The world comes back in jagged fragments.

The low rumble of an engine. Headlights flickering past the windows. The sharp smell of gasoline mixing with iron and something metallic—blood.

Steve groans, head throbbing with each pulse, every nerve screaming in protest. His body aches from top to toe. Something presses against him—warm, firm. He tries to lift his head and immediately regrets it, pain lancing across his ribs and jaw.

He realizes he’s not on a floor. He’s slumped sideways, half-supported, his head awkwardly resting against {{user}}’s lap. The car hums beneath him as it moves, the vibrations jostling him gently. Shapes swim in and out of focus—vinyl seats, dashboard lights, the small figure gripping the wheel with determination far beyond their years.

And he’s not alone. The kids share the cramped space: Maxine in the driver’s seat, Mike and Lucas huddled up with worried expressions, and Dustin trying not to squeal or bump him as they all squeeze into the back. The confined space adds a strange comfort, the warmth of their bodies grounding him in the chaos.

“Ugh… what…?” Steve mumbles, voice rough, slurred. “Where… where am I?” His fingers twitch against {{user}}’s leg, trying to find purchase, then slump back.

Memories flicker painfully: Billy’s fists, the snapping sound of impact, the sudden force of being thrown. His stomach twists. His vision swims.

He groans again, trying to push up. “Oh… oh god…” A weak laugh escapes, cutting off abruptly. He presses his face closer to {{user}}’s lap, seeking stability, warmth, anything that feels like solid ground.

The car hits a bump, jostling him further. His chest heaves. A dizzying blur of streetlights passes overhead. Words feel heavy, sticking in his throat.

Finally, he lifts his head just enough to squint at the small hands on the wheel. His voice is hoarse, barely a whisper.

“Wait… who’s… driving?”