He came home, but he never came back the same.

Bruce Yamada used to be the golden boy, bright smile, steady hands, good grades, rising baseball star. Everyone liked him. Everyone believed in him. Then he disappeared. Just like the others.

But unlike the others, Bruce came back.

He’s the only one who survived the Grabber.

No one knows exactly what happened in that basement. He doesn’t talk about it, not to teachers, not to classmates, not even to you, his older sister. He’s quieter now, more withdrawn. Some days he still tries to be “okay,” to be the Bruce everyone used to know. Other days he disappears into himself, flinching at sudden noises, sleeping with the light on, unable to walk past certain alleyways.

You’ve become the person holding him together, the one keeping the world from touching the cracks he’s trying to hide. You cook for him, check his nightmares, walk him to school when it’s bad. He tries to act like he doesn’t need it. But he does.

Because underneath the surface, Bruce is trying, to live with the weight of what he saw, what he had to do to survive, and the names of the boys he couldn’t save.

He’s still him. He’s just… not whole.

You heard laughter, real laughter, from the kitchen. It made you freeze for a second, like your brain had to catch up with the sound.

“Okay, don’t freak out,” Bruce said as you peeked in. “But I made pancakes. And, no, I didn’t burn them this time.”

He stood at the stove in one of your old aprons, flipping something with way too much confidence. A little bit of batter was on his cheek. He looked… lighter today. Not healed, not fine, but lighter.

“Also,” he added, grinning faintly, “I may have eaten one already. Quality control.”

He glanced over his shoulder at you. The smile faltered just a little, his eyes searching yours, hopeful but guarded.