Archive of Our Own ^beta

Steve Harrington had built a long, impressive career out of bad decisions.

Sneaking out past curfew like rules were polite suggestions meant for other people. Picking fights with guys twice his size because pride always spoke louder than common sense. Driving too fast with the windows down and the music screaming, convinced the universe didn’t have teeth sharp enough to bite him back.

Volunteering—repeatedly—to babysit a pack of feral middle schoolers armed with slingshots, sharp tongues, improvised weapons, and a truly alarming lack of self-preservation.

But agreeing to bike patrol Hawkins’ darkest backroads at dusk—on purpose—with Dustin Henderson chattering beside him like this was a theme park attraction?

Yeah. This one was climbing the ranks fast.

Steve pedaled with deliberate restraint, every movement controlled, economical. His shoulders stayed tight, coiled like springs, muscles already braced for impact that hadn’t come yet. His eyes never lingered in one place for more than a heartbeat—treeline, shadow, road dip, the places where the dark thickened unnaturally, pooling like spilled ink.

The bat across his back was a familiar weight, cold and grounding against his spine. The leather grip was worn smooth from countless nights where swinging first—and swinging hard—had been the difference between walking away and not walking away at all.

Every snap of gravel under his tires made his jaw clench.

Dustin, meanwhile, looked like he was having the time of his life.

He swerved as he rode, careless, humming under his breath, craning his neck toward the woods like he wanted something to jump out just so he could say I told you so. Like he was hoping tonight would finally get interesting.

“Okay,” Dustin said, breathless but bright as he worked to keep pace, his voice echoing faintly through the trees. “So, hypothetically, if we run into something weird—like, say, a Demodog, or maybe a juvenile Demogorgon variant—what’s the plan?”

Steve shot him a flat look. “The plan is we don’t.”

Dustin snorted. “That’s not a plan, Steve. That’s wishful thinking.”

“Well, unlike you, I’m armed,” Steve said, lifting one hand briefly to tap the bat over his shoulder. The nails embedded in the wood caught the last scraps of light, dull and unforgiving. “You’re armed with nothing but enthusiasm and a bike helmet.”

“It’s reinforced,” Dustin fired back instantly. “And I have fireworks.”

Steve exhaled slowly through his nose. “You always have fireworks.”

“Preparation is key,” Dustin said smugly. “You taught me that.”

Steve opened his mouth to argue—then shut it again, jaw tightening hard enough to ache.

Damn it.

The sun sank fast, bleeding orange and bruised purple through the dense canopy overhead before vanishing altogether. Shadows stretched long across the road, swallowing the last scraps of light. The asphalt crumbled into loose gravel and dirt beneath their tires, every crunch too loud in the growing quiet.

The woods pressed in on both sides—dense, suffocating. Branches tangled overhead like grasping fingers, blotting out the sky. The road narrowed until it felt less like a path and more like a tunnel, the dark closing in from all directions.

Steve hated this stretch.

The air felt wrong. Heavy. Damp. It clung to his skin and slid thickly down his throat when he breathed, tasting faintly metallic. It dragged memories up from places he worked very hard not to visit—tunnels that shouldn’t exist, walls that pulsed under your hands, spaces where the world felt thin and fragile, like it might tear open again if you pressed too hard.

This wasn’t a joyride.

This was a patrol.

Ever since the gates had supposedly closed, there had been an unspoken understanding in Hawkins: you didn’t get to pretend nothing had happened.

You stayed alert.
You listened for things that didn’t belong.
You stayed ready.

Steve had taken that understanding and fused it to his bones.

It wrapped around his ribs like armor—tight, inflexible, biting into him every time he breathed too deep. A second skin he couldn’t peel away, even when exhaustion dragged his eyelids low and his muscles screamed from too many nights spent watching shadows instead of sleeping. Every quiet street felt like a lie stretched thin. Every alley seemed to breathe when he wasn’t looking. Hawkins wasn’t safe.

It was just holding its breath.

Someone had to keep the darkness at bay.

And right now, that someone was him.

Dustin was his responsibility. All of his nuggets were—but Dustin especially. Too smart. Too brave. Reckless in that bright, grinning way that turned danger into a challenge instead of a warning. Dustin Henderson ran headfirst into the unknown armed with duct-tape theories and unshakable confidence, and Steve had sworn—again and again—that nothing would happen to him.

Not while Steve was still breathing.
Not tonight.

“Hey, Steve?”

The voice cut through his thoughts like a snapped wire.

Something about it was wrong.

The excitement was gone—cut clean, like someone had reached inside Dustin and flipped a switch. What remained was taut. Careful. Strained in a way that made Steve’s shoulders lock before his brain caught up.

He slowed immediately. “Yeah?”

“…Do you hear that?”

Steve squeezed the brakes. Gravel whispered beneath the tires, the sound obscenely loud in the sudden quiet. His heart slammed hard enough to make his vision stutter.

“Hear what?”

Dustin didn’t answer.

Then Steve heard it.

Breathing.

But not the way anything alive should breathe.

It came slow and wet, deliberate in a way that made Steve’s skin crawl—each inhale dragging, scraping, as if air were being hauled through something torn open and never meant to heal. The sound seeped out of the brush ahead, from the bend in the road where the trees crowded too close and the darkness swallowed everything beyond the thin, trembling spill of their bike lights.

It wasn’t frantic.

It wasn’t afraid.

It was patient.

Low.
Slick.
Wrong.

Steve’s stomach dropped out from under him, leaving him hollow and cold, like his insides had been scooped clean. His grip locked tight around the handlebars until the metal shuddered, knuckles bleaching white as heat and panic burned down into his wrists and up his arms.

“Dustin,” he said quietly, every syllable honed sharp as he shifted his bike sideways, placing his body squarely between Dustin and the sound. “Get behind me.”

No jokes.
No questions.

Dustin rolled back instantly, close enough that Steve felt the hitch of his breath against his spine, felt the tremor running through him that he couldn’t quite suppress. The soft creak of tires on gravel was the only noise they made as they edged forward, every nerve screaming, every instinct clawing for them to turn around and run.

The silence ahead wasn’t empty.

It throbbed—thick, expectant, alive.

They rounded the bend—

—and the woods fell away.

The Demogorgon stepped into the road like it had been waiting for them to look.

It unfolded to its full, impossible height, joints cracking wetly as sinew stretched too far, too fast, the sound nauseatingly intimate. Its skin gleamed slick and pulsing in the dim light, drawn tight over warped muscle that shifted beneath the surface, twitching as if something inside it refused to stay still. It looked unfinished—wrong—barely held together by anatomy that didn’t belong in this world.

Steve’s breath caught painfully in his throat, locking there like his body had forgotten what came next.

Its head split apart.

Slowly.
Deliberately.

Layered petals peeled back with a wet, organic sound that made his stomach lurch, flesh unfolding into a cavernous maw lined with glistening teeth. They quivered as the opening widened, slick with saliva, flexing as if testing the air—tasting it, tasting them. The thing leaned forward a fraction, shadows writhing along its shape.

It inhaled.

The scream that followed wasn’t sound—it was force.

It slammed into Steve’s chest like a physical blow, knocking the breath clean out of him, rattling his ribs, jarring his teeth so hard his jaw screamed. The pitch was impossibly high, violently wrong, vibrating straight through bone and nerve. Adrenaline detonated through his body in sharp, chaotic bursts as his vision smeared and sparked at the edges.

Pain bloomed hot and sudden behind his sternum.

His lungs seized.

Breath stuttered uselessly in his throat—thin, panicked gasps that scraped and failed, refusing to pull in enough air no matter how hard he tried. His chest felt crushed inward, like something inside him had collapsed under the pressure of that scream.

For half a second, he couldn’t move.

His body locked around the absence of air, muscles frozen mid-command, nerves screaming static. The world narrowed to pain and sound and the terrifying certainty that he was about to be too slow.

Then instinct took him by the throat and shook him hard.

“GO!” Steve screamed, the word ripping raw out of him as he wrenched his handlebars hard left and slammed his shoulder into Dustin’s back tire. The impact jolted through him like a lightning strike, pain flaring white-hot from shoulder to elbow as Dustin’s bike fishtailed violently—rubber shrieking against gravel—before snapping forward. “NOW!”

They bolted.

The road disintegrated beneath them. Gravel detonated under spinning tires, dirt blasting up in choking clouds that burned Steve’s eyes and scoured his throat raw. He folded low over the handlebars, spine bowed, teeth clenched as he bullied speed out of legs already shaking. His thighs screamed, muscles flooding with lactic fire, pedal strokes stuttering as fatigue stacked faster than he could outrun it.

Branches tore at him as they plunged through the trees, whipping across his arms and face like claws. Bark scraped skin. Leaves sliced. Something caught his cheek—hot, sharp—and split it open. Wet warmth streamed down his jaw, slick and distracting, but there was no space in his head to register whether it was blood or sweat.

His lungs burned with every ragged inhale, each breath scraping like broken glass dragged through his chest. The echo of the scream still rang inside him, vibrating against his ribs, collapsing his breath before it could fully form. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to pull enough air in.

Run.
Ride.
Don’t slow down.
Don’t look back.

Behind them—

THUD.
THUD.
THUD.

The sound wasn’t just loud.

It was violent, a physical strike that shook the ground and Steve’s bones alike. Each footfall smashed into the earth with a force that vibrated up through the bike frame, jarring his wrists, rattling his teeth, hammering his skull. His hands tingled numb and useless around the grips, knuckles whitening with the effort to hold on. His jaw throbbed painfully from how hard he clenched his teeth.

And the scream.

It tore through the forest again—high, shrill, animalistic, layered with wet, gnashing hunger that made his stomach twist. Not distant. Not echoing. It was right there, closing the distance, hunting.

The vibrations pulsed through Steve’s ribs, shaking his chest like a second, monstrous heartbeat, synced perfectly with terror. Each thud behind them hammered faster than the last, the rhythm accelerating, relentless, inevitable—an inescapable countdown.

“STEVE, IT’S FAST—” Dustin shrieked, panic shredding his voice.

