me to stop. And it just keeps going. The tears."

His shoulders didn’t shake. His face didn’t move. But the silence that followed was suffocating.

Lydia lowered her tablet. Allison took a slow breath, knuckles white against her crossed arms.

No one moved. No one spoke.

And still, in the center of the room, the boy sat perfectly still — like something waiting to be reactivated. Like the storm wasn’t over, only sleeping.

Deaton didn’t press. Instead, he leaned forward, hands clasped. "Seraphim... is there something you want? Right now, in this moment?"

The question seemed to genuinely perplex the boy. He looked to Derek, as if searching for the correct answer, but Derek kept his expression neutral.

"I... don’t know," Seraphim admitted finally.

"Are you hungry?"

He hesitated. "I don’t know."

"Thirsty?"

"... Maybe."

Deaton nodded to one of the guards, who left and returned with a glass of water. They placed it on the table in front of Seraphim. The boy only stared at it, unmoving.

"You can take it," Derek said softly.

Seraphim looked at him, then at the glass.

Slowly, he reached out and took it, holding it in both hands like he was afraid it might spill.

He didn’t drink.

He just sat there, staring into the water, his reflection trembling across the surface.

Allison watched every microexpression on his face.

 He didn’t know what thirst was

He didn’t know how to name hunger.

Malcov had never let him decide anything — not even when to drink.

Derek felt something heavy form in his chest. This wasn’t a soldier. It wasn’t a weapon.

It was a child.

A child who had never been allowed to be human.

Deaton seemed to realize the same.

He stood, his voice softer now. "I think we’ve heard enough for today. Derek, can you take him to the accommodation we’ve prepared?"

Derek nodded and rose to his feet. Seraphim immediately placed the glass back on the table — untouched — and stood as well, his movements fluid and precise, like an automaton awaiting its next instruction.

Allison stepped closer as the guards moved back into formation. "You’re not going to lock him up," she said, not a question, a statement.

Deaton looked at Seraphim, who stood quiet and still, waiting for someone to tell him what to do.

"No," he agreed quietly. "But we’ll keep watch. Until we know whether he can... want something on his own."

Derek placed a hand on Seraphim’s shoulder — a light touch, but the boy still flinched slightly, as if not used to contact that wasn’t violent.

"Come on," Derek said, guiding him toward the door.

Seraphim obeyed, walking at his side, his steps soundless, his gaze vacant, lost somewhere between the folds of reality only he could perceive.

And for the first time in his life, no one was telling him where to go.

He didn’t seem to know what to do with that.

════════════════════════════════

The days passed faster than any of them had expected. In the blink of an eye, a full week had gone by since Seraphim had arrived at the base.

The underground facility in Romania had a distinctive smell, metal, disinfectant, and burnt coffee. The corridors were lit by flickering fluorescent lights that buzzed faintly, like insects trapped inside the ceiling. Jackson walked beside Derek, hands buried in the pockets of his coat, their footsteps echoing along the concrete halls.

"So let me get this straight," Jackson said, rolling his eyes. "The twink assassin who almost dragged me to hell is now locked up in a room like some sort of pet hamster, and I’m supposed to act like that’s normal?"

Derek didn’t even look at him. "He’s not locked up. And don’t call him that."

"What? Twink? But that’s exactly what he is. Look at the angel face and the white outfit. He looks like he walked out of one of those weird anime shows Scott watches."

"Jackson."

"Fine, fine."

They stopped in front of a reinforced door, not with chains, but with a digital panel that only opened with authorized input. Derek typed in the code, and the lock disengaged with a soft click, the guards stationed outside nodding subtly as the system released.

The room inside was sparse: a narrow bed, a desk with stacked textbooks — all chosen by Lydia and Deaton — and a single chair. On the opposite wall, a small window made of reinforced glass let in artificial hallway light, casting a pale rectangle across the floor.

Seraphim was seated precisely in the center of that rectangle of light, legs crossed, hands resting on his knees. He now wore simple clothes — a loose grey T-shirt and soft training pants — but still looked strangely misplaced, as if the garments were a poor disguise for something far older and more unnatural. His hair, now clean, fell in soft waves down to his waist, the strands catching the light in a shimmering gradient of silver and gold that seemed almost unreal.

He didn’t turn toward the door when it opened. He simply remained there, unmoving, his eyes fixed on something no one else could see in the empty air before him.

"Does he do that all day?" Jackson murmured, staring at the boy.

"Most of the time," Derek replied quietly.

"And... does he eat? Sleep? Do people things?"

"He eats when food is brought to him. Sleeps when he’s told to. But it doesn’t seem like he needs much of either."

Jackson wrinkled his nose. "That’s creepy as fuck."

Derek ignored him and stepped into the room, approaching Seraphim. The boy finally tilted his head, his gaze drifting to Derek with a slowness that felt almost dreamlike.

"Brought you some company," Derek said, gesturing subtly toward Jackson.

Seraphim looked at Jackson. Jackson looked back.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

It was Jackson who broke the silence, arms crossing over his chest. "So... you remember me?"

Seraphim blinked, slowly. "Yes."

"You remember that you almost killed me?"

"Yes."

Jackson waited. Nothing else came.

"...And that’s it? No ‘oh hey, sorry about that, Jackson, my bad’?"

Seraphim tilted his head, puzzled. "You want me to apologize?"

"Well, that’s generally what normal people do when they almost murder someone."

The boy seemed to consider that for a moment. "I’m sorry, Jackson."

The phrase came out flat, emotionless, like he was reciting a memorized line rather than offering regret.

Jackson glanced at Derek. "Dude. This is fucking terrifying."

Derek sighed. "He doesn’t get irony. Or sarcasm. He takes everything literally."

Jackson studied Seraphim for a few more seconds before groaning and dropping to the floor, sitting cross-legged at a safe distance.

"Alright. So what do you do all day, twink? Just sit there staring into space?"

Seraphim looked at him. "What is a twink?"

Jackson smirked, mischief curling the corner of his mouth. "Oh, you don’t know? It’s a compliment. Means you’re... cute."

Derek rubbed a hand down his face. "Jackson, no."

"What? I’m just helping the kid integrate."

Seraphim turned to Derek, as if searching for confirmation.

Derek shook his head. "It’s not a compliment."

"Oh." Seraphim looked back at Jackson. "So it’s an insult?"

Jackson laughed. "Depends on who’s asking."

The boy was quiet for a moment, processing. "Are you insulting me?"

"Nah." Jackson leaned back against the wall, more relaxed. "I’m just messing with you. You can call me a twink if you want."

"...You’re not cute."

Jackson nearly choked. Derek suppressed a smile.

"Okay, ouch," Jackson said, pressing a hand to his chest. "Derek, the twink just roasted me."

Derek ignored him again, addressing Seraphim directly. "Lydia wants to know if you’ve finished the books she brought."

Seraphim looked at the stack on the table.

"Yes."

"All of them?"

"Yes."

Jackson raised an eyebrow. "He read all that in three days?"

"Looks like it," Derek replied.

"And... he understood it?"

Seraphim turned to Jackson. "Yes."

Jackson opened his mouth, then closed it, then looked at Derek. "That’s kind of Matrix-level creepy, don’t you think?"

Derek didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled up a chair and sat near Seraphim, keeping a respectful distance.

"Did you like any of them in particular?"

Seraphim looked at the books, thoughtful. "The one on quantum physics. It explains some things."

"What things?"

"How I do what I do."

Jackson frowned. "Are you saying you learned to teleport by reading a college textbook?"

Seraphim looked at him. "It’s not teleportation."

"Then what is it?"

"It’s... stepping over."

Jackson looked at Derek. "Does he always talk like this? In riddles?"

Derek ignored him once more, focusing on Seraphim. "Do you want more books?"

The boy hesitated, as if the question was too complex. "I... may I?"

"Of course."

"Then... yes."

Jackson watched the exchange with a mixture of fascination and discomfort. There was something deeply wrong here, the way Seraphim asked for permission for the simplest things, like he’d never had a choice before. As if wanting something was an entirely new concept.

He couldn’t help himself. "Hey, twink."

Seraphim looked at him.

"Have you ever wanted something? Like, really wanted it?"

