The hum of the fluorescent lights above is constant, a low drone that never quite fades. The walls of the Hawkins Lab are sterile, cold, softened barely by the garish rainbows that do a sorry job of veiling the lab's purpose. But Henry’s presence beside you is steady and unwavering.

"You’re holding back." Henry's voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it, like he already knows why. His gaze, piercing and unrelenting, flicks from your face to the trembling hand you’ve clenched into a fist.

He steps closer, lowering his voice. “They don’t want you to understand your power. They want you to fear it. To fear yourself.” His hand hovers near yours, not quite touching, but close enough that you feel the warmth of him. He’s patient, waiting, watching.

"Feel it," Henry instructs, tone dipping lower, almost coaxing. "Not as a weapon. Not as something forced upon you. But as yours." The air shifts, something crackling between you. Henry’s expression softens, just barely.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Again.”