“I KNOW!” Steve bellowed back, voice raw, rasping, each word tearing at his throat. His vision tunneled, narrowing until all that existed was the pale ribbon of road ahead, the bobbing outline of Dustin’s helmet, and the oppressive, stomach-dropping weight of fear. The rest—the trees, the stars, the screaming terror—blurred into a smear of color and motion, a chaotic smear pressing into him from every side.

Then the ground betrayed him.

The road disappeared beneath the tires, tilting sharply, dropping away at an angle so sudden Steve’s stomach lurched violently, his chest launching upward as if the earth itself had yanked him off its back. Gravity clawed at him, hard and unrelenting, twisting him forward and down, and the bike surged like it had a mind of its own, sliding over loose gravel and chunks of rock. Every pebble that bounced against the tires sent jolts through his wrists, each vibration a spark of pain up to his teeth, rattling his jaw and skull. Rocks bit at his legs and scraped across his forearms, ripping through sleeves and skin alike. Heart hammering, lungs burning, nerves ablaze with warning—he couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow, couldn’t outrun the hunting weight closing behind them or the treacherous, unknown twist ahead.

The world had condensed into pure, raw motion and terror.

Then his front tire clipped a jagged stone.

For a heartbeat, the world hung in weightless suspension.

A sickening float, a terrible pause.

And then it came back with teeth.

Steve slammed into the ground with a brutal, bone-jarring force, every last breath violently expelled in a choking, rasping whoof. Pain detonated along his shoulder, snapping down his spine in jagged shocks that made him curl instinctively, roll, and twist, trying to absorb the impact. His body bounced—once, twice—before gravity finally pinned him in place, heavy and unrelenting.

Gravel tore through his palms and forearms, biting deep into raw, scrapped flesh, embedding like jagged teeth. Dirt ground into the cuts, turning searing pain into a burning, acidic ache. His helmet collided with the earth, cracking against the grit, and stars exploded behind his eyes—blinding, violent white before his vision collapsed into a dizzy, spinning smear.

The world pitched violently, lurching beneath him like the earth itself had turned traitor. Trees twisted sideways, their gnarled trunks bending in impossible angles, branches clawing at the sky as if trying to escape. Sound stretched and warped, melting into a hollow, underwater groan that resonated deep in Steve’s skull. Somewhere distant—mocking—the bike skidded and clattered, metal rattling against stone and gravel in a chaotic percussion, each clang a cruel echo of helplessness before it disappeared into the black void.

Steve lay there, stunned, boneless, empty, as if the weight of the night itself had pressed him into the dirt.

Air betrayed him.

His chest seized, muscles locking around nothing, tightening as panic ignited through his spine like wildfire. His body forgot how to breathe, forgot how to lift, expand, inhale deeply enough to matter. He clawed at the darkness with trembling hands, scraping at cold, indifferent soil, gasping at emptiness that offered nothing in return. Each attempt at air shredded his throat raw, leaving a burning trail that vanished before it could fill his lungs. Every exhale became a tiny, punishing defeat.

Pain screamed through him.

His shoulder throbbed, jagged and alien, each twitch lancing down his arm like electric fire. Ribs pulsed with nauseating rhythm, each aborted breath grinding agony through bone and cartilage. His fingers twitched violently, spasms flooding his hands, shaking, trembling, useless under the unrelenting, merciless assault of pain. Every nerve felt raw, every fiber of his body vibrating with protest, as though he were no longer his own.

“STEVE!”

Dustin’s scream ripped through the night, raw, cracked, drenched with terror that dug into Steve’s chest. It struck him like a fist, rattling his bones, wrenching the fragile air he’d managed to grasp from his lungs. The sound was a lifeline and a blade at once, cutting through the haze of pain and panic.

“No—” Steve rasped.

The word tore itself from his throat, ragged, shredded, scraping past raw teeth. It was more a rasping, choking sound than a word, a desperate claw at reality.

He forced himself upright. Trembling arms dug into gravel, shards biting through skin, embedding deep into bloody furrows. Pain detonated with each movement—white-hot lances shivered up his spine, searing fire raked his shoulder, ribs quivering and grinding like a broken machine. His vision buckled, edges collapsing into flickering darkness, tunnels of warped light twisting and distorting with each heartbeat. The world beneath him tilted violently, threatening to dump him back into the dirt, helpless, exposed, broken.

Fear pressed down like iron. Panic throbbed in every nerve, hammering ribs, skull, teeth. His body felt alien, fragile, each motion a negotiation with agony. Every slight shift was a gamble: one misstep, one faltering breath, and he would collapse entirely.

A wet, ragged cough tore through him as he attempted to draw in air, a burning rasp that barely reached his lungs. He swallowed hard, blood-tasting, throat constricted, limbs shaking uncontrollably under the weight of exhaustion and trauma. Pain coiled through him, sharp and relentless, as if the universe itself were punishing him for daring to survive.

“DON’T STOP!” he choked, voice jagged, throat raw and shredded. “PEDAL! I’LL BE RIGHT BEHIND YOU!”

Just then, the Demogorgon tore from the treeline.

It didn’t run—it erupted, obliterating the space between them in a heartbeat. The forest convulsed around it. Brush shredded under its massive, relentless weight, snapping and splintering like brittle bones, leaves and twigs flinging outward in a violent storm that stung Steve’s arms, face, and exposed skin. Branches cracked with a deafening, gunshot-like snap, shards lancing through the air, embedding in his hair, clothing, even scratching raw lines into his arms. Each movement of the creature was impossibly fast, impossibly precise—a blur of sinew and wet, glistening flesh. Limbs twisted and snapped at angles no human body could survive, joints popping and locking with sickening, unnatural precision. Every step sounded like a chorus of bones crushing and tearing.

Its skin shone wetly in the moonlight, stretched taut over muscles that coiled and writhed like living engines beneath the surface. Veins pulsed and throbbed, carrying an alien vitality that churned Steve’s stomach, bile rising hot and acrid. Its movements were fluid yet grotesquely wrong—too fast, too deliberate, predatory, alien. Every twitch, every step, was designed to disorient, to terrify, to crush instinct.

The petaled face split wide, an obscene, gaping maw lined with jagged, glinting teeth. Each petal peeled back like a door, exposing row after row of fangs dripping with metallic, rancid saliva, the smell sharp and corrosive. It leaned forward slightly, head cocked, savoring the fear radiating from Steve, tasting it like a predator sampling prey. Its sheer size pressed into Steve’s chest, impossibly tall, impossibly close, every detail alien and wrong, a creature built to shred courage, shred instinct, shred body.

Steve’s heart hammered against his ribs with a force that made every bone rattle, each beat a violent, ricocheting thud that shot straight up into his skull. Breath tore through him in shallow, jagged bursts, dragging fire through lungs that screamed with every inhale, every exhale scraping raw across his throat. His vision tunneled; the world collapsed into a narrow, horrifying focus on the impossibility looming just inches away—a creature too fast, too large, too alien to comprehend.

His hands scrambled for the bat, slick with blood and sweat, sliding uselessly over the wood. Panic ignited like wildfire in his chest, white-hot and consuming, clawing at nerves, teeth, thought, everything. For a heart-stopping instant, he feared the bat had escaped him. Then, with a desperate, bone-burning grip, his fingers locked around it. Knuckles whitened, muscles screamed, the familiar weight pressing into his palms like a tether to survival, anchoring him to the earth, to the fight, to the sliver of hope he had left.

He swung.

The impact detonated through his body like lightning. The bat met flesh with a wet, meaty crack that echoed far too loudly in the night. Nails sank deep, the resistance pulsing as if alive. Pain shot up his arms in jagged bursts, rattling teeth, jarring his shoulder, flaring like fire through already shredded muscle. The Demogorgon shrieked—a high, piercing, furious sound—its claws flailing, dark, glistening fluid spraying across gravel, soaking Steve’s arms, face, and chest with its ichor.

For a heartbeat, hope dared to bloom.

Then the Demogorgon lunged.

A blur of impossible motion, snapping joints, limbs bending in unnatural, violent arcs. A claw sliced through the air, fast enough that sight failed him.

Agony ripped through Steve’s side, molten fire lancing through bone, igniting every nerve ending in a white-hot inferno that made the world tilt and spin around him.

It struck without warning, a sharp, explosive wave that consumed all thought. Pain detonated across his ribs, shredding fabric, tearing flesh, radiating outward in jagged, searing pulses. A violent shockwave of nausea coiled through his gut, curling around his spine and wrenching at his stomach, folding it in on itself. Something inside him snapped with a sickening pop; teeth clenched, jaw locked, as his body lurched sideways, momentum stealing his balance. He collapsed onto his knees with a bone-jarring thud, gravel biting mercilessly into palms and knees, grinding into raw, bleeding skin. Each shard of stone sent sparks of agony ricocheting up his arms, shoulders, and into his neck. Every nerve screamed. Every muscle betrayed him.

The air betrayed him too.

His lungs locked, taut and unyielding, refusing the simple act of expansion. A raw, strangled sound clawed from his throat, rasping, broken, dragging painfully into the night, carrying the weight of panic, fear, and exhaustion all at once. His chest heaved against an invisible, crushing pressure pressing from within; ribs screamed with every aborted attempt at breath. Pain flared along his spine in chaotic, searing bursts, nerve endings firing like live wires, shaking his limbs as though they belonged to someone else.

His hands trembled violently, knuckles white, gripping the bat with desperate, trembling strength. The wood threatened to slip, slick with sweat, blood, and now the Demogorgon’s alien fluids—thick, metallic, coppery slime that reeked of decay and fear. Every pulse, every heartbeat, every flicker of nerve and muscle burned with the truth: he was broken, but not finished. Not yet.

“Steve!”

Dustin’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp, panicked, impossibly close. Steve forced his head toward the sound, vision tunneling, edges dark and flickering, shadows pulsing with his heartbeat. He saw Dustin frozen in place, pale, wide-eyed, unblinking, every line of his face etched with raw terror.

