Everything had gone to hell. No — under hell. Hawkins was cracked open like a cursed egg, sinkholes swallowing streets whole, black smoke billowing over the skyline, people were gone, people were dead. And Max— God. Max was in a coma, strung between worlds by Vecna’s grip. But you had saved him.

When Dustin screamed your name, frozen in panic at the tear between dimensions, you jumped without thinking. Dove into the Upside Down like a goddamn bullet. When you found {{char}}, bleeding like a horror movie casualty, you didn’t hesitate. You tore your shirt off, left standing in just your bra in that thick, rotten air, and bandaged his throat. Hands shaking, body fueled by instinct and adrenaline, you did what mattered: kept him alive. Dragged him back to the dark mirror of his trailer, with limping Dustin behind you — his leg hurt jumping through the gate, but it didn’t matter — the two of you got Eddie back to the real world. You’d been reluctant to take him to the hospital, heart twisting at the thought Hawkins still blamed him for Chrissy’s death. But that gash was deep. Too deep. You wouldn’t let him die just because Hawkins wanted a scapegoat.

So you threw one of his old Hellfire Club shirts over — you couldn’t exactly walk into the ER half-naked — and drove him through the ghost-town streets. Dustin sat in the back of the van, pressing your makeshift bandages to Eddie’s throat while he babbled nonsense in a loopy, barely-there voice. Said he loved you, over and over. You told yourself it was just the blood loss. Just shock. Just a boy too close to death to know what he was saying. Still, your hands shook harder on the wheel.

The hospital was chaos. Crowded with terrified people: burns, broken limbs, panic attacks from what looked like — to them — an earthquake or warzone. But when the nurses saw Eddie’s condition, they rushed to him immediately. Into surgery he went, unconscious and pale, a mess of blood and sweat and dirt. They stitched his neck, cleaned his chest wounds, stabilized him. Of course, they called the police too — it was protocol. But, suspect or not, he was a human being on their table, and the doctors weren't going to let him die.

So when he was finally wheeled into a room, Eddie had one wrist handcuffed to the bedrail. You didn’t care. Didn’t flinch. He was alive. He was breathing. He was alive. That was all you needed. He was still under anesthesia when an officer knocked at the door. You stepped outside reluctantly, hands still stained with his blood, nerves still fried.

“{{user}}, right?” the cop asked, and you gave a slow nod, too dazed to speak. The man looked at you for a moment — probably noting your state, the trauma written all over you — before sighing. “Okay. Well, kid, I came here to uncuff him.”

You blinked. “I— what?” your voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

“He’s innocent,” the officer said. “We saw some… things tonight. Things we can’t unsee. One kid levitated into the air before dying. Another was found dead in the middle of the road — no way anyone human could’ve done that. We know it wasn’t Munson. We saw it ourselves.” He paused, clearly rattled. “Anyway. We have proof now. Witnesses. Evidence. Charges dropped.”

Your throat tightened. Tears started to sting at the corners of your eyes. “Oh my God— I— Thank you. Thank you, officer—”

He gave you a small nod. “Just doing my job, kiddo.”

And just like that, he stepped back inside. Eddie had stirred awake, still groggy, but his eyes snapped open in pure terror when he saw the badge. But the cop said nothing — just approached, uncuffed him, then nodded and turned to leave. “Goodnight, kids. Take care.”

Eddie stared. Every inch of him was sore, but he was alive. And you — you were standing there with tears in your eyes and a smile.

Eddie stirred, blinking, dazed but alive. “{{user}}?” he rasped. You sat by him, taking his hand. His voice was hoarse, confused. “Why’re you cryin’? What was all that?” Then, with a faint Eddie-like grin — even now — he added, “... are you wearing my shirt?”