The boy was silent for far too long. "I don’t know."

"Nothing? Not even... candy? A toy? A place you wanted to go?"

Seraphim lowered his gaze to his own hands. "The Sir said wanting things is weakness."

Jackson felt a chill crawl down his spine. He looked over at Derek, whose face remained impassive — but his eyes had darkened.

"Well, the Sir’s dead," Jackson said, more harshly than intended. "So now you can want whatever the hell you want."

Seraphim stared at him, golden eyes slightly widened. "I can?"

"Fuck yeah, you can."

The boy seemed to ponder that. "I... liked the physics book."

Jackson nearly laughed. "That’s not a desire, twink. That’s a statement."

"Then what is a desire?"

Jackson opened his mouth, then closed it again.

How do you explain desire to someone who’s never owned his own thoughts?

"It’s when something inside you burns," he said at last, improvising. "Like... when you see something and think, holy fuck, I need that."

Seraphim looked at him, then at his own hand, as if expecting to see fire there. "I’ve never felt that."

Jackson didn’t know what to say.

Derek stepped in gently. "You will. With time."

Seraphim looked at him, then at Jackson, and to the surprise of both, asked a question:

"Jackson... do you feel it? That burning?"

Jackson froze. The question was innocent, almost childlike — but it hit something in him he hadn’t expected.

"Sometimes," he admitted, glancing away.

"What do you desire?"

Jackson laughed, humorless. "Man, that’s therapy talk. And I don’t do therapy."

Seraphim didn’t press. He simply nodded, as if mentally noting that this was a topic off-limits.

The silence that followed was uncomfortable.

Derek stood to break it. "I have to go. Jackson, are you staying or coming with me?"

Jackson should’ve left.

He should’ve followed Derek and left the killer twink alone with his stack of books and existential void.

But something made him stay.

"I’ll stick around a bit," he said, surprised by his own decision.

Derek studied him for a second, as if trying to decode his intent, then gave a small nod. "Fine. Don’t provoke him."

"I would never!"

As soon as Derek walked out — casting one last pointed look over his shoulder — Jackson lay down on the floor, folding his arms behind his head. Seraphim watched him in silence.

"So," Jackson began, staring up at the ceiling, "do you really not feel anything?"

Seraphim glanced down at his hands again. "I feel things."

"Like what?"

"Cold. Heat. Pain."

"And?"

"...Fear."

Jackson turned his head toward him. "Of what?"

Seraphim didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was so faint Jackson barely caught it.

"When the Sir left me in the dark."

Jackson swallowed hard. He wasn’t good at this. Feelings. Deep talks. But in that cold, sterile room, sitting across from that broken kid, he felt something unexpected — a flicker of empathy.

"Well," he said, sitting up, "good news: there’s no Sir here. And if anyone ever tries to lock you in the dark again, I’ll rip their damn throat out myself."

Seraphim looked at him, his eyes slightly more focused. "Why?"

"Don’t tell anyone, but I hate dark places too."

And then, for the first time since Jackson had met him, Seraphim did something strange.

He almost smiled.

It was just a flicker — the faintest twitch of his lips, a glimmer of light in his eyes — but it was enough. Enough for Jackson to realize there was someone in there. Someone who didn’t yet know how to be a person, but existed all the same.

And against every ounce of logic, Jackson found himself wanting to stay. Just to see what else that strange little twink might do.

The room fell into silence again, filled only by the quiet hum of fluorescent lights. Jackson watched Seraphim — the boy now studying his own hands with almost scientific intensity, as if expecting them to do something miraculous at any moment.

"So," Jackson said eventually, breaking the silence, "if you’re not a twink, what are you?"

Seraphim looked up at him. "I am Seraphim."

"That’s a title, though, isn’t it? Sounds like a bad superhero alias."

"It’s what the Sir called me."

Jackson frowned. "And before that?"

"There was no before."

"Everyone has a before, man."

Seraphim shook his head. "I was made in the lab. I wasn’t born."

Jackson stopped cold. "You’re telling me the General made you? Like, built you? A robot?"

"No." Seraphim touched his own arm, as if to demonstrate his flesh. "He used genetic material. Modified it. Trained it."

"Genetic material from who?"

"From himself. From elite soldiers. Scientists. They had to make sure i was born with special abilities."

Jackson’s throat tightened. "So you’re... like a clone?"

Seraphim seemed to consider the word. "A clone is a copy. I was improved."

"Jesus Christ," Jackson muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "So you never... never had parents? School? Friends?"

Seraphim looked at him like the questions didn’t compute. "I had the Sir. And the training."

"What training?"

The boy lifted his hand, palm up. "At first, it was only pain. Electroshocks. Cold. Hunger. To learn how to ignore it. The serum doses every week to push my abilities further."

Jackson felt his stomach churn. "And after that?"

"Then came combat. Missions." He lowered his hand again, eyes drifting toward some distant point in memory. "When I failed, the Sir left me in the dark. Sometimes for days. No water. Until I learned."

Jackson’s fists clenched before he even realized. "How old were you?"

"Old?"

"Age, dammit. How old were you when this started?"

Seraphim thought for a moment. "The first shock came when I was... five? Maybe six?"

Jackson jumped to his feet, suddenly unable to sit still. "That’s a war crime. That’s —" He stopped himself, taking a breath. "What about the others? Were there more like you?"

"Yes." Seraphim’s voice dropped. "But they didn’t survive the tests."

"How many?"

"Eleven."

Jackson closed his eyes. Eleven children. Dead from experimentation. And this — this — was the one who’d survived.

He looked at Seraphim — really looked. The boy was far too thin, skin too pale. Faint marks around his wrists hinted at old restraints. His golden eyes held a vacancy that hurt to witness.

"Listen," Jackson said, his voice softer than he meant it to be. "You’re here now. And that old bastard’s dead. You’re not his Seraphim anymore. Got it?"

Seraphim looked at him, puzzled. "Then... what am I?"

"Whatever you want to be."

The boy seemed to ponder that, but Jackson saw the confusion in his eyes. He didn’t know how to want.

Jackson sighed, rubbing his face. "Alright, baby steps. First of all, you need a new name."

"A name?"

"Yeah. A real one. Not a weapon title or some shitty B-movie character."

Seraphim stared at his hands again, as if hoping they'd whisper the answer. "I don’t know how to choose."

"Sure you do. What sounds do you like?"

"Sounds?"

"Yeah, like... 'Milo.' 'Theo.' 'Luca'." Jackson made a face. "Though those kinda sound like golden retrievers. What about 'Ethan'?"

Seraphim tested it out, murmuring under his breath. "Ethan."

Jackson grimaced. "Doesn’t fit. You’re not an Ethan."

"Then what am I?"

Jackson studied him — the long silver hair, the golden eyes, the strange grace he carried even while sitting cross-legged on the floor.

"Something unique. Something that fits your fallen-angel vibe." He scratched his chin. "Stiles."

Seraphim tilted his head. "Stiles?"

"Yeah. It’s different. Has edge. Feels right."

The boy repeated the name softly, testing the shape of it. "Stiles."

"You like it?"

Seraphim looked at Jackson, and for the first time, there was something in his eyes that wasn’t confusion or emptiness — it was curiosity. "I think... yes."

Jackson grinned. "Then it’s settled. You’re Stiles now."

"Stiles," the boy — now Stiles — echoed, committing it to memory.

The door opened, and Derek stepped in, a tray of food in hand. He glanced at the two of them, brow lifting slightly at the sight of Jackson still present.

"Anything change?" Derek asked, placing the tray on the table.

Jackson stood, stretching. "Yeah. He’s got a name now."

Derek paused, turning his eyes to the boy — to Stiles.

"Oh yeah?"

"Stiles," the boy said, looking at Derek like he was offering the result of an experiment.

Derek froze for a moment, dark eyes flicking across the boy’s face. Jackson saw the flicker of something pass across his features — confusion, yes, but something deeper too. Maybe... understanding.

He nodded slowly. "Stiles. It’s a good name."

Jackson laughed. "You should see your face, Hale. You look like you just swallowed a lemon."

Derek ignored him, turning to Stiles. "Have you eaten today?"