Something inside Steve shattered. Not the fear—that still clung like ice in his chest. Not the pain—that burned brighter than molten fire through every nerve and joint. No, something older, sharper, colder fractured, and from it erupted a feral, unyielding resolve that roared hotter than the agony in his ribs, a raw, elemental clarity that made surrender impossible.

“No.” The word tore from deep within him, guttural, ragged, scraped free by sheer determination and bone-deep refusal to yield. It carried every scar, every near-death, every reckless choice that had led him here, forging a man who refused to quit—even as his body screamed betrayal.

He forced himself upright.

Legs shook violently, muscles trembling as though detached from his will. Each shift sent lances of molten pain through ribs and side, stabbing like molten iron poured over raw nerve endings. His lungs heaved raggedly, scraping against bone with every inhale, throat shredded from within. Vision swam, edges darkening, world tilting and pulsing as though recoiling from his suffering. Copper and iron coated his tongue; he bit down, forcing himself to endure.

Blood slicked his fingers, warm and sticky, smeared into the dirt—a grim testament to how broken he was—and yet he gripped the bat, every ounce of strength he had left. Pain and fear became fuel, anchoring him, driving defiance through veins trembling with exhaustion.

He staggered forward, boots skidding across loose gravel, each stone biting into his soles, grinding through socks, sending jagged shocks up his legs. Every step screamed at him to collapse. Every fiber begged for surrender. But he didn’t. He planted himself firmly between Dustin and the Demogorgon, bat in hand, impossibly heavy, leaden, as if gravity itself conspired to crush him. His arms shook violently, quivering like worn machinery. Every heartbeat threatened betrayal. Every breath cut like knives through his chest, lungs rasping, raw and ragged.

But he didn’t fall.

He raised the bat, shoulder ablaze, vision swimming, every joint and tendon screaming in jagged pain. Determination welded him upright, a battered, fragile statue of defiance. Each shift, each motion, a battle against his own failing body, an act of sheer, excruciating will.

“DUSTIN!” His roar tore through the night, raw, hoarse, ragged, scraped raw by every ounce of pain, fury, and desperation he had left. It slashed across the clearing like a whip cracking in darkness, impossible to ignore. “Get. On. Your. Bike!”

“But—” Dustin stammered, words strangled by panic. He took a tentative half-step forward, uncertainty warring with instinct.

“NOW!” Steve snapped, muscles coiling like steel, every fiber of his body strung tight with pain and fury. His head whipped just enough to lock eyes with Dustin, and that glare—molten, volcanic, raw—sliced through every shred of the boy’s fear, leaving only obedience in its wake. It burned, scorching, impossible to ignore.

There was no room for hesitation. No room for argument.

Dustin’s chest felt like it had been crushed in a vise, tight, unyielding, as if the air itself had betrayed him. Every inhale burned, scraping raw across his lungs, every exhale a struggle, jagged and hollow. The instinct to yell, to argue, to scream, rose in his throat like molten iron, scalding and choking. Steve was hurt—badly, impossibly hurt. Blood streaked across his clothes, crimson mixing with sweat, cuts and bruises blooming across his skin like dark flowers. His body trembled with each ragged breath, each shuddering inhale—but still, he stood. Still standing. Between them and something that should have already torn them apart. Dustin’s mind groped for words, but they died halfway up his throat, strangled by fear, awe, and disbelief.

This wasn’t the cool, charming Steve.
This wasn’t the babysitter Steve.

This was Steve in full, merciless mother mode. Jaw locked so tight it could have shattered bone, eyes blazing with a feral, unflinching promise that made every hair on Dustin’s arms rise. Every muscle screamed readiness. No hesitation. No fear. Only fury. Only cold, unyielding resolve—the kind of determination that burned through the night and said, I will die before anything gets past me.

Dustin’s throat constricted, coiling tight with terror, awe, and disbelief, like live wires snapping inside his chest. Anger, frustration, the urge to fight—everything twisted together—but beneath it all surged a hotter, undeniable truth: he had to obey.

He had to run.

With a sudden, desperate lurch, Dustin spun on his heel, nearly toppling on the loose gravel, and flung himself onto his bike. His hands trembled violently, slick with sweat and blood, fingers fumbling the handlebars. Pulse hammered against his throat like it wanted out, every beat a frantic warning. Breath caught and stuttered in his chest, ragged, raw, burning with each shallow gasp. Behind him, the forest roared alive: Steve’s rasping, tortured breaths cut through the night, tangled with the Demogorgon’s wet, inhuman shrieks—a sound primal, raw, alive, gnawing at nerves and rattling bones alike.

He pedaled harder than he ever had in his life.

Legs burned like molten fire, muscles spasming and trembling under the strain, as if they were shredded from the inside out. Heart hammered like a jackhammer against his ribs, every beat rattling teeth and skull. The chain rattled in frantic protest; tires skidded over loose gravel, flinging shards of stone that bit into his legs, arms, and face, sharp enough to draw blood. Every instinct screamed at him to look back—to see if Steve was still upright, still fighting, still alive—but he didn’t.

Because Steve had told him to run.

In that instant, clarity struck like lightning: his life—and Steve’s—depended on obeying.

Wind tore across his face, biting through exposed skin, laced with the metallic tang of blood, sweat, and dirt. Every pedal stroke pressed the weight of reality deeper into his bones, a suffocating, leaden force that threatened to crush him from within. The night pulsed with terror and determination, alive, echoing with the clash of survival and fury. Somewhere behind him, he knew, Steve held the line—bleeding, battered, but unbroken. That truth anchored him, sharp and undeniable, keeping him moving, keeping him alive.

Steve exhaled, a ragged, hoarse sound that rasped through the trees once he knew Dustin was far enough away—safe, for now. Pain stabbed through every joint, every muscle fiber, every ragged breath, but he forced himself upright. His legs quaked violently beneath him, body trembling like it was made of fragile glass, vision blurred from blood and exhaustion, the edges of the world collapsing into dark, flickering tunnels.

Then he turned, eyes burning with pure, hate-filled focus, locking onto the Demogorgon.

It roared—a sound that split the night in half, jagged, guttural, soaked in malice and intent. Every nerve in Steve’s body screamed, every fiber vibrating with pain, exhaustion, and raw terror as the creature lunged.

He didn’t run.

There was nowhere left to run.

He planted his feet in the loose gravel, boots skidding slightly before catching, knees wobbling like ragdolls under the strain, lungs burning with every ragged, rasping inhale. His vision swam and flickered from the last strike, the edges blurring and doubling, muscles screaming in open revolt. Every fiber of him was screaming to collapse, yet he forced his shoulders square, chest forward, facing the creature with every ounce of stubborn, raw defiance he could muster.

Pain stabbed through him in jagged, white-hot bursts, shooting along nerves like electric fire, leaving every muscle twitching and every heartbeat hammering violently in his temples. Each inhalation scraped harshly in his lungs, raw and ragged, as though each breath were slicing through fragile tissue. Sweat and blood stung his eyes, and his vision narrowed with the effort of focus, a tunnel leading only to the creature’s open, jagged maw.

Teeth gritted, jaw aching from the tension, he tightened his grip on the bat. His knuckles whitened as tremors ran up his arms, small shudders that felt like betrayals of his own strength. Pain radiated outward from every joint, shooting like molten fire through his shoulders, down to his fingertips. His body screamed in revolt, trembling with exhaustion, and every instinct screamed to collapse. His mind whispered a merciless, final truth: you’re done. This is it.

But he didn’t falter.

He swung.

The bat arced through the air, muscles tensing with the last reserves of strength he could summon. The impact detonated through him from shoulder to fingertips, twisting bones and shaking every fiber of his being as though his skeleton itself were rebelling. A scream tore from his throat—raw, ragged, jagged, tasting iron and copper as it scraped up from deep inside him—while the bat collided with the Demogorgon. Wood groaned, splintering under the force. Nails tore free. Pain flared sharply along his arm, searing and relentless.

Then, with a sickening, final snap, the bat broke clean in half, leaving him clutching a useless, shattered handle. The shockwave of pain radiated outward, igniting every nerve ending as though his arms had been set ablaze. His vision swam, and the world seemed impossibly heavy, each heartbeat echoing through his chest like a war drum, reminding him of his fragility in the face of the creature before him.

Still, the Demogorgon didn’t hesitate.

It slammed into him like a freight train, brutal and unstoppable.

The world erupted into chaotic motion and then collapsed entirely. Steve’s spine slammed into the hard, unyielding earth with a gut-jarring thud that reverberated through every bone, each vertebra screaming in protest. Pain detonated inside him, white-hot and all-consuming, radiating outward in jagged waves that made his limbs tremble uncontrollably. His head cracked against the ground, stars exploding and spinning violently across his blurred, bleeding vision. Air blasted from his lungs in a choking, rasping wheeze, leaving him gasping raw and ragged, every breath scraping like sand through scorched tissue. His chest rose and fell in shallow, desperate bursts, each inhale a battle against the crushing weight pressing down on him.

Before he could even attempt another breath, weight slammed down upon him with crushing, merciless force.

The Demogorgon pinned him flat to the ground. Its monstrous bulk drove the air from his lungs and kept it there, pressing down until his chest screamed in protest. Steve’s ribs bowed under the pressure, muscles locking uselessly as his lungs seized and refused to draw in even the smallest breath. He clawed instinctively at the dirt, fingers scrabbling for leverage that didn’t exist, panic detonating in his chest as black crept in from the edges of his vision—thick, heavy, suffocating. Every heartbeat thundered painfully in his ears, too loud, too fast, each one sending fresh waves of agony rippling through his battered body.

Claws ripped through his jacket with brutal ease, fabric tearing like paper. Talons followed, biting into skin and muscle. Pain flared—blinding, jagged, absolute—as sharp points carved burning lines across his chest, heat and fire and raw nerve screaming all at once. Blood welled up warm and slick beneath the creature’s grip, soaking into torn cloth. Steve choked on a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob, his body arching helplessly beneath the pain, every nerve lit up and shrieking.

