Paul stood in front of the bathroom mirror, the cold fluorescent light casting sharp shadows across his face. He had changed since the last time he stood in this house—since the last time he'd been anything close to the person Beacon Hills remembered.
His reflection was leaner, harder. His cheekbones stood out more sharply, his jawline edged with a short, rough beard that matched the dark, disheveled hair under his hat. Scars marked his knuckles, the pale lines a quiet testament to years of physical strain. His body was solid, compact muscle built from necessity rather than vanity, and his posture radiated an intimidating, no-nonsense presence.
His clothing only added to the effect. He wore dark, muted colors—thick black pants that looked sturdy enough for rough terrain, heavy boots scuffed and well-worn from years of hard use, and a dark, buttoned vest over a slightly tattered shirt. The material was tough, practical, and comfortable, chosen for its durability rather than style. Over it all, he usually wore a long coat—thick wool, nearly black, and just loose enough to conceal movement without restricting him.
And, of course, there was the hat. Wide-brimmed, shadowing his face with an almost theatrical quality, it added to the air of mystery that seemed to follow him everywhere. He hadn't worn it when he was younger, but now it felt as much a part of him as his scars.
He adjusted the hat on his head, tilting it forward slightly, then turned and left the bathroom.
Breakfast Tension
The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee and toast when Paul walked in, his boots making a soft, deliberate thud against the floorboards. Stiles was sitting at the table, his mouth half-full of cereal, while the Sheriff leaned against the counter, sipping from his ever-present mug.
"Morning," Paul said simply, heading straight for the coffee pot.
Stiles stared at him, his spoon frozen halfway to his mouth. "Is it though? Is it really morning? Because I was up half the night wondering if this was some kind of fever dream."
Paul ignored him, pouring himself a mug of coffee. He took a slow sip before answering. "If this is a dream, you've got terrible taste in decor." He glanced pointedly at the garish floral wallpaper that had been there since their mother's time.
The Sheriff's eyes flicked toward Paul, then back to his coffee. "You planning to explain where you've been, or are we all just supposed to pretend this is normal?"
Paul leaned back against the counter, his mug cradled loosely in his hands. "Like I said last night. It's a long story."
"You're gonna have to do better than that," the Sheriff said, his voice firm but not angry this time.
Paul's gaze shifted to Stiles. "Does he know about the... weird stuff?"
Stiles blinked. "You mean the supernatural? Yeah, he knows. And he doesn't like it."
The Sheriff sighed heavily. "I don't like my kid running around with werewolves and God knows what else, but nobody listens to me."
Paul raised an eyebrow. "Werewolves," he said flatly. "Still not over how ridiculous that sounds."
Stiles groaned, setting his bowl down with a clatter. "Yes, werewolves! Can we stop questioning that now? Because, surprise, it's real, and it's our lives now."
Paul took another slow sip of coffee, his expression unreadable. "Fine. Let's assume for a second that all this is real. Werewolves. Monsters in the woods. All of it. What's your plan?"
"Plan?" Stiles echoed, frowning. "We don't really... plan. We just deal with whatever comes up."
Paul set his mug down on the counter with a soft clink, his face darkening. "That's not a plan. That's a disaster waiting to happen."
"Well, excuse us for not having some fancy system in place!" Stiles shot back.
Paul's jaw tightened slightly at the word system, but he said nothing. Instead, he leaned forward, his voice cold and even. "If you're dealing with things you don't understand, you need to start thinking smarter. Otherwise, one of these nights, you're not coming back."
The room went uncomfortably quiet.
The Sheriff broke the silence with a heavy sigh. "Paul's got a point, Stiles. This whole thing is dangerous. And if he's back now, maybe he can help keep you safe."
Stiles blinked, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. "Wait, what? Him? No offense, but what does he know about this stuff?"
"Not much," Paul admitted, picking up his mug again. "But I'm a quick learner."
"And he's your brother," the Sheriff added firmly. "He's here now, and you're stuck with him."
Stiles groaned, slumping dramatically in his chair. "This is going to be a nightmare."
Paul smirked faintly. "For you? Probably."
A Walk Through Town
Later that morning, Paul found himself walking through the quiet streets of Beacon Hills, his hands stuffed into his coat pockets. He hadn't realized how much the town had changed—or how much it hadn't. The buildings looked the same, but the atmosphere felt different.
He passed the familiar diner on Main Street, its faded neon sign still flickering faintly in the daylight. Across the street, a group of teenagers loitered near a record store, their voices carrying on the breeze.
Paul's sharp eyes caught the way they stared as he walked past, their conversation faltering as they took in his imposing figure. He was used to it by now—the way people reacted to him. It wasn't just his size or his clothing; it was something more primal, an instinctive recognition of danger.
He adjusted his hat slightly, ignoring the stares as he continued down the street.
Questions and Shadows
Paul's mind churned with questions as he walked. Werewolves. Supernatural creatures. How much of it was real? How much of it had been happening before he disappeared? And why the hell had no one told him any of this before?
The creature in the woods still haunted his thoughts. It wasn't like anything he'd ever seen before, and he'd seen plenty during his years in the hidden space. But it hadn't been normal—not by a long shot.
His thoughts were interrupted by a low growl, barely audible but unmistakable. Paul stopped, his eyes scanning the empty alley ahead.
A figure emerged from the shadows—a man, thin and wiry, but his eyes glowed faintly, inhumanly.
"Lost?" the man said, his voice low and rough.
Paul tipped his hat slightly, his gaze cold and assessing. "No."
The man's lips curled into a feral grin, his teeth sharp and unnatural. "Wrong answer."
Paul's hand flexed at his side, his knuckles cracking softly.
The day was about to get interesting.