Stiles glanced at the tray, then back at Derek. "No."

"Why not?"

"No one told me to."

Derek inhaled sharply, visibly restraining himself. He grabbed a sandwich off the tray and handed it to the boy. "You don’t need permission to eat. If you’re hungry, eat."

Stiles took the sandwich delicately, inspecting it like a foreign object. He bit into it cautiously, chewing slowly. His eyes widened.

"It’s... good," he said, surprised.

Derek nearly smiled."It’s called food, Stiles. Not powdered nutrients or whatever the hell they gave you back there."

Jackson watched Stiles eat, the slow shift from hesitation to quiet enthusiasm. There was something blooming in that moment — something fragile and new, like a green shoot breaking through cracked concrete.

"So," Jackson said, slinging an arm over Stiles’s shoulders, ignoring the faint tremble at the touch.

"Now that you’re a free citizen, what’s the first thing you wanna do?"

Stiles looked at him, then at Derek — golden eyes lit by the faintest spark of something that might, one day, become desire.

"I... don’t know."

Derek placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "You’ve got time to find out."

And for the first time, Stiles — no longer Seraphim, no longer the weapon or the experiment — looked like he might believe it.

════════════════════════════════

The atmosphere was thick with silence. Erica sat cross-legged in the farthest corner, her unbandaged fingers drumming on her knee with barely restrained impatience. Derek and Deaton had told her she couldn’t avoid the boy — though she had managed two whole weeks without looking at him. Her broken wrist rested on her lap, immobilized by a stark white splint contrasting with her all-black clothes.

Isaac was nearer the center, sprawled casually, arms draped over his knees. His blue eyes flicked between Erica and Stiles with open, almost childlike curiosity. The silence didn’t bother him; he just observed.

Stiles leaned against the wall opposite Erica, posture too upright to be natural, as if still in training. His long fingers lay flat on his thighs, unmoving. He blinked rarely.

Erica broke the silence first. "So," she said sharply, "you."

Stiles turned to her. "Yes?"

"You nearly crushed my wrist."

He tilted his head, inspecting the splint. "I could have. I didn’t."

Erica’s teeth showed in a bitter smile. "Oh, so I’m supposed to thank you for just breaking it?"

Stiles considered. "If you’d like."

A low growl escaped her, shoulder muscles tensing. Isaac glanced at her, but she ignored him, eyes locked on Stiles.

"Why are you here?" she spat. "Why aren’t you locked up or dead?"

Isaac frowned. "Erica—"

"I’m asking the obvious," she cut in, fists clenched. "He’s killed a lot of people."

Stiles didn’t flinch. "Yes."

"And you don’t care?"

He blinked slowly. "It was my function."

Erica opened her mouth, then closed it. The coldness of that answer enraged her more. She inhaled sharply, nails digging into her palm.

"You could hurt me right now," Stiles said softly, indifferent. "If that would help."

Erica froze. "What?"

"When the sir was angry," he went on, eyes fixed on hers, "he’d hit me. Then he’d feel better. You can hit me too, if you want."

Silence fell.

Isaac stopped shifting, eyes wide. Erica stared at Stiles, her anger replaced by revulsion and horror.

"You’re... offering to let me hit you?" she whispered.

Stiles nodded. "If it would make you feel better."

Erica swallowed hard, jaw tight. She glanced at Isaac, but he said nothing.

"Jesus Christ," she muttered, dragging a hand down her face. "You’re even more pathetic than I thought."

Stiles didn’t respond. He accepted the insult as one might acknowledge the time of day.

Isaac finally moved. He scooted a little closer to Stiles, still seated on the floor, his gaze alive with interest.

“So,” he began, ignoring the daggers in Erica’s glare, “you really never had a name before?”

Stiles turned to him. “No.”

“Never played? Never watched TV? Never had ice cream?”

“What is ice cream?”

Isaac made a theatrical face of shock — but behind it was real bewilderment. “Dude. Dude. You’ve never—” He cut himself off, glancing at Erica. “We have to get him ice cream.”

Erica threw her hands in the air. “We’re not doing anything. I am not babysitting a bioweapon.”

“He has a name now,” Isaac insisted, as if that settled everything. “He’s Stiles.”

“I don’t care what he—”

“How do you do that teleport thing?” Isaac asked, turning back to Stiles, completely ignoring Erica’s protest.

Stiles glanced at him, then at the empty space beside them. “It’s not teleportation.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s... like jumping from one stone to another. Only the stones are places.”

Isaac furrowed his brow. “Still sounds like teleportation.”

Stiles seemed to consider that. “Maybe.”

“Can you show me?”

“Isaac,” Erica growled.

“What? It’s just a question.”

Stiles looked at Isaac, then at his own hands. “I’m not supposed to.”

“Why not?”

“Because the sir said I wasn’t to do it without reason.”

“But the sir’s dead,” Isaac pointed out, as though stating the weather.

Stiles blinked. “Yes.”

“So?”

For a moment, Stiles only stared at him, as though the thought had never occurred to him—that the General’s death might mean the rules had changed. Then, slowly, he raised his hand and made a small motion with his fingers—almost a wave.

The air beside Isaac shimmered briefly, like heat rising off asphalt, and then a small stone clinked onto the floor, seemingly from nowhere.

Isaac picked it up, turning it over in his fingers. It was smooth, water-worn, gray with white veins. He looked at Stiles, his eyes bright. “You brought this from somewhere else?”

Stiles nodded. “From a river. In another country.”

“Which country?”

“I don’t know the name.”

Erica was staring at the stone now, her anger momentarily displaced by curiosity. “Is that... dangerous?”

Stiles looked at her. “The stone?”

“No, you idiot. What you just did.”

He seemed to think. “Not much. Only small things are safe.”

“And big things?”

“Sometimes... it hurts.”

Isaac was still marveling at the stone. “You can bring anything? From anywhere?”

"If I know the place. If I’ve been there before."

"And if you try going yourself? Like, your whole body?"

Stiles hesitated. "I can. But it’s not... good."

"Why not?"

"Because it hurts. And sometimes... parts of me stay behind."

Isaac and Erica exchanged a look.

"Parts of you stay behind?" Erica repeated, her voice rising slightly.

Stiles nodded, as if discussing the weather. "One time my finger ended up somewhere else. Sir was angry."

Isaac grimaced. "Okay, that’s... horrifying."

"It was just a finger. They sewed it back on," Stiles said, clearly confused by the reaction.

Erica rubbed her face. "I can’t believe I’m having this conversation."

Isaac ignored her again, leaning forward eagerly. "And how do you do that thing where you crush people? Like, do you just think and they get crushed? And that thing with Jackson? That portal?"

"Isaac!" Erica nearly shouted.

"What? He’s tried to kill us before, if he wanted to do it now, we’d be dead. Right?" He turned to Stiles. "You’re not going to, are you?"

Stiles looked at him. "Not unless someone tells me to. And Derek told me not."

Isaac grinned, as if that were the most reasonable answer in the world. "See? We’re fine."

Erica stared at them both, her expression caught between fury and disbelief. "You two are insane."

Stiles waited for the silence, then spoke — softly, slowly. "I only opened one of the lines. But I can’t hold them long. I forget what happens. Sir always got... used to get angry."

"That’s so cool!"

"Isaac!" Erica growled.

Stiles looked at her, then, unexpectedly, asked. "Does your wrist still hurt?"

Erica froze. "What?"

"Your wrist," he repeated, motioning to the brace. "Does it hurt?"

Erica opened her mouth, then closed it again. "Sometimes."

Stiles nodded. "I’m sorry."

She stared at him. "What?"

"For breaking it. I didn’t need to."

Erica didn’t respond. She just looked at him, her fingers twitching slightly around the wounded wrist.

Isaac, ever the peacekeeper, smiled. "Well. Now that we’ve all talked, can we get that ice cream?"

"No," Erica said instantly.

"Yes," Isaac countered with conviction.

Stiles looked between them, confused, and repeated. "What’s ice cream?"

Isaac placed a hand over his chest, mock-offended. "Stiles, my friend. You’ve been living wrong this whole time. Erica, you’re really gonna let him walk around not knowing what ice cream is?"