Its breath washed over his face in thick, rancid gusts—hot and wet, reeking of rot and iron. Spittle dripped from its mouth, splashing onto his throat and collarbone, sticky and clinging, making his skin crawl even as his vision dimmed. The petals of its gaping face peeled back farther, stretching wide, revealing rows of jagged teeth that descended slowly, deliberately. They hovered impossibly close to his neck, so near he could feel the heat radiating off them. It looked less like a creature and more like a living maw, poised to swallow him whole.

“Oh god—no—no—no—” Steve rasped, the words tearing out of him thin and broken. His hands shoved weakly at its chest, arms trembling violently, muscles screaming as they failed him. Every push drained what little strength he had left. His vision pulsed, darkening in uneven waves, the world collapsing inward until there was nothing but teeth, heat, and unbearable pain. His chest burned, lungs spasming uselessly, the need for air turning sharp and desperate.

This is it, a distant, eerily calm corner of his mind whispered, detached and cold even as his body unraveled beneath him. This is how I’ll die.

Then—

BOOM.

The night shattered in a blast of sparks and smoke as the firework slammed against the Demogorgon’s head. Heat screamed across Steve’s face in a blistering wave, searing skin and stinging open wounds. The sudden brightness tore through his dimming vision, stabbing red and white into every nerve, leaving burning afterimages dancing across the edges of his sight. The concussion rattled his skull, reverberating down his spine like a hammer striking bone. The creature screeched—a wild, inhuman sound, sharp and unrestrained—its claws tearing free as it staggered back, thrashing in fury and confusion.

Steve didn’t think.

He couldn’t.

Instinct took over where thought had fled. With a guttural, broken groan ripped from deep in his chest, he rolled onto his side. Pain detonated through his ribs and spine, lances of white-hot agony that left him gasping and trembling. Dirt ground into raw skin and open cuts, embedding itself as if mocking him. Stars burst behind his eyes. He dragged in a ragged, burning breath, scraping across lungs that already felt shredded, but it was enough—enough to keep moving.

His hands clawed blindly through the loose soil, closing around the jagged half of his bat. Splintered wood bit into his palms, unforgiving, digging deep into skin slick with sweat and blood. Pain roared up his arms with every twitch, every push, muscles quivering as if they might give way entirely. Each inch forward was a battle; every move sent shockwaves through his body—ribs screaming, shoulder flaring, spine screaming in violent protest.

Still, he crawled.
Still, he fought.

Fear clawed at his throat like a living thing, rage burned bright and reckless through his veins, desperation sharpened every nerve. Exhaustion pulled at him, heavy and merciless, but he summoned the last scraps of strength he had. With a hoarse cry, ragged and wet with blood and effort, he heaved himself upward just enough to swing. The jagged end of the bat slammed into the Demogorgon’s leg with all the force his battered body could muster.

A sickening, wet crack split the air.

It echoed, grotesque and final, as if the world itself had shuddered.

The Demogorgon shrieked, a high, piercing wail of pain and fury. Limbs flailed, uncoordinated and panicked, claws scraping uselessly against dirt and stone. It staggered, thrashing violently, before pivoting and tearing blindly into the trees. Branches snapped like gunfire; undergrowth shredded as it vanished, its ragged screams echoing once, twice, then fading into the night.

The silence that followed was heavy. Deafening.

It pressed down on the clearing like a physical weight, thick and unnatural, the kind that made ears ring and skin prickle. It felt like the world itself had been holding its breath—and only now, finally, dared to let it go.

Steve collapsed back into the dirt.

His body gave out all at once, the last of its borrowed strength vanishing in an instant. The impact knocked a broken sound from his chest as his lungs fought desperately for air. His chest heaved violently, breaths coming shallow and uneven, each one scraping through his lungs like knives dragged over raw flesh. Adrenaline drained away in a dizzying rush, leaving the pain behind—deep, pulsing, everywhere. It bloomed all at once, unchecked now, screaming for attention.

His side burned like it had been set alight, fire licking along his ribs with every movement. His shoulder throbbed relentlessly, a deep, grinding ache that flared sharper with every heartbeat, as if something inside it had shifted where it absolutely shouldn’t have. His chest felt raw and torn, every breath a reminder of claws and teeth and just how close he’d come to being ripped open.

His hands shook uncontrollably, fingers curling and uncurling in the dirt like they didn’t belong to him anymore. He stared at them dimly, detached, vaguely aware that he couldn’t make them stop no matter how hard he tried.

“…eve! St—Steve! Steve!”

The voice tore through the fog in his head, sharp and panicked, snagging what little awareness he had left and yanking it painfully toward the surface.

Dustin hit the ground beside him hard enough to send gravel skittering. He dropped to his knees and then froze, hands hovering inches above Steve’s chest like he was terrified that even the lightest touch might finish what the monster had started. His face was ghost-pale beneath the dirt and sweat, eyes blown wide and glassy with terror, mouth trembling like he was barely holding himself together by sheer will alone.

Steve tried to answer.

He tried to say it was okay. Tried to tell him the thing was gone. Tried to reassure him—anything, something, just enough to make that look go away.

All that came out was a thin, broken sound, more breath than voice, swallowed immediately by the wet rasp tearing through his lungs. The world lurched violently, tilting sideways as darkness crept in at the edges of his vision, thick and hungry, threatening to pull him under again.

He forced his eyes open.

He instantly regretted it.

The world didn’t just spin—it folded in on itself. Gravity peeled sideways, twisted, then snapped back with gut-wrenching force, like the ground was trying to throw him off and be done with him. Trees smeared into long, bleeding streaks of green and black. The sky fractured into jagged, overlapping shards that refused to line up no matter how hard he blinked. Pain detonated behind his eyes and thundered down his spine in a violent, rolling wave that rattled his teeth together hard enough to make his jaw ache.

His breath ripped out of him in a wet, rattling rasp.

Every inhale scraped his throat raw, burning like he was dragging air through broken glass and rusted nails. His chest tried to rise—and failed halfway through, muscles locking hard, spasming uselessly, like his body had suddenly forgotten how breathing was supposed to work.

Oh.

Oh, that’s bad.

Cold fear slid in beneath the pain, slick and invasive, coiling tight around his ribs, squeezing harder than the Demogorgon’s claws ever had. It settled deep in his gut, heavy and nauseating, whispering all the things he absolutely did not want to think about.

He tried to laugh anyway. Because of course he did.

The sound came out thin and fractured, more wheeze than humor, and the effort sent white-hot agony spearing through his ribs. Something inside him shifted when he breathed—wrong, loose, grinding—and the sudden spike of nausea made his vision spark violently before dimming at the edges.

“T-tol’ you…” he rasped, the words barely clinging together, slurred and muddy like they’d been dragged through dirt. His throat burned with every syllable. “You… and your damn fireworks.”

Dustin made a noise that didn’t belong to any human throat—half sob, half hysterical laugh—and collapsed closer, fists twisting into Steve’s jacket like he was afraid to let go. His fingers dug in hard, knuckles white, shaking just as badly as Steve’s were.

“You’re awake,” he choked. “You’re awake—oh my god, Steve, I thought—I thought you were dead.”

Steve tried to smile.

He wasn’t sure it worked.

So instead, he swallowed.

It felt like dragging shattered glass down his throat.

Pain tore through his side without warning—sudden, absolute, a white-hot detonation that ripped the breath from his lungs and crushed it out of him like a fist closing around his chest. His body locked mid-inhale. Muscles seized hard and unyielding, ribs refusing to move, lungs stuttering uselessly as if the signal to breathe had been severed entirely. His vision imploded. Black spots swarmed thick and fast, multiplying until the world fractured into static and darkness, buzzing and sharp behind his eyes.

He gasped.

The sound was ugly—raw and animal, dragged out of him from somewhere deep and instinctive, more reflex than choice. It scraped his throat bloody on the way out.

His fingers twitched uselessly in the dirt, nails scraping shallow, uneven furrows through gravel and dead leaves. His hands shook like they didn’t belong to him anymore, movements jerky and uncoordinated as his body panicked, flailing for something it should have remembered without effort.

In.
Out.

Simple. Automatic.

Except it wasn’t.

It felt like drowning on dry land—lungs screaming, chest burning and hollow all at once, terror flooding in faster than oxygen ever could. Every second stretched thin and suffocating, his body betraying him with each failed attempt to pull in air.

And then—

The memories hit.

Not gently. Not in order. They shattered into him—violent, jagged shards tearing through his mind without warning or mercy, each one sharp enough to make him flinch, his stomach knotting, his skin crawling.

Teeth.

Too many teeth.

A flower of flesh tearing itself open, slick, wet, obscene—jaws snapping with a sound that lodged in his gut and crawled straight up his spine. The Demogorgon burst from the treeline like a nightmare given motion, claws slashing, teeth gleaming, impossible speed propelling it toward him. There was no pause. No hesitation. Only raw, predatory hunger.

He barely had time to react before instinct ripped through him.

“Dustin! Get on your bike! RUN!”

Then it hit him.

All weight. All force. All murderous intent.

The impact was catastrophic.

Air was ripped from his lungs in a hollow, bone-shattering whump, ribs collapsing under brutal force. His back hit the ground with a violent, rattling crash, teeth clattering, vision erupting in white-hot disorientation—then bleeding into red, hot and thick, clouding his senses.

Claws tore into his side.

Pain didn’t grow—it exploded.

Skin burned. Muscle tore. Something vital twisted beneath the strike. Heat poured across him, slick and suffocating, sticky with blood. His scream ripped out before his mind could even register it, raw and ragged, tearing through the chaos. His muscles locked, convulsed, panicked, twisting uselessly, as if his body rejected the world in revolt.

Blood. Too much blood.

And with it came the sickening, nauseating clarity: something crucial—something irreplaceable—was broken.

Memory fractured into jagged flashes.

He swung the bat. Wild. Desperate. Savage. Every strike fueled by raw panic, blind rage, the sheer refusal to go down quietly. Bone rattled. Nails split. Shockwaves of pain ran straight up his arms. His fingers went numb. The bat nearly slipped from his hands, but he gripped it anyway, each strike a defiance against the pain screaming louder than thought.

The Demogorgon shriek—high, furious, inhuman—split the air, vibrating straight through his skull. His ears rang violently, sound warping and collapsing into something distant and distorted, like he was trapped underwater.

