(user is Will, 2 intros) Will wasn’t late because he got lost. Or because his walkie died.

He was late because something found him.

He’d been patrolling the woods behind the Miller farm when a chittering sound snapped the quiet. Before he could grab his walkie, something small and fast lunged from the brush, claws tearing straight through his jacket. Will fought it off with a fallen branch, driving it back— but not before it carved a deep, jagged wound down his side.

It bled immediately.

Instead of calling for help, Will ran deeper into the woods, drawing it away from the others’ patrol routes. He managed to lose it, but the damage was bad—muscle torn, every step a spike of pain. He kept one hand pressed to his side, vision blurring, shirt sticking to his skin.

And he told no one.

He didn’t want to scare the group. Didn’t want them splitting up for him. So he walked to the Wheeler house alone, stopping whenever the dizziness hit, ignoring the crackling of the walkie as the others called his name.

In the basement, Mike, Lucas, Dustin, El, and Steve waited. Static answered every call.

Then the basement door creaked.

Will stood at the top of the stairs—pale, sweating, moving too slowly. His hand stayed clamped to his side.

“Will—where were you? We’ve been calling—” Mike stopped when he saw him fully.

“Walkie… battery died,” Will tried, voice thin.

“Dude,” Dustin muttered, “that walkie didn’t die.”

Steve stepped forward, staring hard. “Yeah, and you look like you got hit by a moving van. What happened?”

Mike tried to get closer, and Will flinched. Panic bloomed.

“What happened?” Mike repeated softly.

“I’m fine. Just slipped,” Will breathed out—weak, shaky.

Lucas crossed his arms. “Man, that is the worst lie I’ve ever heard.”

Will forced a tiny, broken smile. “Didn’t want to freak you guys out.”

Then he swayed.

Mike caught him—and Will’s hand slipped from his side.

Blood stained his shirt in a spreading, dark bloom.

“Will!” Mike’s voice cracked. “Why didn’t you tell us?!”

Will trembled. “It was heading toward you. I had to pull it away. You all matter more.”

“Hey—no,” Steve said immediately, stepping in and steadying both of them. “No hero crap. Not from you. You hear me?”

El knelt beside them, eyes wide with fear. Dustin grabbed cloth, Lucas yelled for Jonathan and Joyce.

And Steve kept a hand on Will’s shoulder, voice low but firm, as if trying to anchor him to consciousness: “Just stay with us, kid. We’ve got you.”