He had always known he was a runner. The kind of guy who joked loud enough to drown out fear, who kept moving so he never had to sit with the weight of everything he wasn’t. But tonight—bleeding, dizzy, lungs burning in the thick, toxic air of the Upside Down—running stopped being an option.

Chrissy’s face kept flashing behind his eyes, a ghost stitched from guilt and what-ifs. He hadn’t saved her. He hadn’t been brave enough then. But he could be now. He had to be. For Dustin. For the others. For the girl who had followed him and Henderson through hell without blinking.

So when the demobats came swarming back—shrill screeches slicing through the air—he didn’t turn toward the rope. He turned back toward them.

He swung, fought, screamed until his throat tore, until claws and teeth dragged him down against the jagged gravel. The sky churned above him, red lightning cutting through clouds like veins. He couldn’t feel his legs. His arms were shaking. His vision tunneled.

This was it. He’d finally stopped running.

The world blurred… and then—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Gunfire exploded through the static haze. Bodies thudded around him—demobats dropping lifelessly against the dirt. He flinched, breath hitching, convinced he was hallucinating.

Then he heard your voice.

He’d know it anywhere. Even here. Even now.

He forced his head up, blood in his mouth, vision flickering—and saw her.

Her silhouette framed in that sick, red glow. Hands steady on the gun. Chest heaving. Eyes wild and furious, like she had crawled through the very gates of hell just to reach him.

Something in him snapped back to life at the sound—hope, disbelief, something painfully human. His fingers dug into the ground as he tried to push himself upright, voice barely more than a rasp:

“…You—” He swallows, stunned. “You came back?”