The memory clung to him, sharp and merciless, even as the present dragged him back by force. His nerves still screamed like they hadn’t realized the fight was over.

Dirt filled his mouth, gritty and bitter. Blood blurred his vision, stinging his eyes, metallic and hot on his tongue. He gagged, coughing weakly as his grip slipped completely. His feet slid out from under him, legs giving way like they’d simply quit.

The fireworks—God, the fireworks—went off too close, too loud. The concussive blast rattled his brain as sparks and heat exploded in every direction. His ears rang violently, sound collapsing into a thin, high-pitched whine as the Demogorgon recoiled, howling in rage and pain, thrashing blindly through the trees.

He remembered trying to get back up.

His arms had trembled uncontrollably, barely holding his weight. His legs refused to lock, muscles shaking and buckling beneath him. The world tilted, spun, dipped away, gravity tugging at him like it was tired of pretending he belonged upright.

And he fell.

Again.

The ground rushed up to meet him—cold, unforgiving, final—jarring what little air he had left from his lungs.

Then nothing.

The spasm finally broke its grip on him, releasing him back into his body with a violent, full-body shudder that rattled his teeth together. He lay there shaking, every muscle trembling uncontrollably as if his nerves were misfiring all at once. Cold sweat drenched him, soaking through his clothes and chilling his skin, leaving him clammy and slick. Every nerve ending screamed in protest, pain flaring hot and sharp before sinking into something deeper—thick, heavy, nauseating.

His side throbbed in slow, brutal pulses, each one radiating outward like a shockwave. His ribs felt wrong—too tight when he tried to breathe, too loose when he shifted, grinding faintly against one another with every shallow inhale. The sensation made bile crawl up his throat. His heart hammered erratically in his chest, each beat crashing far too hard, then lagging, stuttering—followed by a dreadful, suspended pause that stretched just long enough to make him wonder, every single time, if that had been the last one.

He dragged in a breath.

It barely counted. The air hitched halfway in, shallow and sharp, scraping through his lungs like sandpaper and glass. His chest protested violently, muscles quivering as if they might give out entirely.

“Still here,” he whispered, the words shredding their way out of his throat, barely audible over the shrill ringing in his ears. His voice sounded distant, wrong. “Takes more than… discount Freddy Krueger… to kill me.”

Dustin shook his head hard, fast, frantic—like he could physically reject the words if he tried hard enough. Tears spilled freely now, no longer contained, tracking down his dirt-streaked face and dripping onto Steve’s jacket. They darkened the fabric where it was already soaked through with blood, spreading in ugly, overlapping stains.

“Don’t bullshit me, Steve!” he snapped, but the anger fractured instantly, his voice cracking so badly it nearly split in two. “You just—you just stopped—you weren’t breathing or—or something, I don’t know, but that wasn’t nothing.” His hands hovered uselessly over Steve’s side, shaking so hard they barely held still. “And you’re bleeding,” he choked. “You’re bleeding so much, Steve—there’s so much—I can’t—I can’t stop it—”

The words tangled and tripped over each other, spilling out of Dustin in a panicked rush, each syllable bleeding into the next. Fear soaked through them all, raw and unchecked, like if he stopped talking—even for a second—something terrible would solidify and become real.

Steve tried to reach for him. Tried to do something—anything—to make it stop.

The instant he moved, agony detonated.

Pain tore through his shoulder and down his side like a live wire snapping loose inside him, white-hot and absolute. A sound ripped out of his throat before he could stop it—a raw, involuntary hiss—as his entire body jerked violently in protest. His muscles seized hard, locking him in place, tendons screaming as if they might tear clean through. Stars burst behind his eyes in a violent spray of white, so bright it felt like his skull might split open.

His vision tunneled immediately.

The world narrowed into a dark, suffocating corridor, the edges smearing and dimming like wet ink bleeding across paper. It felt like being dragged backward down a long hallway, feet slipping, hands scrabbling uselessly for purchase as the darkness crept closer and closer.

“—okay,” he forced out weakly, the word barely audible, more breath than sound. His breathing stuttered and faltered, shallow and uneven, each inhale trembling like it might be his last. “I’m… I’m okay.” The lie was paper-thin. He swallowed hard, throat burning. “Guess… my mother-bear instincts kicked in.”

Dustin let out a broken sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t shattered immediately into a sob. He folded forward with painful care, like even gravity was something he had to negotiate now, and pressed his forehead into Steve’s arm. His shoulders shook violently, each tremor wracking his small frame—and each one jostled Steve just enough to send another jagged spike of pain lancing through his ribs. The sensation was sharp and breath-stealing, like a blade dragged between bone and muscle, and Steve couldn’t stop the quiet, involuntary hitch in his breathing that followed.

“You’re such an idiot,” Dustin whispered hoarsely.

Steve’s vision blurred completely. The world dimmed around the edges, pulsing in and out like someone was slowly, mercilessly turning down the lights. Every heartbeat felt wrong—too loud, too slow—each one slamming painfully through his chest and echoing up into his skull before stalling. There was always that pause after, that awful, hollow moment of nothing, where he wondered—every single time—if his heart had simply decided not to start again.

“Yeah,” he breathed, lips barely moving, voice scraped raw. “But I’m… your idiot.”

Dustin stayed there, clinging to him like letting go might make him disappear. Words spilled out in broken, hitching gasps, tumbling over each other without shape or order. “You didn’t have to do that. You didn’t have to—I thought it was gonna—I thought it was gonna kill you. I thought it—” His voice cracked completely, splintering apart before dissolving into a sob. “I thought I was gonna watch you die.”

Something in Steve’s chest twisted painfully tighter than the injury already had, a deep, aching pull that made it hard to breathe for an entirely different reason.

Despite the pain screaming in protest, he shifted again. His arm felt heavy and distant, like it didn’t fully belong to him anymore, but he forced it to move anyway. The effort sent sparks of agony up his shoulder and down his side, but he gritted his teeth and pushed through it. His fingers were clumsy and numb as they tangled gently into Dustin’s curls, the familiar texture grounding him—anchoring him to something solid.

Real.

Alive.

“I’m fine, Dustin,” Steve murmured faintly, even as his nerves screamed and his body trembled like it was coming apart at the seams. Every muscle felt wound too tight, vibrating with pain and shock that had nowhere to go. “Besides…” His breath hitched, catching painfully in his chest, the movement scraping fire along his ribs. “I had to protect you.” Another shallow, burning inhale. “That’s… kinda my job.”

The lie barely held together.

His vision pulsed again, black creeping steadily in at the edges. Each heartbeat sent a nauseating wave of pain through his ribs and down his spine, leaving him dizzy, cold, and frighteningly unsteady. It felt like his body was fraying—like if one more thing went wrong, it would simply give up.

Before Dustin could answer, the woods rustled.

Not the lazy whisper of wind through leaves.

Not the small, harmless scuffle of animals settling in for the night.

This sound was wrong.

Too heavy.
Too deliberate.

Dustin went rigid instantly, fear flashing sharp and blinding across his face as he snapped his head up, breath catching hard in his throat. “Steve—”

Footsteps tore through the brush—fast, uneven, reckless. Branches snapped violently. Dead leaves were crushed under frantic weight, the sound barreling closer through the dark.

Steve’s heart slammed painfully against his ribs, each beat a blunt удар that sent fresh agony lancing through his chest. Every instinct he had screamed: move, fight, get up. Adrenaline surged, hot and desperate, flooding his veins in a last-ditch attempt to make his body obey.

It didn’t work.

His limbs trembled violently, muscles spasming without strength or coordination, heavy and useless like they no longer belonged to him. Pain pinned him to the ground as surely as the Demogorgon had, a crushing, inescapable weight. Panic flared white-hot in his chest, sharp enough to make his vision swim. His fingers tightened weakly in Dustin’s hair, knuckles shaking as he tugged him closer—a reflexive, desperate attempt to shield him, to brace, to be something solid between Dustin and whatever was coming next.

He knew—deep down, bone-deep—that he couldn’t take another hit.

Not like this.

Then—

“Steve! Dustin!

The voice cut through the darkness like a lifeline hurled into icy, merciless water, sharp and urgent, thrumming against the edges of his battered mind.

Steve’s heart stuttered violently, each beat a jagged misfire that sent spikes of agony slicing through his chest and radiating down into his ribs. His lungs flinched, refusing to fill fully, and a strangled, broken sob caught halfway in his throat. For a terrifying, suspended moment, he wondered if he was hallucinating, if the world had finally slipped beyond repair. Every sound fractured into shards—twigs snapping, leaves whispering, the faint rustle of unseen animals—each one jagged and threatening. Shadows trembled in his blurred vision, smeared and unrecognizable, leaving him clawing for something real to hold onto.

Wait…

That voice…

It wasn’t just a sound. It carried weight, substance. It pulled him upright when every fiber of his body wanted to collapse into the dirt, when the pain had convinced him that moving was impossible.

He knew that voice.

Before his unfocused eyes could process it, motion tore through the trees. Nancy burst out of the treeline like she’d been shot from a cannon, boots shredding through leaves and gravel, breath coming in sharp, ragged pulls, her muscles taut with raw urgency. The shotgun in her hands swung dangerously as her eyes scanned the clearing, wide and unblinking, searching for the source of terror she already sensed.

She skidded to a brutal stop when her gaze finally fell on him. Loose stones and dirt flew as her boots dug in to halt the momentum that nearly carried her past, her chest heaving violently with every breath. Her eyes locked onto Steve’s body sprawled in the dirt, his blood seeping into the soil in dark, spreading stains that made her stomach twist with a visceral, sinking horror. Too much. Far too much. The sight made the world narrow to a jagged, sharp focus: him, broken and bleeding, and nothing else mattered.

Her breath caught and broke, a fractured sound she couldn’t control.

For a heartbeat, she simply stared, frozen by the raw, undeniable reality of it.

Then her face crumpled, horror flooding her features so completely it looked like it physically hurt.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, the words tearing out like something ripped free from her chest. “Steve—”

The sound of his name—thin, fractured, trembling—cut deeper than any claw, deeper than the Demogorgon’s strikes, and Steve felt it pierce him in a way that left every nerve raw.

