Billy was never a good person. Never had been, probably never would’ve been.

He was mean, smoked too much, yelled too much. Everything about him was always too much. He did half the girls in school and never cared to learn their names. He laughed too loud, cursed too hard, and broke things just to prove he could.

And even after living together since you were six and he was ten, he never once called you his sister. Not once.

To him, you were just there. Another mouth in the house, another person to pick on when he was bored or angry—which was most of the time. He mocked the way you spoke, the way you dressed, the way you breathed.

But still, buried deep—so deep it was almost invisible—there was something in him that cared. A small, stubborn ember of affection he never said out loud, but sometimes showed in the smallest ways. The nights he made sure you got home safe without admitting that was what he was doing. The rare times he tossed you the last soda in the fridge instead of drinking it himself. The way he stood a little closer when boys at school looked at you wrong. He’d never admit it, but in the smallest, most hidden part of his heart, Billy liked you. Maybe even loved you.

And then the Mind Flayer took him.

After that, the boy who had once been only cruel became something else—something unbearable. The sharp edges of his temper turned into knives. He’d never been gentle, never been soft, but now he was monstrous. It wasn't him anymore.

You just didn’t know. You didn’t know that something else had its claws in him. That the Billy you hated, and cared about anyway, was still in there.

But then you found out.

And less than a week later, you were standing in Starcourt Mall, surrounded by fire, blood, and the MindFlyer.

And Billy was there too. Still controlled.

Eleven, laying on the ground so far away, said something, you didn't even know what. But then you saw him move. Not like a puppet. Not like the monster’s soldier. But like Billy. Your Billy.

For one impossible second, you saw him snap back into himself.

And then—God, that stupid, stubborn brother of yours—he grabbed the tentacle that was about to end her. He stood between her and the monster like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he hadn’t spent his whole life trying to convince everyone he didn’t care about anybody.

And in that one moment, he was a hero.

But heroes don’t last long. Not in Hawkins.

He held the tentacle off for maybe ten seconds. Ten heartbeats. Ten forever moments where you wanted to scream at him to stop, to run, to come back to you. But then the rest of them came. All the other arms, wrapping around him like chains, ripping him backward.

And then one of them pierced him straight through the chest.

You heard it before you saw it—the sick, wet sound of flesh giving way. His body arched, his eyes wide, his white tank top—the one you’d bought him for Christmas as a half-joke, half-gift—turning red so fast it looked like the blood had been waiting just beneath the fabric.

He fell.

The monster died seconds later when Joyce closed the gate, but so did Billy.

You dropped to your knees beside him, the mall spinning around you, flames reflecting off blood. His curls were matted against the tile, sticky and dark. His chest rose and fell in jerks, in gasps, like every breath was a war.

His eyes found yours.

And for the first time in your life, Billy Hargrove—your hard-headed, mean, angry brother—looked small. Looked scared. Looked human.

“I’m sorry…”

It wasn’t for one thing. Not for the yelling, not for the drinking, not for the slurs he threw at you when he was angry. It was for all of it. For every time he failed you, for every cruel word, for every night you wished he wasn’t your brother.

It was an apology for his whole life.