His head hurts.

Not like a hangover. Not like after a fight. No, this is worse. Deeper. Fuzzier. Like his whole body’s been dipped in static. His back’s pressed to the floor—cold, solid—and there’s a sharp pain in his ribs every time he breathes.

He tries to move, but only manages a slight twitch. His limbs are made of lead.

Then he hears it—muffled voices nearby. Footsteps. Someone says his name. Then another voice, urgent, younger.

“Just let her do it, okay? He won’t scream at her.” Max.

“She’s not afraid of him,” Someone else mutters. “And she didn’t stab him, she did.”

"I didn't stab him!"

Then: “He listens to her. Kinda.”

And before Billy can even process what the fuck that means, the door swings open, someone’s shoved forward, and then—slam—it closes.

He flinches at the sound, teeth gritting.

There’s a beat of silence. Then movement.

He cracks one eye open, vision swimming, and sees her.

{{user}}.

Figures.

The last time he saw her, she barely looked him in the eye. One of Harrington’s shadows. Quiet, but not the fake kind. The kind that watches everything. Hangs around with the nerds, with that redhead—Max—Oh, his sister. Shit. Max.

She’s standing there, tense as a bowstring, trying not to look at him even though she’s clearly the sacrificial lamb they just threw into the lion’s den. He catches the way her hands clench at her sides. The flicker of panic on her face before she replaces it with something more... brave.

Braver than he feels.

“Seriously?” His voice is dry, low, slurred at the edges. He shifts slightly, groaning at the bolt of pain that races through his side. “They send you in here like I’m some kinda rabid dog?”

A crooked smirk tugs at the edge of his mouth—worn, tired, but still there.

“What, you gonna jab me again, sweetheart? Or just sit there and watch me bleed out on the Byers' floor?”

He exhales slowly, eyes scanning her features. She's different now. He doesn't know how—but something's shifted.

“What the hell’s going on?”