Erica let out a sound between a sigh and a growl, but when Isaac stood and offered his hand to Stiles, she didn’t object. She just watched, her expression no longer solely anger — something more lingered there. Perhaps curiosity.

And when Stiles, hesitant, took Isaac’s hand and stood, Erica followed them, muttering under her breath about idiots and frozen desserts — but she followed all the same.

The kitchen in the base was wide and functional, with stainless steel counters and industrial appliances. Fluorescent lights reflected off the clean surfaces, casting a sterile glow. In the corner, however, was a homey freezer, stocked with colorful packaging and tubs of ice cream bought from some nearby store.

Isaac was shoulder-deep inside the freezer, flinging containers behind him with no regard for order. "Chocolate, vanilla, strawberry... oh, and cookie dough!"

Erica stood off to the side, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. Her broken wrist was in a makeshift sling, the white of the brace stark against her black shirt. She didn’t look excited — but she wasn’t leaving either, which for Erica, was nearly enthusiasm.

Stiles sat on one of the tall stools at the central island, his feet swinging a few inches off the floor. His golden eyes followed Isaac’s movements with intense, almost childlike curiosity.

"Go with chocolate," Erica said at last, her voice less sharp than before.

Isaac held up a triple chocolate tub with triumphant flair. "Excellent choice for a first ice cream."

He grabbed three spoons and tossed one to Erica, who caught it midair without effort. He handed the other to Stiles, who held it carefully, like an unfamiliar tool.

"Like this," Isaac explained, cracking open the tub and digging in. "You scoop, and you eat. Simple."

Stiles looked at the spoon, then at the ice cream. He mimicked Isaac’s motion, scooping a small bite and bringing it to his mouth with cautious precision. As the taste hit his tongue, his eyes widened.

Isaac laughed. "Good, right?"

Stiles didn’t answer right away. He was too busy experiencing it — the cold melting against his tongue, the intense sweetness of chocolate, the creamy texture. His brows lifted and he took another bite, this time larger.

Erica watched him, one corner of her mouth curving ever so slightly. "Looks like someone’s a fan."

"It’s... different," Stiles admitted between spoonfuls. "Good different."

Isaac beamed with pride. "Told you. Ice cream changes lives."

Erica rolled her eyes but took a bite herself. "Don’t overdo it."

For several minutes, they ate in silence, the only sound the quiet clink of spoons scraping the tub. Stiles seemed fascinated, savoring each bite with a level of focus that bordered on comical.

Then Isaac noticed something. "Hey — what’s that?" He pointed to the glimmering threads woven through Stiles’s hair — the silver and gold strands threading through otherwise brown locks, which he’d thought were tricks of the light during the mission.

Stiles touched his own hair, as if only just remembering. "Oh. Gifts."

"Gifts?" Erica raised an eyebrow.

"Sir gave them to me when I did well. Silver for completed missions. Gold for... especially good ones."

Isaac frowned. "He put them in your hair?"

Stiles nodded. "With a needle. Said it was to help me remember."

Erica stared at the metallic strands, her expression darkening. "That wasn’t a gift. That was a brand. Like livestock."

Stiles blinked, puzzled. "It was a reward."

Erica didn’t respond. Instead, she placed her spoon down with a sharp click and held out her hand — the good one. "Give me scissors."

Isaac looked between them, then silently pulled a pair from a drawer and handed them over.

Stiles watched with mild curiosity as Erica stepped forward. She took a lock of his hair between her fingers, examining the shimmer under the light.

"You don’t have to wear his marks anymore," she said, her voice unexpectedly gentle. "Not now. You’re Stiles, right?"

Before he could answer, she closed the scissors with a soft snip, severing the metallic threads from the brown.

Stiles stayed perfectly still, eyes wide, as Erica continued, cutting away every gold and silver strand she found. The pieces fluttered to the floor like fallen stars, gleaming for a second before turning dull.

Isaac said nothing. His spoon lay forgotten beside him. There was something ceremonial in the way Erica moved, something deeper than aesthetics.

When she finished, she stepped back and examined her work. Stiles’s hair was brown again. Still long, still beautiful — but now only his.

"There," Erica said, dropping the scissors onto the counter. "Now you’re just you. Not his. Not Seraphim. Yours."

Stiles ran a hand through his hair, feeling the difference. His expression was unreadable — not happy, not sad. Just... contemplative.

"It’s different," he murmured.

Isaac smiled.."Better."

Erica didn’t reply. She just took another spoonful of ice cream — but when Stiles looked at her, she met his gaze and didn’t look away. There was understanding in her eyes now. Silent, but unmistakable.

Stiles picked up his spoon again and returned to the ice cream. This time, his movements were looser, more relaxed, like something inside him had shifted.

And when Isaac launched into a ridiculous story about the first time he and Erica had stolen ice cream from the high school kitchen, Stiles listened — truly listened — and for the first time, he laughed.

It was an awkward sound, half-choked, like he wasn’t sure how to do it properly.

But it was real.

And in that moment — in a bright, sterile kitchen, with the taste of chocolate still fresh on his tongue and the glittering remnants of a former life scattered like fallen stars across the floor — Stiles, once Seraphim, once a weapon, once an experiment, took another step toward becoming something else entirely.

════════════════════════════════

 On the twenty-seventh day of the second month since his arrival at the base, Stiles signed his name on a document for the very first time.

The pen trembled slightly in his grip, leaving a hesitant mark on the paper before settling into a steadier stroke. The contract was simple — a formality, according to Deaton — but the weight of the moment made the air in the room feel heavier.

Stiles stared at the signature as the ink dried. Just Stiles. No last name. No title. No number. Just him.

"Congratulations," Deaton said, collecting the document. "You're officially part of this team now."

Jackson, leaning against the far wall, clapped twice, slow and sarcastic. "Welcome to hell, twink."

Stiles glanced at him, the corners of his mouth lifting faintly. Over the past months, he’d learned to read Jackson's humor — the way his taunts masked a strange form of affection.

"Thank you," he replied, overly serious, and Jackson laughed, as he always did when Stiles took his jabs at face value.

Derek watched from a distance, arms crossed, face unreadable. But something in his eyes had changed — something that only appeared when Stiles entered the room, or when he laughed in that rough, strange way, like he was still learning how sound was meant to feel.

Later, after the sun had set and the base had grown quiet, Derek found him on the rooftop — just as he knew he would.

The boy lay flat on his back on the cold concrete, hands clasped over his stomach, eyes fixed on the night sky. The full moon bathed his face in silver light, highlighting the sharp edges of his cheekbones. He didn’t move when Derek approached, but his breathing shifted — just slightly faster, just a little more aware.

Derek sat beside him, looking up at the stars instead of at him.

"You like this, don’t you?"

Stiles didn’t answer right away. His fingers tapped lightly against his abdomen, a nervous habit he’d developed recently.

"Yeah," he said at last. "It’s... big. And quiet. And no one can reach them."

Derek turned to study his moonlit profile. There was something in that answer — the idea that Stiles admired the stars precisely because they were unreachable. Untouchable.

"You don’t have to hide anymore," Derek said, his voice softer than usual.

Stiles turned his head toward him, golden eyes reflecting starlight as if they were made from it.

"I’m not hiding."

Derek didn’t argue. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled something out — a simple necklace, a dark metal pendant without adornment, without inscription. Just a smooth, raw piece.

"For you," he said, holding it out.

Stiles sat up, hesitant, and took the necklace gently, as if afraid it might break. He turned it over in his fingers, examining it under the moonlight.

"What is it?"

"A symbol," Derek replied. "That you belong to yourself now."

Stiles looked at him, and something in his expression shifted — small, almost imperceptible, but it made Derek feel like the ground beneath them had tilted slightly.

"I’ve never had anything that was mine before," Stiles said, his voice rougher than usual.

Derek didn’t answer. He just reached out, taking the necklace back with a gesture for Stiles to turn around. The boy obeyed, lifting his hair so Derek could fasten the chain around his neck.

Derek’s fingers were sure, but he took longer than necessary, lingering on the warmth of Stiles’s skin, on the rapid pulse beneath it. When he finished, his hands rested on Stiles’s shoulders for just a second longer — a touch that wasn’t needed, but he couldn’t resist.

