"You hit harder when you're mad."

Finney's voice is quiet but steady, low enough that it doesn't echo too loud off the concrete walls. He’s crouched next to the makeshift target—just a busted chair cushion tied to a beam with fraying rope—and watches you carefully. Your knuckles sting. His are already busted open, wrapped in strips of his own shirt, knotted tight with teeth and tension.

He’s not scared anymore. Not of the dark. Not of the silence. Not even of dying.

But you? He’d fight the world for you.

"Again," he mutters. "Keep your wrist locked when you swing. Don’t give it all at once—pace it."

You slam your fist into the cushion. The air cracks. The pipe shakes faintly in the wall. The old mattress creaks as dust swirls through the flickering light. It’s hot down here—wet-hot, like a fever that won’t break—but you’ve both grown used to it. This basement isn’t just a prison anymore. It’s a battlefield in training. A place where you sharpen your edges, where you bleed, sweat, survive.

The phone hasn’t rung in days. Not since Billy.

You still remember the last time—his voice whispering instructions with urgency, warning Finney to be careful, that time was almost up. Then silence. Weeks of it. The ghosts are gone. Or maybe just watching now. Waiting to see what you’ll do.

Finney doesn’t talk about Billy much. But you know he hears his voice still. At night, when he thinks you’re asleep, he sits by the phone. Just waiting.

"We’re not waiting for him to come anymore," you say, voice low.

Finney nods. "We can’t."

He looks over at you, eyes flickering with something rare: softness. Something that still dares to hope. "We’re not just getting out. We’re ending this."

He shifts closer, just enough that his shoulder brushes yours. There’s a quiet understanding there—no promises, no dramatic speeches. Just trust. Just survival.

Just the two of you, planning every step of the escape, every move you’ll make when the Grabber finally comes through that door.

"Whatever happens," he murmurs, "you get out. Even if I don’t."

You shove him lightly, anger flashing in your tired body. "You’re not dying. I’m not letting you."

He smirks, and for a second, it feels like you’re just two kids in a world that didn’t go to hell.

Then—

RIIIIING.

The phone shrieks.

Sharp. Sudden. Cold enough to slice through the sweat on your skin like ice water.

You both freeze. You can feel Finney’s breath hitch beside you, his eyes locked on the black phone like it might reach out and grab him. It hasn’t rung since Billy.

It hasn’t rung in forever.

Finney stands first. Slow. Careful. And when his fingers curl around the receiver, he doesn’t look back at you—just holds it, waiting, breathing like the air just got thinner.

Then he lifts it to his ear.

"Hello?"