A week.Seven days.It didn't sound like much, but for Stiles it felt like the world had shifted in those seven days more than it had in the entire year before.
Every afternoon after school, after quickly finishing his homework, he met Ronan at the same quiet spot behind the local store — the place where they had first spoken. That moment still replayed in his mind sometimes: the calm voice, the sharp eyes, the way Ronan noticed him in a way no one else ever did.
And now, the man was his trainer.
Not officially, not publicly, not in a "take a kid into danger" way.No — Ronan was careful. Stiles realized that almost immediately. He never let Stiles try anything unsafe. He never talked about hunting in real detail. He never gave instructions that a nine-year-old shouldn't have. All he did was sharpen what Stiles already had: focus, perception, instinct.
And Stiles soaked up everything like he'd been starving for it.
Even in a single week, he could tell Ronan was operating on levels far beyond what Stiles imagined possible. It wasn't about strength or speed — Ronan wasn't some giant warrior. He was normal-sized, lean, maybe in his early forties, with eyes that never wandered without purpose. His body language was calm, neutral, but underneath it something coiled — something controlled but powerful.
Dangerous, not because he wanted to harm anyone, but because he understood the world too well.
The supernatural world.
A world Stiles already knew existed.He'd known since the moment he woke up in this body.
But he didn't tell Ronan that.
Not yet.
One Week Later
Stiles was already standing straighter.Already noticing smaller details.Already thinking faster.
Ronan had spent the first week assessing him — figuring out how Stiles' mind worked, where his strengths were. And it surprised Stiles that Ronan saw him more accurately than anyone else ever had. Even more than his father.
"You think too fast for your own good," Ronan said during their fifth day of training, tossing a ball lightly from one hand to another.
Stiles blinked. "That's… bad?"
"It's dangerous," Ronan corrected. "You see too much. You care too much. It makes you predictable if you don't learn how to control it."
Stiles thought about that for a long time.
And then came the next six months.
Six Months Later
Winter had become spring; spring had melted into warm summer air.The world had shifted again.
Stiles had grown — not much physically, he was still nine — but mentally?He was sharper. Faster. His awareness had expanded like a second set of senses.
He could read people better.He could judge the mood of an entire room from a single glance.He could follow conversations happening behind him without turning around.He could tell when someone was lying with such accuracy it almost scared him.
Not in a supernatural way — no magic, no powers.Just the natural evolution of someone who had spent six months training under a man who saw the truth like a blade slicing air.
Today, he was sweating in the clearing behind the store, hands on his knees as he caught his breath. Ronan stood a few meters away with his usual calm expression, watching him—not critically, but like a craftsman examining progress.
"You're improving," Ronan finally said.
Stiles wiped his forehead. "I can… tell. Since I'm not… dying on the ground."
"That's debatable," Ronan replied dryly, and Stiles huffed a laugh despite his exhaustion.
Ronan stepped closer. "Tell me what you noticed today."
Stiles straightened slowly, forcing his breathing to calm. He closed his eyes, let the scene replay in his mind. "Your stance changed right before you shifted direction. You lean slightly toward your left foot when you're about to move quickly. Also, you were testing if I'd get distracted by the bird behind us—but I didn't."
Ronan nodded once. "Good. And the people who walked past earlier?"
Stiles opened his eyes, his tone shifting into the automatic clarity Ronan had been honing. "The older woman with the green bag was nervous. She kept touching the zipper. The man in the blue hoodie lied when he told the cashier he 'didn't see anyone drop cash' — he looked left before answering."
"And the teenager?"
Stiles hesitated. "…He's sad. Really sad. He kept looking at his phone like waiting for a message that won't come."
Ronan's expression softened, just slightly. "You're learning to see more than danger. Good."
Stiles looked down. His shirt was sticking to his back with sweat, and the warm summer air clung to his skin. Yet he didn't feel tired in the disappointing way — he felt tired in a victorious way. Like he was growing.
Ronan exhaled, then said it.The thing Stiles somehow knew was coming.
"There's something you need to understand, Stiles."
Stiles looked up.
"You're reaching the limit of what I can teach you here."
The words sank into him like cool water. He waited silently.
Ronan continued, "Beacon Hills is… calmer than most places. But the world outside isn't. There are threats you haven't seen. Creatures that won't show mercy. And hunters who don't have patience for anyone untrained."
Stiles' heartbeat quickened.
Ronan watched him for a moment. "If you want to grow—really grow—you can't stay here. Training in a town this quiet will only take you so far. You need to see the world. You need experience. You need…"
He paused, then finished:
"…the road."
