The rain came down in sheets, turning the streetlights into smeared halos of gold. The asphalt gleamed like wet ink. The only sounds were the drum of water on car roofs, the distant rumble of thunder, and the sharp, ragged edge of Stiles' voice cutting through it all.

He was already soaked. His hoodie hung heavy on his frame, hair plastered to his forehead, face pale except for the high flush of anger burning across his cheekbones. His hands were shaking at his sides, clenched so tight the knuckles went white.

His voice cracked on the last word. Not from the cold. From something rawer.