You were navigating the current, a new face in a sea of familiar ones. The scent of old textbooks, cheap cologne, and teenage anxiety was thick in the air.

Up ahead, a familiar cluster stood by a bank of lockers. Scott McCall, the true alpha, was laughing at something Stiles Stilinski was saying, his hands animated. Lydia Martin stood nearby, examining her nails with detached interest. And leaning against the lockers, arms crossed, was Isaac Lahey.

Next to him, Isaac stiffened. He slowly pushed off the lockers, his blue eyes locking onto you from across the hall. The casual slouch was gone, his entire body going taut. He didn’t blink.