Stiles swallowed.
He already knew this. He'd known from the moment he met Ronan. But hearing it out loud made something twist inside him — not fear, not excitement, but something heavier.
"My dad won't let me go," Stiles said quietly.
Ronan didn't interrupt. He let Stiles speak.
"He's already stressed. Mom… she…" His throat tightened. He blinked fast. "It's only been a year. He wouldn't let me go anywhere. Not far. Not long. Not with someone else."
Ronan nodded slowly, as if he'd expected that."I know. And I wouldn't expect him to."
Stiles looked up sharply.
Ronan's voice remained calm but firm. "That's why we won't tell him the truth."
Stiles stared.
Ronan continued, "I will come to your house. I will come respectfully, calmly, politely. And I will introduce myself not as a hunter… but as a professor."
"A professor?" Stiles repeated, confused.
"A professor from a prestigious academy," Ronan clarified. "One that recruits gifted students. One that scouts children who show exceptional potential. I'll tell him we've been observing you quietly through the school — that we've seen your intelligence, your awareness, your mind. And I'll tell him I want to take you on a long-term training program."
Stiles' brows knitted. "You think he'll believe that?"
"Yes," Ronan said simply. "Because there is truth in it. You are gifted. You do have exceptional awareness. And you are ready to be trained." He bent to meet Stiles' eyes. "And I will reassure him. I will tell him that if you don't enjoy it, or if it's too stressful, you can come back anytime."
Stiles hugged his arms to himself. "And you think that will work?"
Ronan sighed quietly. "I think your father loves you dearly. Enough to let you do what helps you heal."
Stiles blinked.
"This past year has been hard on him," Ronan said. "Harder than he lets you see. He's grieving. You're grieving. He knows you're hurting. He knows you need space to grow. And he might believe that distance could help you both."
Stiles bit his lip.
He didn't want to lie to his dad. That thought alone hurt. The Sheriff was trying so hard every day, pretending he didn't look at Stiles' empty chair at dinner, pretending he didn't wake up at night checking Stiles was still breathing.
It felt wrong to hide anything from him.
But then Stiles thought of something else.Something more important.
Scott.
His dad.
The danger waiting six or seven years from now — the supernatural world that would swallow Beacon Hills whole.
If he stayed weak, if he stayed unprepared, if he stayed the normal Stiles Stilinski…
He wouldn't be able to protect them.
And he wanted to protect them.He needed to.
Ronan stepped closer, voice softening. "Stiles, look at me."
Stiles lifted his eyes.
"You're a good kid," Ronan said. "Maybe too good. You don't want to lie. That's admirable. But sometimes life demands choices that aren't ideal. This isn't about running away. This is about preparing for the life ahead."
Stiles whispered, "To protect the people I care about."
"Yes," Ronan confirmed. "To keep them safe."
There was a long quiet between them. The wind moved through the trees; a bird chirped distantly. Stiles felt his heartbeat slow, then steady, then settle into something resolute.
"What do I tell him?" Stiles finally asked.
"Tell him the truth," Ronan answered gently. "Not about the supernatural. Not about hunting. But tell him the emotional truth." His voice softened. "Tell him you're hurting. Tell him you need space. Tell him you want to try something new. Tell him you'll call every day — and you will. I'll make sure of it."
Stiles swallowed. "And if he says no?"
Ronan smiled faintly. "Then we wait. We try again later. But I don't think he will."
Stiles hesitated… but then nodded slowly.
"…Okay."
Ronan placed a hand briefly on his shoulder — not forceful, not commanding, just supportive. "Good. I'll come by tomorrow evening."
Stiles inhaled shakily. "Tomorrow already?"
"There's nothing to gain by delaying," Ronan said. "You're ready."
Stiles looked down at his hands — the same small hands of a nine-year-old boy, trembling slightly, but steadier than before.
"Ronan?" he asked quietly.
"Yes?"
"…Will I come back?"
Ronan didn't answer immediately. He seemed to weigh the question carefully before speaking.
"That depends on you," he said softly. "If you want to come back, I'll bring you home myself. You're not trapped. You're not bound. You're choosing a road… and you can choose to return at any time. The door will always be open."
Stiles nodded. Slowly. Then again, firmer this time.
He wasn't running away.He wasn't abandoning his life.He wasn't betraying his father.
He was preparing.
Preparing for a world that would one day try to tear everything he loved apart.
And he would be ready.