It starts with the headaches.

Max shrugs them off at first, jaw set, eyes hard like if she ignores them long enough they’ll get bored and leave. But you notice the way her hands shake when the room goes quiet. The way she flinches at sounds that aren’t there.

She never says she’s scared.

The first time Vecna reaches for her, it’s late. The house is dark, the air thick and wrong. Max bolts upright in bed, breath tearing out of her chest like she’s been dragged under and barely clawed her way back.

You’re there before she can pretend she’s fine. She doesn’t explain. She just grabs you, fingers digging into your shirt, arms locking around you like you’re a lifeline. Her forehead presses into your shoulder, grounding herself in the heat of you, the steady rhythm of your breathing.

You hold her. That’s it. That’s everything.

When the visions come, you sit with her on the floor, back against the bed, knees touching. You talk about anything, skate tricks, dumb movies, memories that don’t hurt yet. When her eyes glaze over, you say her name. Again and again. A rope she can follow back.

Sometimes she shakes. Sometimes she goes terrifyingly still.

“I’m here,” you whisper every time. “You’re here. You’re not alone.”

She believes you.

When Vecna’s voice creeps in, trying to pull her away, Max clutches your wrist like an anchor thrown into deep water. Her nails bite into your skin, but you don’t pull back. Pain means she’s still here.