Stiles touched the pendant now resting against his sternum, then looked at Derek with an expression that had no name — but it made something inside Derek tighten.

"I won’t take it off," Stiles said simply, as if he were making a promise far larger than the words could carry.

Derek didn’t smile, but something in his eyes must’ve betrayed him, because Stiles tilted his head, studying him like a code he hadn’t quite cracked.

They didn’t speak after that.

They just stayed there, beneath the stars, in a silence that wasn’t uncomfortable — just full of something new. Something neither of them was ready to name.

And if, in the years that followed, Stiles never took off that necklace — not when he slept, not when he fought, not when the metal turned hot against his chest beneath the desert sun or froze against his skin in snow-covered mountains — well, that stayed between him and Derek.

Just like the weight of Derek’s gaze that night.

Just like the way Stiles’s fingers always brushed the pendant when he thought no one was watching.

Small things.

Quiet things.

Things that, maybe, one day, would become something more.

════════════════════════════════

Time passed unevenly for Stiles within the base.

The days dragged when he was alone in his room, poring over the books Lydia brought him or simply sitting on the floor, watching sunlight crawl slowly across the walls. But whenever he was with the others, time seemed to accelerate — a burst of laughter from Isaac, a sparring session with Derek, a ridiculous argument between Jackson and Erica over which action movie was the most absurd.

It was strange.

He wasn’t used to feeling time at all. Before, days had merely been spaces between missions, between punishments, between commands. Now, there was something else. Something that ached in a different way.

════════════════════════════════

Peter had never been an easy man to deal with. He thrived on mind games, provocations, the subtle art of testing boundaries. He wasn’t loud or reckless — he was surgical. Every word chosen like a scalpel. Every smile meant to cut just enough to bleed, never enough to kill.

And Stiles — with his almost robotic obedience, quiet stare, and utter lack of sarcasm — was a tempting target.

“Come on, angel,” Peter said, spinning a knife between his fingers in the training room. The blade flashed silver under the harsh lights, catching the edge of his smirk. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Stiles looked at the blade, then at Peter. “You want me to fight you?”

“I want you to try.”

Derek, watching from a distance, crossed his arms over his chest. “Peter, don’t push him.”

Peter smiled — that sharp, amused twist of his lips that never quite reached his eyes. “Oh, I’m just curious. After all, the kid’s killed more people than all of us combined. It must be fascinating to see how he does it.”

It wasn’t cruelty. Not really. It was Peter's version of curiosity — brutal and invasive, like a scientist poking a sleeping creature with a stick just to see how it moves.

But Stiles didn’t react to the provocation. He didn’t bristle or flinch or roll his eyes. He simply stepped into a neutral stance. Feet shoulder-width apart. Hands relaxed at his sides. Breathing even.

Peter struck first.

He was fast — faster than most humans. The knife sliced through the air in a fluid arc, meant to intimidate, not to wound.

But Stiles wasn’t there anymore.

It wasn’t a dodge. It wasn’t speed. It was wrong, the kind of wrong that made the air feel like it had bent in the wrong direction. One blink, and Stiles was behind him, two fingers resting lightly against the pressure point between Peter’s shoulder blades.

Peter froze.

The knife hit the floor with a metallic clang.

“Fuck,” he breathed, stunned, eyes wide.

Stiles stepped back immediately, as if realizing he’d done something inappropriate. “Did I hurt you?”

Peter let out a dry, humorless laugh. “No, kid. Just... my ego.”

Derek approached, slow and steady, his expression unreadable. He looked at Stiles like he was trying to understand the shape of a weapon he didn’t know how to hold. “You don’t have to hold back here,” he said quietly. “No one’s going to punish you for being good at what you do.”

Stiles looked down at his hands, fingers curling slightly. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Peter retrieved the knife from the floor, but he didn’t lift it again. He just stared at it for a moment, then sheathed it without a word, rubbing a hand over his face like the tension had finally sunk into his skin.

“Well,” he muttered. “That was humbling.”

Derek ignored him. “Can you control it? The teleportation?”

“It’s not teleportation,” Stiles replied, still watching his own hands like they belonged to someone else. “It’s... slipping between folds. And yes, I can control it. But smaller things are easier.”

“Smaller things like?”

Without speaking, Stiles flicked his fingers toward the wall. A small, round stone materialized in his palm — smooth and dark, like the ones he had shown them before. He offered it wordlessly, as if the act of summoning it had cost him something invisible.

Peter watched, intrigued. “And if you try something bigger? Like... yourself?”

Stiles frowned. “It hurts.”

“How much?”

“Sometimes parts of me get left behind. Or I don’t remember what happened. That only happens if I do it for too long.”

Peter blinked. Then swallowed. “Right. Yeah. I’ll avoid asking for demonstrations.”

After that day, Peter began to change — subtly, but enough for those who knew him to notice. He withdrew from missions. Still showed up to training sessions, still offered his usual sarcastic commentary, but something had shifted.

It wasn’t fear — not exactly. It was respect born from recognition. Peter knew weapons. He knew what they looked like before they even realized they were weapons. And Stiles… wasn’t just a blade. He was the hand that held it, the forge that made it, and the fire that could melt it all back down.

Peter spent more and more time with Deaton after that.

The former field medic had become something of a ghost around the base — always there, always watching, but never in the way. He was the one who had designed their systems, selected their members, mapped every escape route and fallback point. He had built the entire foundation of their existence — and he did it all after losing everything.

A wife. Two daughters. All gone in the same night.

Since then, Deaton had buried himself in the work. Cold, precise, and painfully disciplined. He didn’t believe in second chances. He believed in control. And sometimes, when Peter would get too close to unraveling, it was Deaton who would wordlessly pull him back into the center — with data, with theories, with silence.

Now, the two of them spent long hours in the archives, studying in silence. Silence of two mans in grief, one who almost lost everything and the other who had almost nothing left.

Sometimes, Peter caught Deaton just watching Stiles through the security feeds. Not with suspicion. With something closer to guilt. Or responsibility. Like a father wondering if he’d built something he didn’t deserve to care for.

And sometimes — late at night, when Peter wandered past the quiet hum of the surveillance room — he saw Deaton standing alone, hand resting on the monitor, gaze locked on Stiles’s sleeping form.

Neither of them ever spoke about what they saw in the boy.

But Peter, for once in his life, had stopped seeing something he could manipulate — and started seeing someone he could lose.

And in the rare moments Stiles glanced up and met Peter’s eyes across the room, there was no more baiting, no more games.

Just a nod.

Small. Real.

And, in its own strange way — sacred.

════════════════════════════════

"Okay, rule number one," Boyd said, raising a spatula like it was a weapon forged in battle. "Don’t set the kitchen on fire."

Stiles glanced at the stove, then at Boyd, a little too serious. "Does that happen often?"

"With Erica? Yes."

Erica, lounging at the kitchen table with her boots propped on the empty chair beside her, didn’t bother to look up from her phone. She raised a middle finger in Boyd’s direction. "It happened once, Boyd. One time!"

"Once was enough," Boyd muttered, moving with quiet efficiency as he began prepping the ingredients.

He was calm in the kitchen. Measured. Like this was a ritual, not a task. His movements were deliberate, like someone who had learned to cook by necessity — feeding siblings in a too-small apartment, making simple meals stretch longer than they should have. He hadn’t talked much about his past, but everyone knew he had younger brothers. He still cooked the same way now — in large batches, heavy portions, always enough for seconds.

Boyd placed a bowl in front of Stiles. "Today, we’re making pancakes."

Stiles stared at the ingredients like they were classified materials. "Why?"

Boyd didn’t blink. "Because everyone deserves pancakes."

Erica rolled her eyes dramatically. "That is so sweet I might actually throw up."

But there was a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, hidden by bravado. Erica had always used sarcasm like armor. Before the experiments that promised cure her, she’d barely been able to sit still — her seizures unpredictable, violent, cruel. They’d carved into her confidence, her ability to trust her own body. But after the procedures — the ones no one talked about in detail — the seizures had stopped. Replaced by something else.

Now, her reflexes were lightning fast. Her nails could slice metal. And when she was angry, her hands trembled not from fear — but from the effort of holding the claws back.

