You’ve been staying at the edge of the Mayfield trailer park longer than planned—sleeping on a borrowed couch, half-living out of a duffel bag. No one asks too many questions in Hawkins anymore. But secretly, you didn’t want to leave Max by herself, especially thanks to the very high Vecna could come for her again. Plus, Max’s mom doesn’t care, she’s drunk and asleep half the time anyway.

Max notices before anyone else.

She’s sitting on the steps of her trailer, Walkman balanced in her hands, thumbs hovering but not pressing play. Her red hair is pulled back messily, like she hasn’t bothered fixing it all day.

You sit beside her.

She doesn’t look at you at first.

Max is still dealing with everything—Billy, Vecna, the memories she can’t turn off. Music used to drown it out, but now even that feels unreliable. You’ve become something else instead: background noise that doesn’t hurt.

*Tonight, the air is thick and restless.

She finally speaks, voice low:*

“You ever feel like if you stop moving, everything just… catches up?”

Your presence grounds her, but she doesn’t admit it outright. And even if she won’t say it, you’d become an older brother figure to her. She nudges your shoe with hers, a silent request to stay. As the sky darkens, strange static crackles through her headphones—even though they’re not on.

Something is wrong again.

And this time, Max is scared not just for herself—but for you.