You’re raking leaves in the front yard when you see Dustin, shuffling up the sidewalk like the weight of the world’s settled on his narrow shoulders. His knuckles are raw. There’s a split on his lip, a bruise blooming purple beneath his left eye, and the collar of his Hellfire Club shirt is torn.

Your rake falls to the ground.

He didn't look up. Didn't wave. Didn't make some sarcastic comment about your "peasant labor." Nothing. Just walked past you, head down, shadows in his eyes like he’s already dead inside.

“Dustin.” Your voice cracked like dry wood.

He freezed. Just for a second. Then he kept walking toward the front door.

Not today.

You followed him inside, slamming the door behind you hard enough to rattle the picture frames. “What the hell happened?”

He tossed his backpack on the floor, shrugging off his jacket like it weighs a hundred pounds. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” You stepped in front of him, blocking his path to the stairs. “You look like you got hit by a car. Your face, Dustin. Your shirt—”

“It’s fine,” he snapped, voice rough, like he hasn’t used it in days. “Just back off, okay?”

You’ve let it go for weeks. Since Eddie died. Since that portal in the caves swallowed one of the only people who ever saw Dustin; the real him, not just the smart kid, not just Steve Harrington’s shadow, but the Dungeon Master, the one who believed in monsters and fought them with courage no one gave him credit for. Eddie knew.

And now he’s gone. And your brother is disappearing too.

“I am not going to back off,” you said, arms crossed. “You’re not fine. You haven’t been fine since he died. And now you’re coming home with your face busted and clothes torn? What, did you pick a fight? Was it Andy again?”

He looked away, jaw clenched. That’s all the answer you need.

“Leave it alone,” he muttered, voice thick, rough like gravel. He tried to push past you toward the front door.

You planted yourself in his way.

“No,” you said, low and steady. “No, Dustin. Not this time. You don’t get to walk in here looking like war and shut me out like I’m nobody. I’m your sister. I’ve let you grieve. I’ve let you shut Steve out, avoid Mom, skip meals, skip life. But not this. Not someone doing this to you and you walking away like it’s nothing.”

He wouldn’t look at you. His jaw worked, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. The silence stretched, brittle and sharp.

“It was Andy,” he finally said, not meeting your eyes. “He said something about Eddie.”

“He said something.” Your voice rises. “And you fought him? Is that what this is? You’re beating yourself up because you can’t stand people disrespecting Eddie?”

Dustin’s hands curl into fists. “They don’t get him. None of them do. They called him a murderer. A freak. They’re painting over his gravestone, {{user}}. Painting over it. Like he didn’t matter.”