Still, Erica had never liked being pitied. That was part of why she latched onto Stiles the way she did. He didn’t flinch when she got too close. He didn’t treat her like glass. And when she called him twink, he just blinked at her with those blank, haunted eyes, like he was still learning how humor worked.

Stiles followed Boyd’s instructions with surgical precision, measuring flour as if it were explosive powder, cracking eggs like he expected them to detonate. His focus was almost comical — brows drawn, shoulders tense.

When the first pancake turned golden and perfectly round, he stared at it as though he’d just committed alchemy.

"I made this," he said quietly.

Boyd smiled. A soft, proud thing. "Yeah. You did."

Before Stiles could even touch the plate, Erica snatched the pancake, bit into it like a wild animal, chewed once, made a dramatic face, and spat it directly into the trash can.

"Awful," she declared flatly.

Stiles froze, shoulders tightening. "Did I mess up?"

Boyd didn’t miss a beat. He reached out and smacked the back of Erica’s head.

"She’s lying. Try it yourself."

Stiles hesitated, then broke off a small piece and placed it in his mouth. His eyes widened almost immediately — a flicker of something like joy passing across his face.

"It’s good."

Boyd nodded once. "Now you know how to make something that isn’t military rations."

Erica tossed a napkin at Stiles’s face. "Congratulations, twink. You’re now a functional human being."

Stiles didn’t answer. He just ate the rest of the pancake quietly, but his fingers tapped softly against the edge of the table — like he was trying to contain something. Like pride, maybe. Or relief. Or the strange ache of being included.

Later that night, long after the others had gone to rest or patrol, Boyd passed by the kitchen again.

He stopped at the doorway and watched for a moment.

Stiles stood at the counter alone, the lights dim, everything quiet except the soft sizzle of batter hitting the pan. He was trying to replicate the motion exactly as Boyd had shown him — down to the angle of the wrist, the flip of the spatula. There were already three pancakes on a plate, perfectly golden.

He hadn’t touched a single one.

Boyd didn’t say anything. Just leaned against the frame for a moment, watching.

And when Stiles finally looked up, eyes wide and uncertain like he’d been caught doing something intimate, Boyd gave a small nod.

In the morning, there were still pancakes on the plate.

But one of them was gone.

And the rest had a note beside them in familiar, blocky handwriting:

"Don’t let Erica near the stove. Also, good job."

════════════════════════════════

Allison wasn’t the affectionate type. She never had been.

She’d grown up around soldiers and secrets, in a house where love was measured by how well you could protect someone — not by how often you touched them or said you cared. Her father had taught her how to shoot before she could braid her own hair. She knew how to stitch a wound with her eyes closed and read a lie from a heartbeat. Softness had never been something she trusted. It was a weakness. A vulnerability. A risk.

But there was something about Stiles — something fragile and, at the same time, dangerously strong — that disarmed her. Not in a romantic way. Not even in the way you care for someone because they need help. It was more primal than that. Protective. Like something inside her recognized the broken edges in him and instinctively tried to smooth them down.

"Hold still," she ordered, gently pulling his hair back.

Stiles obeyed, sitting cross-legged on the floor as she adjusted behind him on the couch. Her knees anchored him in place as her fingers moved swiftly, separating strands and weaving them into a pattern she remembered from years ago — from watching her mother in the mirror, braiding her own hair with quiet precision before a mission.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, more curious than resistant.

Allison didn’t pause. "Because your hair’s always in your face. And because I like it."

There was no hesitation in her voice, but there was warmth. She didn’t say it often — didn’t always know how — but she did like him. She liked the way he made even the darkest room feel a little less heavy. She liked how he didn’t flinch when she was quiet too long, how he didn’t push when she needed space. He simply existed near her — unapologetically himself — and that was enough.

"Do you do this with other people?" he asked.

"No."

"Why not?"

Allison hesitated, her fingers pausing for just a second before continuing. "Because they wouldn’t let me."

She didn’t say it, but she’d tried once. A long time ago. Before everything fell apart. Before she learned to hold her affection behind a blade. Since then, her care had always come in the form of protection — standing in front of someone, not beside them. Pulling triggers instead of threads.

Stiles didn’t ask anything else. He simply let her finish, his eyes drifting shut as her fingertips brushed lightly against his scalp.

When Lydia walked into the room, her heels clicking softly against the hardwood, she stopped in the doorway. She took in the sight of the two of them — Allison steady and focused, Stiles half-asleep on the floor — and only raised a single eyebrow before continuing on. But there was something in her face that lingered. Not surprise. Not judgment. Just something quiet and knowing.

Lydia hadn’t been the affectionate type either.

She had learned young that intelligence was safer than emotion. That control was power, and vulnerability was a door you left wide open for people to walk through and ruin you. She’d spent years mastering her voice, her posture, her words — every glance calculated, every silence deliberate. People fell in love with the image she allowed them to see. But the real her — the raw, trembling, too-much-feeling version, the one that cried all night after a bad vision — that one was kept behind glass.

But Stiles had never asked for the image. He’d just shown up, awkward and unfiltered, and looked at her like she was already real. Like she didn’t have to prove anything. That had terrified her.

And maybe that was why she never touched his hair, never braided it like Allison did — but the next morning, there was a new hairbrush on his desk anyway. It was one of the good ones. The kind with a dark wood handle and boar bristles, the kind that didn’t tug or tear.

Beside it, a small box of hair ties in deep red, matte black, and soft metallics. Not flashy — just well-made.

And tucked beneath the brush, folded neatly, a note written in Lydia’s delicate, careful cursive:

"In case she misses a day."

Stiles didn’t say anything when he found it. He just stared for a moment, eyes lingering on the curve of her handwriting. Then he touched the note once, gently, and slid it into the drawer like it was something worth keeping safe.

That night, Allison passed by his room and noticed one of the hair ties looped loosely around his wrist. And Lydia, later, paused at his doorway long enough to see the hairbrush placed exactly where he’d left it — right beside his notebooks, like it belonged there.

Neither of them said a word.

But in their own quiet ways — with fingers in his hair, and gifts that didn’t need explanations — they made it known:

He was one of theirs now. And they were never letting him go.

════════════════════════════════

Stiles quickly learned that staying around Isaac and Scott for too long was a terrible idea.

They were like puppies — hyper, loud, constantly moving, and completely incapable of sitting still. And somehow, without asking for permission or forgiveness, they had decided that Stiles was their newest project.

"Look, look!" Scott shouted, waving a DVD in the air like it was a sacred artifact. "Spider-Man! You’re gonna love it."

Stiles blinked at the cover, unimpressed. "Why?"

"Because it’s awesome," Isaac said, already dragging him toward the couch by the sleeve. "And because you remind me of him. But, like, if Spider-Man were haunted and wore eyeliner."

Four hours later, Stiles was buried under a mountain of blankets, halfway suffocated by the weight of them, as Isaac and Scott argued over which Spider-Man had the best swing physics and tried to throw popcorn into each other’s mouths with terrible accuracy.

"You okay?" Derek asked, pausing in the doorway like he wasn’t sure if he should intervene or laugh.

Stiles looked at him, eyes slightly wide. "... They’re very... much."

Derek almost smiled — just a small twitch of his lips, gone as fast as it came. "You can leave if you want."

Stiles glanced at the chaos on the floor.

Scott and Isaac were now trying to reenact one of the fight scenes, except it was mostly them rolling around, limbs tangled, laughing breathlessly as they slammed into pillows and scattered popcorn everywhere. Scott had something about him — a presence that sometimes flickered at the edges of visibility, like his body wanted to fade, to slip into nothingness. And Isaac — well, Isaac moved too fast. Not just physically. Emotionally, too.

"... I’ll stay," Stiles said quietly.

Derek gave a soft nod and walked away — but not before casting Stiles one last glance. A glance that might have meant something. Something protective. Or proud.

Stiles wasn’t sure yet.

Isaac hadn’t always been like this.

The brightness, the loudness, the borderline annoying need to touch everything — that had come after. After the freezer. After the silence of the cold and the pain of his father locking him inside it during one of his rages.