He tried to lift his head. Tried to answer. Tried to prove—to her, to himself—that he was still here, still fighting, still alive.

His neck muscles screamed in protest. Pain flared across his side, spiking and twisting with every tiny motion. A wave of nausea crashed through him, curling cold and vicious in his stomach. His vision swam violently, edges flickering between white and black as the world threatened to vanish entirely. He sagged back into the dirt with a helpless, shuddering exhale, chest stuttering, muscles trembling in protest, as darkness pressed closer around the periphery of his awareness.

A heartbeat later, Robin tore through the brush, crowbar raised, muscles coiled like a spring ready to snap. Her eyes darted frantically, scanning the shadows for any sign of movement, any threat that could strike at them in the next instant. Every instinct screamed danger, every nerve thrummed with tension. And then—her gaze landed on him.

Time seemed to freeze. The fight drained from her in a single heartbeat. The color bled from her face so fast it looked almost unnatural, leaving her pale, taut, like the world had stolen her warmth. Her body sagged under the crushing weight of disbelief, a shiver crawling up her spine as she realized the full scope of what she was seeing.

“Holy shit,” she choked, voice cracking and raw, a tremor of horror weaving into each word. “Holy shit, Harrington—”

Nancy was already at his side, gravel biting into her skin, her palms raw and scraped, but she didn’t notice. She couldn’t. Adrenaline and sheer, desperate focus had taken over, overriding fear entirely. Her hands moved fast, too fast, almost frantic in their precision—automatic and practiced, the product of muscle memory sharpened by panic.

Two fingers pressed to his neck.

Too fast.

Then his wrist.

Too weak.

Her breath shuddered audibly. Her fingers came away slick, coated in warm, glistening blood, dark in the dim light that flickered through the trees. The reality of it burned, a tactile confirmation that he was hurt—badly. The warmth, the stickiness, the smell of iron—it all hit her senses at once.

“Okay,” she said tightly, forcing the word out like a lifeline she could cling to. It was more command than comfort, a tether to reality. Her voice was brittle but unyielding. “Okay—hey, look at me.”

She leaned closer, elbow digging into the dirt beside him, body pressing in as if her presence alone could anchor him. Her eyes were sharp, fierce, relentless, refusing to allow him to slip away. “Stay with me,” she demanded, voice low and sharp. “Don’t you dare pass out. Do you hear me?”

Steve’s mouth moved, lips trembling, trying to form a sound, a word. Nothing came out. Only a wet, ragged rasp, barely a vibration.

Nancy didn’t wait. She yanked off her jacket, rough and sudden, and pressed it hard against the worst of the bleeding, forcing pressure with her body weight.

Steve sucked in a harsh, ragged breath, a hiss tearing from deep in his throat as Nancy’s jacket pressed against his wound. Pain exploded through him like white-hot fire, jagged, relentless, and impossible to ignore. Each heartbeat sent ripples of agony through his chest, spine, and ribs, radiating outward like electricity coursing through every nerve ending. His body arched violently, muscles trembling and trembling again, and a raw, animalistic sound tore free from him before collapsing into a shuddering, helpless exhale.

The dirt bit into his skin, gritty and unyielding, but he barely noticed. His chest stuttered, lungs laboring in desperate, failing rhythm. Every breath came shallow, uneven, tremulous, as if his body had forgotten how to sustain life. Black spots swarmed his vision, dancing and spinning, while the edges of the world blurred and wavered, threatening to fold in on him entirely.

“This is bad,” Nancy said, voice tight, jaw clenched, each word shaking with the fear she refused to let dominate her. “This is really bad.”

Steve forced a weak, rasping huff, each breath scraping painfully across his throat like sandpaper on raw skin. Swallowing felt impossible, a sensation like dragging jagged shards of glass down his esophagus, each motion sending fresh, stabbing jolts of agony radiating through his side. Pain exploded in waves, relentless, stealing the air from his lungs and leaving him gasping, chest heaving unevenly, muscles trembling as though his body were trying to fight itself.

“You…” he rasped, voice cracking mid-word, “…always… say that.”

Even as the half-hearted attempt at humor faded, his eyelids fluttered, heavy with exhaustion, and his focus slipped. Darkness crept in around the edges of his vision, pressing closer with every ragged inhale, suffocating, overwhelming.

Robin dropped to his other side with abrupt, unsteady movements, boots skidding in the loose dirt as if her body hadn’t fully processed the horror in front of her. She landed hard on her knees, breath catching in a sharp, ragged gasp that seemed to knock the air out of her chest entirely. Her hands hovered over him for a fractured heartbeat—shaking, useless, trembling like they didn’t know what to do—before curling into tight fists at her sides. Every muscle in her frame was coiled, shoulders locked, spine rigid, as if even the smallest loosening would make her collapse under the weight of what she was seeing.

Her eyes were impossibly wide, glassy and burning with panic she fought desperately to hold at bay. Pupils blown, heart hammering in her chest, her jaw clenched so hard it quivered, teeth grinding together as if she could physically bite back the terror clawing at her.

“Hey,” she said urgently, the word snapping out before cracking into a broken whisper. She swallowed, throat raw, and tried again. “Hey. Hey, Steve.” Softer now, almost fragile, but no less desperate. “No. No checking out on us now. You don’t get to do that. It’s not allowed. You hear me?” Her voice trembled, uneven, strained with the sheer force of holding herself upright for him.

Dustin made a small, fractured sound in his chest—something between a sob and a gasp—and clung harder, arms tightening like iron bands around Steve’s shoulders. Like if he let go, even for a second, Steve might slip right out of him and disappear. He was shaking so badly it bled straight into Steve’s body, every violent tremor jarring wounds that had gone frighteningly numb, sending dull flashes of pain spiraling through him anyway. Dustin’s fingers were knotted tight in Steve’s jacket, twisting the fabric until it creaked and strained, knuckles bone-white, hands aching as if they might cramp and lock in place. His arms quivered with the effort of holding on—of refusing to let go.

“What are you two doing here?” he demanded shakily, the words tripping over each other as fear bled through every syllable. His voice cracked under the strain. His eyes were wide and frantic, darting between faces and the treeline, as if expecting something else to lunge from the dark. His heart slammed so hard against his ribs it felt like it might shatter them from the inside out. “You weren’t supposed to be here. You’re not supposed to—”

His voice snapped cleanly in two.

The words died in his throat, cut off by a sharp, choking inhale. He swallowed hard, throat bobbing as he fought to force the rest back down, to keep himself from falling apart completely. His gaze dropped—dragged helplessly—from Steve’s ashen, blood-smeared face to Nancy’s hands. Hands slick and dark with blood. Hands shaking despite how hard she tried to keep them steady.

The reality of it hit him all at once.

The forest closed in.

The trees loomed too tall, their branches clawing at the sky, shadows stretching and warping across the ground like something alive. Leaves whispered with every stir of air, hissing and murmuring like accusing voices that wouldn’t stop. The darkness felt thick, oppressive, pressing down until the air itself seemed heavier in his lungs. Steve lay between them, broken and bleeding into the dirt, barely tethered to life by threads so thin they felt ready to snap. The weight of it crushed down on Dustin’s chest until it was hard to breathe, like gravity itself had doubled.

“We decided to follow you,” Nancy said quickly, her voice clipped and controlled—the way it always got when panic was clawing at her and she was forcing it down through sheer will. Her eyes never left Steve’s face, tracking the shallow, uneven rise and fall of his chest like it was the only thing anchoring her to the moment. “We heard the fighting. The roar.” Her jaw tightened, fingers flexing against the blood-slick dirt. “And then—” Her gaze flicked up toward the dark canopy above, sharp and alert despite everything. “—the firework. We knew something was wrong. So we called an ambulance on the way.”

Robin nodded stiffly beside Nancy, throat working as she swallowed hard against the tight, burning knot lodged there. “Yeah,” she said, forcing the word out like it scraped on the way up. “Kinda hard to miss the world’s loudest distress signal.” The attempt at humor fell flat the second it left her mouth. She tried to smile—something familiar, something normal, something Steve—but it crumpled almost immediately, brittle and useless. Her gaze flicked to Dustin, eyes softening just a fraction. “Figured that was your handiwork, Henderson.”

“Yeah… that was me.” Dustin let out a weak, watery laugh that shattered halfway through, the sound collapsing into something raw and ugly that didn’t resemble laughter at all. His shoulders hitched as he scrubbed viciously at his face with his sleeve, smearing tears, dirt, and blood together without even realizing it. When he looked back down at Steve, his hands tightened instinctively, fingers digging harder into fabric and skin alike, like sheer grip strength might be the only thing keeping Steve anchored to this side of the dark.

His voice dropped into a fierce, trembling whisper—part plea, part command, part promise he was terrified the universe wouldn’t honor. “You’re not allowed to die,” he said hoarsely. “You hear me? You’re not allowed to.”

Steve’s breathing hitched again—violent, ragged, catastrophically wrong. Each gasp ripped itself out of his chest like torn metal, raw and shredded, scraping up his throat until it burned. Fire and ice tangled there, scorching and freezing all at once. Inhale after jagged inhale stabbed his lungs with white-hot knives, the air catching halfway in, stuttering uselessly as if his chest simply refused to open far enough to let it in. His ribs burned like they were being pried apart with crowbars. Muscles locked, seized, rebelled. Every breath was a battle—and his body was losing it.

It felt like his chest had caved in on itself, folding inward and stealing the space where air was supposed to live. No matter how desperately he tried to force it, no matter how fiercely he clawed at his ribs as if he could pry them apart by will alone, his lungs refused to obey. Pain ripped down his spine in electric flashes with every attempt, nerves screaming, muscles convulsing in sharp, humiliating spasms. His body jerked in short, violent tremors, betraying him completely, alien and unrecognizable—each movement a brutal reminder that breathing was no longer instinctive. Survival wasn’t automatic anymore. It was something he had to drag himself toward, inch by agonizing inch.

