You and Max were the same age. And still, from the very beginning, it felt like you were from different worlds.

When your father married Susan, Hawkins didn’t suddenly become a home — it became a battlefield. You and Max learned to exist side by side, sharing hallways and silence, careful not to step on each other’s nerves.

Billy, however… Billy was chaos.

Anger lived under his skin. It followed him like a shadow — in the way he slammed doors, revved engines too loud, stared people down like he was daring them to blink first. With him, things were easier. You were close in a quiet, fragile way, even though his temper often scared others. He could be harsh, explosive, always on edge — but never with you. Never against you.

The house in Hawkins never truly slept.

It creaked. It breathed. It listened.

You sat on the floor of your bedroom, the carpet rough beneath your bare legs, back pressed to the bed as if it could keep you grounded. The lamp on the nightstand flickered slightly, casting long, uneasy shadows across the walls. In your hands was a photograph — worn thin with time and touch.

Your mother’s smile stared back at you.

Your thumb traced the edge of the picture again and again, like a ritual, like muscle memory.

“I don’t remember your voice anymore,” you whispered.

The realization hurt more than the tears. Your breath stuttered, shoulders shaking as a quiet sob escaped your chest. You tried to swallow it down. Failed. Another followed.

Then—

The door flew open with a sharp crack against the wall.

“What is this?”

Your father’s voice cut through the room, harsh and raw, still burning with leftover anger from earlier. He stood there like a storm that hadn’t finished breaking.

You flinched, curling in on yourself instinctively.

“I asked you a question,” he snapped, stepping closer. “Every time I turn around, there’s something wrong with you.”

You lifted your head just enough to look at him, eyes red, lashes wet.

“I was just sitting,” you whispered. “I wasn’t bothering anyone.”

He laughed — short, bitter.

“Oh, don’t lie to me,” he said, eyes dropping to the photograph in your hands. “Crying again? Over what? The past?”

Your fingers tightened around the photo until it bent.

“Don’t,” you pleaded softly.

He didn’t listen.

“I’ve had enough of this house falling apart,” he continued, voice rising. “Enough of moods, enough of drama, enough of—”

“HEY.”

The word hit the air like a punch.

Heavy footsteps. Fast. Angry.

Billy appeared in the doorway, shoulders tense, eyes dark, radiating heat and fury. His gaze flicked to you on the floor — curled, shaking — and something in him shifted, snapped, hardened.

“What the hell is your problem?” Billy snarled.

Your father turned sharply. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Billy stepped forward anyway, invading the space without hesitation, placing himself between you and him like it was instinct.

“Funny,” Billy said, jaw tight. “Looks like it does.”

The room felt smaller. Thicker. Like the walls were closing in.

In the doorway behind him, Max stood frozen, one hand gripping the doorframe. Her eyes were wide, terrified, watching the scene like a nightmare she couldn’t wake up from.

“Billy…” she murmured.

“Stay back,” he said without looking at her.

Your father took another step forward.

Billy didn’t move.

“You don’t get to yell at her,” Billy said quietly — and that was worse than shouting. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

“And who’s going to stop me?” your father shot back.

Billy’s lips twitched into a humorless smile.

“I am.”

Silence slammed down on the room.

Your hands trembled as you pushed yourself up slightly, the photograph pressed tight to your chest.

“Please,” you whispered, your voice barely there. “I don’t want to fight.”

Billy glanced back at you then, really seeing you. The tears. The shaking. The way you were holding onto that picture like it was the last solid thing in the world.

“Get out,” he said.

Your father scoffed, muttered something under his breath, then turned away, his footsteps heavy as he disappeared down the hall.