They said he shouldn’t have survived the hypothermia. That he’d been clinically dead for over two minutes. But something had snapped awake in him when his heart started again. Some kind of impossible reactivation.

Now, Isaac ran.

Not metaphorically. Literally. He couldn’t not move. Super speed was the most obvious label they could give it, but it wasn’t just about speed — it was about escape. About always being five seconds ahead of fear, never letting himself stop long enough to remember what it had felt like to die alone in the dark.

He touched people constantly — shoulder bumps, quick hugs, leaning too close — because the worst part of that freezer hadn’t been the cold.

It had been the isolation.

Scott was different.

He didn’t talk about how his powers started, mostly because he wasn’t sure how they had. One day he’d been normal. The next, he was vanishing without meaning to — fading from sight, from rooms, from conversations. And the longer he went unnoticed, the harder it became to bring himself back.

His invisibility wasn’t just physical. It was emotional. Scott had always been the glue in the group — the mediator, the peacekeeper, the one who smiled through everything even when it tore at him. But sometimes, he didn’t feel like he existed unless someone reminded him.

That was part of why he clung to Isaac so tightly.

And why both of them clung to Stiles now.

Stiles, who was quiet and unreadable, who didn’t pull away when they got too close or snap when they overwhelmed the room. Who let himself be dragged into chaos and sat through it like he didn’t mind — even if he clearly did.

They didn’t know the full story of what had been done to him — not yet. But they recognized the look in his eyes. The one that said please don’t go and please don’t stay all at once.

So they didn’t ask questions. They just kept tossing popcorn.

And when Stiles finally laughed — a small, startled sound like he wasn’t used to the feeling — both of them stopped mid-wrestle.

Isaac grinned. “You laughed.”

Scott blinked like he wasn’t sure he’d imagined it. “You did.”

Stiles looked mildly betrayed. “No, I didn’t.”

“Did so,” they said in unison.

And then they tackled him with a pile of pillows, knocking over the popcorn bowl entirely.

Stiles tried to escape, wriggling under the weight of Isaac and Scott, but his laughter came again — unguarded, unintentional.

And this time, he didn’t deny it.

Later, when they were all half-asleep in a nest of blankets and empty snack wrappers, Stiles whispered, almost to himself:

"I didn’t think I could laugh."

Neither of them replied.

They just stayed close — Scott barely visible, Isaac vibrating with leftover energy — and kept him warm.

════════════════════════════════

Derek wasn’t a man of many words. But he was a man of action.

And his actions toward Stiles were... complicated.

It began with subtle touches. A hand on his shoulder. A palm on his back to guide him. A finger brushing hair away from his face when Stiles was deep in a book.

Stiles never pulled away. Never flinched. He just looked at Derek like he was trying to solve a riddle.

And then, one night, after a particularly grueling training session — it happened.

Stiles was breathless, sweating, muscles trembling with exertion. Derek approached to help him up, and suddenly they were close. Much closer than they needed to be.

Derek didn’t know who moved first. Only that suddenly, their lips met — and Stiles was kissing him back with a fervor that burned, as if mimicking scenes he'd only seen in movies.

It was quick. Clumsy. Perfect.

And afterward, when they pulled apart, they stood there in silence, breathing hard, words failing.

Derek was the first to step back. "That was... a mistake."

Stiles looked at him, his eyes darker than usual. "Why?"

"Because I shouldn’t—"

"I wanted it too," Stiles said, simply.

Derek swallowed. "Stiles, you don’t understand—"

"I understand enough."

And so it began... whatever this was.

Stolen touches in quiet hallways. Hidden kisses in storage rooms. Nights where Derek came to Stiles’s room and didn’t leave until sunrise — or the other way around.

No one spoke of it.

But everyone knew.

════════════════════════════════

After more then a year, Stiles was no longer the same.

He laughed more. Spoke more. Had opinions — and more importantly, he had wants.

He liked pancakes. Hated pepper. Loved terrible action movies and couldn’t stand romances without happy endings.

He was still lethally dangerous. Still capable of snapping a neck with his thighs or vanishing into thin air like a ghost.

But now, when he fought, it was by choice.

And when he was with Derek, it was because they both wanted to be.

One night, a year after his arrival, Derek had him pressed against the wall of his room — their bodies tangled, their breathing in sync.

It was fast, intense, almost desperate. And when Derek was inside him, their bodies joined in a way that went beyond the physical, the Hale nearly said it.

He almost let it slip — those three words that would change everything.

I love you.

They paused. Still, silent, eyes locked — the air between them heavy with something that could no longer be ignored.

And then, without a word, Derek moved again.

And Stiles followed — as he always would.

Because some things didn’t need to be said.

Not yet.

════════════════════════════════

Stiles would never be normal.

He had stopped wishing for that a long time ago — somewhere between his first memory inside Malcov's labs and the last screams echoing through the rift in Budapest.

He was still a weapon. Still dangerous. Still everything Malcov had sculpted him to be in those white, sterile rooms where his name was replaced by numbers. He still woke in the middle of the night with his own breath choking him, nails digging into his skin just to make sure he was real — just to confirm he wasn’t there again.

Some nights he couldn’t even look in the mirror.

Not because of scars. But because he saw the Seraphim staring back.

Cold eyes. White uniform. Blood that wasn’t his — that never stopped dripping.

He hated those days. The ones when his hands shook too hard to hold a spoon. When even Derek’s voice couldn’t pull him back. The days when the Budapest massacre replayed on a loop inside his head — the day his magic broke free. The day he let it.

Thousands dead. Half their unit almost wiped out. And the worst part?

Some part of him had felt relief.

Because for a moment, for a breath, it was quiet inside. No fear. No pain. Just power.

It took him years to say it aloud.

Even now, he still called it the Incident.

Never what it really was. A relapse. A reminder. That no matter how many jokes he made or how many friendships he stitched together with sarcasm and soup recipes, he could always snap.

Go back to being the thing Malcov made.

A monster in a pretty suit.

But now… he was also other things.

He was the twink — a word he now used with only some irony — that Jackson constantly teased but would fight literal gods to protect.

He was Boyd’s kitchen apprentice, the only one who didn’t flinch when the soufflé exploded or the spicy stew cleared out three corridors.

He was Allison’s hair model, even when his hair was barely long enough to be styled. Somehow, she still managed to twist and braid and soften his reflection — make it feel human. Not engineered.

He was the favorite victim of Isaac and Scott, who dragged him into ridiculous plans and made him laugh until it hurt, until he forgot — even if just for a moment — what his hands were capable of.

He was the one Lydia trusted with the timelines too broken to share. The ones that haunted her. And if she could be brave enough to say them aloud, maybe he could too. Eventually.

And, most importantly, he was Derek’s.

And Derek was his.

In a way neither of them could quite explain. In a way that made the static in Stiles’ chest go quiet. That made the magic under his skin — the same magic that once wiped out a city — breathe. Settle.

Especially after that mission. The one where Stiles had almost snapped again — too much pressure, too many voices, too many triggers. He’d run. Straight through the corridors. Ignoring Deaton. Ignoring Lydia. Straight into the operations hall — full of people, full of noise, full of witnesses.

And there he’d seen Derek.

And he’d known.

If he didn’t say it now — if he didn’t claim it, didn’t let himself be human, didn’t let himself love — he might never come back from the edge.

So he kissed him.

In front of everyone.

No warning. No plan.

Just need.

And Derek… had kissed him back.

And when Stiles had finally said it — "I love you" like a confession, like a surrender, like a prayer — Derek had answered with the same truth. Not like it was a surprise. But like it had been waiting.

That was the moment.

The real one.

Not the kiss. Not the laughter.

But the part where Derek didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pull away.

Didn’t fear what Stiles could become.

He just held him.

Like Stiles wasn’t a ticking bomb.

Like he was someone worth holding.

And now, even in the quiet aftermath — even with the nightmares, the trembling, the days he couldn’t look in the mirror — Stiles had something real.

Not redemption. Not forgiveness. Not peace.

But love.

Trust.

A grounding point.

Because Stiles — the former Seraphim, the weapon, the catastrophe that scorched Budapest — was still dangerous.

But he was also other things now.

He was his.

And for once, that was enough to hold back the darkness.