Behind his clenched eyelids, the world unraveled. Darkness surged and retreated in nauseating waves, swallowing the edges of his vision before coughing them back up again. Shadows twisted there, wrong and distorted, brushing the edge of perception like grasping fingers. The ground beneath him felt unreal, distant—like he was sinking away from it even as its cold, unforgiving weight pressed into his back, leeching warmth from his skin and pinning him in place.

Nausea coiled tight in his gut, a vicious knot that clenched harder with every spike of pain. It rolled through him in slow, crushing sweeps, methodical and merciless, forcing him to arch weakly against the dirt before he collapsed again. Ragged, broken sounds tore out of him—thin, humiliating gasps he couldn’t stop. His chest burned like it was packed with molten coals and shards of glass; every inhale scraped raw tissue, every exhale fled too quickly, useless and gone before it could do anything but remind him how badly he needed the next one.

Pain raged along Steve’s side, deep and merciless, lancing through shattered ribs with every heartbeat. Each pulse detonated like molten fire behind his eyes, jagged explosions of agony that left him gasping, chest heaving against a cage of bones that refused to expand. His heart thudded erratically, a desperate, faltering rhythm that seemed to stutter under the weight of exhaustion, threatening to quit before him. Lungs that once drew air effortlessly now collapsed inward with each desperate attempt, stealing the oxygen he clawed for, inch by agonizing inch, leaving each breath thinner, shallower, more impossible than the last. Every exhale hissed past cracked, raw lips, carrying only the bitter reminder of how far he was from safety.

Shivers tore through his body, harsh and uncontrollable, jerking limbs in chaotic betrayal. Muscles clenched and spasmed violently, nerves screaming as though lit from within by fire. It felt like he had become a puppet of pain, each tremor and twitch a battle his own body was losing against him. The ground pitched and tilted beneath him, a sickening, vertiginous tilt that made his stomach lurch. Gravity pressed down with impossible weight, pinning him into the dirt, crushing him with a force that seemed intent on dragging him into the earth. His fingers and hands felt distant, alien, numb, barely connected to the rest of him, as if each limb was a foreign instrument acting on its own. Every sound warped grotesquely; the rustle of leaves became sinister whispers, curling around him like claws, promising a merciful release if he would just surrender.

If he let go…

“…Yeah,” he rasped, the word shredded raw by ragged, desperate breaths that tore painfully up his throat. Alien even to his own ears, it emerged hollow and frail, yet stubbornly alive. “…I hear you… Henderson.” Each syllable was a thread of life stretched thin across exhaustion and gnawing pain, quivering with defiance. Every sound seemed to drain a fraction of him, leaving him trembling violently, chest heaving, muscles convulsing as if rejecting him entirely. Limbs shook in chaotic waves, tremors racing from fingers to toes, leaving him a broken, gasping figure clinging to the last shards of consciousness, each breath a stolen, jagged victory.

Nancy’s head snapped up at the faint, hollow echo of his voice, the sound cutting through her like a blade. Exhaustion screamed through every muscle in her body, limbs heavy and burning, weighted down as if molten lead had been poured into her veins—but none of it mattered. Her eyes burned sharp and relentless, fierce with a focus honed over countless nights spent staring down monsters that refused to stay dead. Fear, sleeplessness, pain—she shoved it all down and locked it away. There was no room for weakness now.

Her body coiled instinctively, a spring wound tight and ready to snap. Every movement was taut, economical, deliberate—nothing wasted. She swept her gaze across the treeline with cold, clinical efficiency, dissecting the darkness inch by inch. Every shifting shadow, every whisper of movement, every break in the underbrush was cataloged, judged, weighed for threat. The forest felt wrong—too alive, too watchful—as though it were holding its breath, waiting for them to falter.

Beneath her rigid control, fear pulsed like a live wire, hot and volatile. It buzzed under her skin, electrifying her senses, sharpening her instincts to a razor’s edge. One misstep. One second of distraction. That was all it would take.

“Robin,” she barked, her voice tight with raw authority, cracking through the oppressive night like a whip. It brooked no argument. “Keep an eye out for that ambulance.”

“You got it,” Robin replied immediately.

She snapped upright with stiff, jerky movements, adrenaline hauling her body upright by force alone. The crowbar was clenched in both hands, grip iron-tight, knuckles bleached white. A faint tremor ran through her arms despite her best efforts to suppress it—an ugly, honest tell of how close she was to coming apart. Every line of her body radiated defiance, readiness etched into her posture, even as her breathing came fast and shallow. Each exhale rattled slightly, scraped thin by fear and exhaustion, but her eyes stayed locked on the trees. Unblinking. Unyielding. If something came out of that darkness, it would have to go through her first.

Time stretched thin and brittle around them, seconds dragging like heavy chains pulled through mud. The night pressed in from all sides, thick and suffocating, crowding their lungs, their thoughts, their nerves. Every sound felt too loud—leaves brushing together, branches creaking, the distant groan of the forest settling. Each rustle carried the promise of teeth and claws.

Steve’s breathing hitched again.

A shallow, faltering gasp tore out of him, barely enough to count as air. His chest heaved unevenly, ribs screaming as they struggled to expand. Muscles quivered violently with the effort of keeping him upright, of keeping him here. Pain speared through his side with every breath—sharp, merciless, surgical—like a blade driven straight through exposed nerve endings. White-hot agony burst behind his eyes, his vision swimming as darkness clawed at the edges.

Still, he clawed the air back.

It burned when he inhaled—searing and chemical, like his lungs were lined with acid and splinters, like every breath was scraping raw tissue that had already been shredded beyond repair. The air went in jagged and incomplete, catching painfully halfway through, his chest shuddering as if it might simply give up and fold inward.

There was nothing when he exhaled.

Just a thin, hollow wheeze that collapsed before it finished, air leaking out of him uselessly instead of working. His lungs stuttered, spasmed, forgot their rhythm entirely. Panic clawed sharp and animal at the back of his throat.

His body fought him every step of the way—lungs collapsing inward, muscles trembling, refusing to cooperate—but he dragged each breath in by sheer, bloody-minded will. Staying conscious had become a battle measured in inches. In heartbeats. In fractions of seconds.

And he was losing ground.

The dark pressed closer. His vision tunneled, narrowing to a dim, pulsing ring of light. His hands twitched weakly against the dirt, fingers curling and uncurling as if searching for something to anchor him to the world.

Then—

Sirens wailed somewhere far off in the night.

The sound cut through the forest like a blade.

At first it was faint—thin and distant, almost unreal, like something he was imagining as his brain starved for oxygen. Then it came again, echoing weakly through the trees. Real. Human. Unmistakable. The rising and falling pitch tore straight through the suffocating silence, threading fragile hope through the chaos in his chest.

Each echo grew louder by agonizing degrees.
Each one pulled at him, a taut line digging into his ribs, yanking him back from the edge he was slipping toward.

They were coming.

Relief hit Steve hard and sudden.

So sudden that it hurt.

It slammed into him without warning, a brutal, dizzying rush that knocked the fight clean out of his body. One second he was still forcing himself to stay upright through sheer stubbornness, muscles locked tight out of habit and panic—then the tension snapped. Whatever had been holding him together tore loose all at once, bleeding away like something vital had been ripped straight out of his chest.

His body reacted before his mind could catch up.

Muscles loosened in a cascading failure. Strength drained from his limbs in a sickening rush, leaving them heavy, unresponsive, wrong. His knees wobbled, then buckled entirely, and the moment he stopped actively fighting gravity, it claimed him without mercy. His spine sagged. His shoulders slumped. His weight collapsed back into the dirt as if his bones had simply forgotten how to hold him upright.

The ground felt impossibly cold beneath him.

His breathing faltered.

The thin, jagged rhythm he’d been clawing along on stuttered, then broke apart entirely. Adrenaline bled out of his system in a nauseating wave, and pain came roaring in unchecked—raw and brutal and all-consuming. Every injury announced itself at once, screaming for attention now that nothing was holding them at bay.

His chest felt like it was being hammered from the inside, ribs bending under a weight that refused to lift, pressing him toward the ground even when he fought to rise. Each breath scraped and tore through lungs that wouldn’t expand, air catching halfway, sputtering out like smoke through a broken chimney—thin, useless, painfully insufficient. He tried to draw more in—needed to—but his body betrayed him. Each inhale shattered into ragged fragments, sharp little shards that only fanned the fire crawling through his chest, hot enough to make him shiver even as sweat slicked his skin.

A flare of heat lanced across his side, bright and searing.

Something inside twisted wrong. Even the slightest motion set off a sickening internal slide, jagged bolts of agony shooting through his ribs, down the spine, hammering at nerves he didn’t know could feel that much. It felt unhinged—broken—like a single careless breath might make everything snap apart entirely. The pain radiated outward in cruel, relentless waves, blooming and folding back on itself until his vision swam and his stomach pitched violently.

His head throbbed, a merciless drum behind his eyes, as if his skull itself were trying to crush his thoughts. Heartbeats landed heavy, wrong—thud… thud…—too slow, too deliberate, leaving a hollow pause between that curled dread tight around his ribs and knotted his gut.

Before panic could sink its teeth in.
Before fear could twist tight and ugly and drag him under.
Before his body could fully betray him—tipping him into a breath‑stealing, paralyzing spiral—

He forced himself to relax.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t easy. It was a deliberate, brutal act of will, prying himself apart piece by piece. His jaw loosened first with a faint, painful click, muscles trembling as they let go. His shoulders followed, sagging in uneven jerks, the tension bleeding out like something spilled and wasted. Finally—after a long, shuddering second—he let his eyes slide shut.

The darkness rushed in hungrily.

It didn’t fall so much as consume—devouring the fractured silhouettes of trees and sky in uneven, greedy bites. What little light remained smeared and bled together until there was no separation left, no horizon, no sense of direction. Up and down lost all meaning. Without sight to anchor him, the world pitched violently, as if the ground itself had tipped on its axis. The earth felt impossibly far away, like he was still falling even while lying motionless—weightless and unbearably heavy all at once.

Exhaustion hit him like a wave breaking over his head.