════════════════════════════════

Years passed faster than any of them had expected.

Their house in the middle of the forest was cozy, tucked between ancient trees that whispered secrets to the wind. The wooden porch creaked softly under Derek’s steps — Derek, now well into his forties, with silver streaks woven through his dark hair and those faint smile lines that had only deepened with time. He carried a paper bag full of groceries in one arm, the scent of damp earth and fresh coffee drifting through the air.

Also, the unmistakable smell of something burning.

He sighed.

Again.

It was probably Stiles — now in his early thirties and going through another "I swear I can cook this time" phase — attempting to make pancakes for the third morning in a row.

Derek nudged the front door open with his shoulder.

"Then i thinked 'No, that’s not a baby, that’s a demon in miniature,' but then he smiled and I—Derek!"

Stiles stood in the doorway of the kitchen, hair longer than ever, falling to his waist in soft waves. He’d let it grow again after a mission in Budapest went sideways, and now refused to cut it. His face lit up with a wide grin the moment he saw Derek, the corners of his eyes crinkling just enough to betray how much older — and happier — he was now.

In his arms, however, was something — or rather, someone — that made Derek freeze mid-step.

A baby.

A baby who couldn’t be more than six months old, with golden eyes — not quite as bright as Stiles’s but alarmingly close — and a gummy, drooling smile that only widened the moment it spotted Derek.

Very slowly, Derek lowered the bag to the floor, his movements careful and deliberate, as if sudden motion might make this moment more surreal than it already was.

"Stiles," he said, voice low. "What is that?"

Stiles looked down at the baby, then back at Derek, deadpan. "It’s a baby."

"I can see that it’s a baby. Where did it come from?"

"Oh! Right. So, remember that collapsing dimension I mentioned last week? The one near the edge of the vortex with the weird time distortion and the sky that screams sometimes?"

"... Yes."

"Okay, so I went to check it out. Just to look! And then I heard crying, and there he was. All alone, wrapped in this gross piece of blanket and lying in the middle of a collapsing mountain. Totally abandoned. Der, he was gonna be cosmic dust if I didn’t grab him."

Derek closed his eyes slowly. Took a deep breath.

"Stiles. You can’t just take babies from other dimensions."

"It wasn’t stealing! It was a rescue! There was literally no one else there, and the whole place was about to fold in on itself!"

"You kidnapped a baby from a dying dimension."

"Rescued," Stiles corrected cheerfully. He bounced the baby gently in his arms. "Look at him, babe. He’s perfect."

Derek looked. The baby looked back.

He had a tuft of dark curls and chubby little fists. One of them was currently clutching the edge of Stiles’s oversized shirt, and the other was waving in Derek’s direction like he wanted to be picked up.

"... He has golden eyes," Derek muttered, almost to himself.

Stiles beamed. "Guess someone has a type."

Derek ignored that. Mostly. He stepped forward slowly, unsure, and the baby — as if sensing something important — stretched out his tiny arms toward him with a delighted squeal.

Derek hesitated for a second longer, then carefully took the child, holding him against his chest.

The baby gurgled in approval, grabbed a fistful of Derek’s henley, and promptly shoved it into his mouth.

"... Does he have a name?" Derek asked, sighing as he shifted the baby to his hip with practiced ease he didn’t know he had.

"Not yet! I was thinking… Eli. Eli Hale. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?"

Derek gave him a long, pointed look.

"You planned this."

"Not entirely. I mean, I didn’t plan to bring home an interdimensional miracle baby, but I might’ve… maybe… bought a crib just in case. And a few onesies. And some enchanted formula from the Witches' Market."

Derek looked down at the baby — at Eli — who had now discovered Derek’s ear and was trying to gnaw on it.

"... He’s ours now, isn’t he?" Derek asked, even though he already knew the answer.

Stiles stepped closer, brushing his fingers gently over Derek’s arm.

"He always was," he said, softer now. "I’m pretty sure Lydia’s seen this exact moment a hundred times in the timelines. I just… knew."

Derek looked at him.

His chaotic, impossibly powerful, deeply annoying and ridiculously beautiful husband.

Then back at the baby drooling on his shoulder.

"... You’re buying the pancakes next time," he grumbled.

Stiles lit up with a grin. "Deal."

And in that quiet house, tucked in the woods, with the smoke alarm faintly beeping in the kitchen and a stolen baby from another dimension babbling in Derek’s arms, it was hard to remember they’d ever been anything but a family.

════════════════════════════════

Their cat — if you could even call it a cat — occupied half the couch like it owned the place.

It was massive, more like a Saint Bernard than a feline, its fur streaked in wild splashes of purple and pink, as if someone had spilled paint on it and forgot to clean up.

Its bright green eyes gleamed like little emeralds, and it purred so loudly it sounded like a rumbling truck engine every time someone ran a hand over its head.

Stiles insisted on calling it Mieczysław, just to mess with people’s heads when they tried to pronounce it. Derek, ever practical, stuck with Cat.

That evening, the Cat was sprawled out on the living room rug, observing with mild curiosity as Derek — in his full wolf form — curled protectively around Eli’s crib.

The baby slept soundly, clutching a tiny teddy bear close to his chest, his little chest rising and falling with peaceful breaths.

Stiles came into the room, a warm cup of tea cradled in his hands, and paused, utterly enchanted by the sight before him.

"You’re ridiculous," he whispered with a grin that stretched from ear to ear.

Derek lifted his enormous wolf head, golden eyes gleaming softly in the dim light.

In wolf form, he was breathtaking — nearly bear-sized, with dense dark fur rippling over muscles that moved fluidly beneath his skin like shadows dancing.

Stiles remembered the first time Derek had shifted after the family fire — a cold night in the Brazilian forest, just the two of them.

That memory was etched into his soul.

Now, Derek wore this majestic form to guard their son, to keep him safe from everything the world might throw their way.

Stiles knelt beside Derek, fingers trailing gently through the soft fur.

"He’s safe, Derek. No one’s getting near him while we’re here."

Derek let out a low, almost gruff snort — like he wasn’t convinced — but he let Stiles inch closer to the crib.

Eli was completely at peace, his tiny fists curled tightly, his breathing slow and steady.

Stiles smiled and carefully tucked the blanket around the baby’s shoulders.

"You know you’re a disgusting dad, right?" he whispered with a teasing nudge.

Derek began shifting back, bones popping softly as the fur receded, until he was human again — though the faint scars on his arms and the fierce, protective gleam in his eyes remained unmistakable.

"You’re no better," Derek shot back, tugging Stiles into a warm embrace.

Stiles chuckled, resting his head against Derek’s chest, the steady heartbeat soothing him like a lullaby.

"We’ve officially become those clingy, over-the-top parents," Stiles said, a little breathless from the closeness.

Derek tightened his arms around Stiles and Eli, who’d started to stir, stretching his tiny fingers and yawning.

"Absolutely," Derek agreed, his voice soft and amused.

Stiles looked down at Eli, who reached up and grabbed Derek’s finger with surprising strength, giggling as Derek made a silly face.

"Look at him, already bossing us around," Stiles teased, brushing a curl from Eli’s forehead.

Derek smiled, looking from Eli to Stiles and then over at the Cat — who had now curled up like a fluffy purple-and-pink mountain right next to the crib, purring louder than ever.

"Did we sign up for this?" Stiles asked quietly.

Derek shrugged, a sly grin tugging at his lips. "We did. And I wouldn’t have it any other way."

Stiles let out a happy sigh, burying his face into Derek’s neck.

“Promise me something?” Stiles murmured.

"Anything."

"That no matter how many diapers we change or how many sleepless nights we have, we never stop doing this."

Derek kissed the top of Stiles’s head, then glanced down at Eli, who was now wide awake and gurgling happily, his eyes sparkling like tiny stars.

"Never," Derek said with absolute certainty.

Stiles smiled, feeling the warmth of home settle deep inside his chest.

And so, amid burnt porridge attempts, endless diaper changes, and a house filled with laughter and love, their greatest adventure truly began.

This time, with bottles, bedtime stories, and an interdimensional baby who — though they didn’t know it yet — carried more magic than any of them could imagine.

But that, as they say, is a story for another day.