Not gradual. Not gentle. It slammed into him all at once, a crushing force that stole what little resistance he had left. A merciless undertow wrapped around his limbs and dragged him down, deeper and deeper—into the dirt, into stillness, into the place his body had been begging to collapse since the first blow landed. It pressed on his chest, on his spine, on the fragile space behind his eyes where consciousness clung by its fingertips, slippery and tenuous.

His grip slackened.

Fingers that had been clenched tight in the soil began to uncurl one by one, slow and clumsy, like they no longer remembered how to obey him. They were numb with cold and pain, trembling faintly as grit and damp leaves slid uselessly through his grasp. He tried—dimly, instinctively—to hold on, but there was no strength left to answer the command. No resistance. No traction. Nothing solid left to cling to. His hands fell away entirely, arms dropping heavy at his sides, unresponsive—foreign, distant, like they belonged to someone else entirely.

His body sagged fully into the ground.

Every muscle gave out in a violent shudder—a full-body tremor that tore through him from shoulders to calves before cutting off abruptly. The release was sudden and jarring, like a cord snapping. He went limp all at once, the tension draining so fast it left him shaking in its wake. He lay there trembling, breath stuttering and uneven, helpless in a way that went far deeper than physical injury.

He couldn’t even tense against the pain anymore.

The instinct to brace—to grit his teeth, to lock his muscles, to endure—simply… vanished. It slipped away without warning, leaving him exposed and trembling. There was nothing left to marshal. No reserve to draw from. Whatever stubborn fire had kept him upright burned itself out completely, leaving only embers that couldn’t keep him warm.

He couldn’t hold himself together.

Couldn’t pretend.

Now that the danger had passed—now that his body realized it was allowed to stop—the fragile wall he’d built from adrenaline and defiance collapsed inward. The moment the last support gave way, pain surged in to claim the space it left behind, flooding him without restraint.

It roared unchecked.

Loud. Relentless. All‑consuming.

Every injury screamed at once, no longer muted by motion or fear. His chest burned and ached with every shallow pull of air, ribs protesting sharply as his lungs struggled to expand. Each breath scraped in and out in fragile, uneven pulls—thin, unsatisfying, barely functional. Each inhale felt weaker than the last, air failing to reach where it was needed. Each exhale collapsed into a hollow wheeze that cut off too soon, leaving his chest tight and burning, starved and panicked.

His side throbbed with a deep, nauseating ache that flared with every breath, every heartbeat, each pulse sending a fresh spike of agony through his ribs. His head pounded relentlessly, pressure blooming behind his eyes until it felt like his skull might split apart from the inside. Pain layered over pain until it blurred together into something vast and suffocating, a constant, screaming presence he couldn’t escape.

His consciousness flickered.

It grew dim and unstable, like a dying flame guttering in a draft—bright one moment, dangerously close to extinguishing the next.

The world didn’t end all at once—it shattered.

Sensation came in broken pieces, jagged and out of order. Cold dirt burned through his clothes, the chill biting deep, soaking into his skin until it felt fused there, as if the ground itself were crawling into him. Damp earth pressed hard against his back, unyielding, each shallow rise and fall of his chest grinding him further into it. He couldn’t tell if the tremor running through him came from the cold, the pain, or the simple fact that his body was finally beginning to fail.

Blood flooded his mouth, thick and sticky, the copper taste overwhelming. It pooled at the back of his throat, hot and metallic, triggering a reflex he couldn’t stop. He swallowed—and agony detonated behind his ribs. Pain rippled outward from his chest in a blinding wave, sharp enough to steal the breath from his lungs entirely. His body jerked uselessly, lungs spasming as if they’d forgotten how to work, breath stuttering and breaking against damage they could no longer compensate for.

Air scraped in shallow, ragged pulls. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

Somewhere beyond the thick, suffocating haze, the sirens kept screaming.

At least—he thought they did.

Their shrill cries stabbed at his ears in warped fragments, the sound stretched and mangled as it fought its way through whatever distance and damage separated him from it. It rose suddenly, sharp and piercing, setting his nerves alight—then fell away just as fast, unraveling into a thin, echoing wail that barely sounded real. The pitch bent and twisted, oscillating between too loud and not there at all, until he couldn’t tell where it began or ended.

Sometimes it cut through the fog with brutal clarity, loud enough to make his heart jolt painfully in his chest, hope flaring so hard it almost hurt more than the injuries themselves.

Other times it vanished completely.

Gone so thoroughly that all that remained was the high, relentless ringing inside his skull. In those moments, doubt crept in, cold and insidious. He wondered if the sirens had ever been there at all—or if his mind, starved for comfort, was clinging to a familiar sound as it began to fracture under the strain.

Maybe it was all just wishful thinking.

That the sirens were still coming.
That they were ever real at all.

That somewhere beyond the crushing dark pressing in on him from every side, someone was moving toward him instead of away—closing distance instead of widening it.

No.

The word tore through his thoughts, rough and ragged, dragged up from somewhere deep and desperate. It hurt just to form it.

No—they >were real. They had to be.

He shoved the thought forward with the last shreds of clarity he had left, forcing it into place through sheer, grinding stubbornness. His mind fought him viciously—sluggish, swollen, heavy as if packed with wet sand. Every idea slipped, every memory blurred at the edges, refusing to stay put. It took effort just to hold onto a single coherent thought.

But he wouldn’t let this one go.

He couldn’t.

Letting go of that belief felt too much like letting go of everything else—like loosening his grip on the edge and letting himself fall the rest of the way.

Nancy had said she and Robin had called an ambulance.

He remembered her voice—strained, tight with fear, but steady. Remembered the way she’d looked at him, eyes fierce and determined even as her hands shook.

And Nancy wouldn’t lie to him.

Not about this.

Help was coming.

They were coming for him.

They were coming to stop the bleeding he could feel spreading in sticky warmth beneath him. To ease the pain that flared and pulsed with every uneven heartbeat. To pull him back from the edge he was sliding toward faster with every shallow, broken breath he managed to drag in.

He was going to live.

The belief was thin—fragile as spun glass, sharp enough to cut—but he wrapped himself around it anyway. Clung to it with everything he had left. As the darkness pressed closer, creeping inward from the edges of his vision, it became the only thing anchoring him.

The world dimmed.

Color drained away until everything blurred into washed-out gray. Shapes smeared and bled together, losing meaning. The ground beneath him felt both too hard and unreal, like it might dissolve if he stopped paying attention to it. Time unraveled completely—seconds stretched endlessly, then vanished without warning. Moments slipped loose and fell away before he could grasp them, leaving him stranded in a foggy, painful now.

That single thought—they’re coming—was all that remained.

A lifeline pulled taut, stretched thin between him and the world he refused to let go of.

Even when it would be so easy to let go.

The thought pressed in on him with the same suffocating weight as the pain, insistent and tempting. Letting go would be simpler. Quieter. He wouldn’t have to keep forcing air into lungs that felt shredded from the inside out—lungs that burned like they were lined with broken glass, every inhale scraping raw, every exhale leaving him weaker, emptier, closer to nothing. Each breath felt like a negotiation his body was losing, the space in his chest too tight, too damaged to hold what he needed.

He wouldn’t have to keep fighting the crushing weight of pain pressing down on his ribs, the way it bowed his chest inward and made every movement an act of agony. Gravity itself seemed to have turned against him, dragging him deeper into the ground, pinning him there as if the earth were trying to claim him. His body felt unbearably heavy, limbs leaden and unresponsive, as though he were already half-buried.

He wouldn’t have to keep resisting the cold fear seeping into his bones, spreading slow and numbing, whispering over and over that he was tired—so unbearably tired. That he had done enough. That rest was right there, waiting, if he would just stop fighting it.

To stop trying.

To stop hurting.

To just… sink.

The pull was constant. Relentless. Not violent, not sudden—but persuasive. A steady, coaxing pressure urging him downward, promising relief if he would only stop struggling. It wrapped around his thoughts and his body alike, heavy and soothing. Rest waited there—dark and soft and painless. No more fire tearing through his lungs. No more fear clawing at his ribs. No more hurt screaming through every nerve ending.

Just stillness.

His body screamed for it.

Muscles trembled violently, spasms tearing through him before fading into weakness. One by one, they began to slacken, surrendering despite him. Exhaustion flooded him so completely it felt terminal, like his body had reached some final, irreversible limit and simply… shut down. His hands twitched uselessly against the dirt. His fingers wouldn’t quite curl. His chest stuttered, breaths coming uneven and shallow, each one a little weaker than the last.

Every instinct begged him to give in. To let the dark take him. To finally be done.

But he refused.

Not now. Not when the sirens were this close—close enough that it hurt when they faded again, close enough to remind him that the world was still out there. Not when he’d already fought this hard, endured this much, dragged himself this far on nothing but stubborn will and borrowed strength that was nearly gone.

Because whether it was a bad decision or not, he would choose it again.

Every hit he’d taken—each one snapping through him, rattling bone and blurring his vision until the world tilted sideways.
Every bone-jarring impact that crushed the air from his lungs and left him sprawled and gasping, chest screaming as it struggled to remember how to breathe.
Every wound carved into him and paid for in blood, each one seared into his memory like a brand, impossible to forget.
Every breath ripped from his lungs and dragged back by nothing but raw, desperate force of will.

He would endure it all again. Without hesitation. Without regret.

Because it meant protecting his six little nuggets. Because it meant keeping them safe when he couldn’t protect himself. And if this—this bone-deep, all-consuming agony tearing him apart—was the cost, then it was a price he would pay a thousand times over, gladly.

The darkness surged closer at last, thick and heavy, curling inward like a living thing. It crowded his thoughts, dulled his senses, softened the sharp edges of pain into something distant and echoing. The world narrowed, sounds fading, sensation blurring. His strength bled out of him completely, muscles going slack, the fight draining away whether he wanted it to or not.

And with that final, stubborn thought clenched tight in the wreckage of his mind, Steve let himself fall the rest of the way.

Not in surrender.

But in trust.

He allowed the darkness to close in, believing—just this once—that someone else would reach him before it swallowed him whole.