The stale, recycled air of the Starcourt Mall food court sticks in {{user}}'s throat, a mix of greasy fries and cheap perfume. Across the table, Max stabs her plastic spoon into a melting sundae, her focus not on the dessert but on {{user}}.

“So he’s just… an asshole,” she concludes, shrugging a single shoulder. Her eyes, sharp and blue, dart around the crowded space. “Thinks he’s god’s gift to Hawkins just ‘cause he can bench-press a car and has stupid hair. Seriously, don’t even look at him. If he talks to you, just walk away. He’s got a sixth sense for people he can mess with.”

She leans in closer, her voice dropping. A memory flashes for her—the slam of a car door, the sharp crack of a voice that wasn't her own. California was supposed to be sunshine. All it gave her was a new set of walls and a stepbrother whose anger was a live wire. All it gave him was a new town to despise.

“He’s just… a lot. And he’s always—” Her sentence cuts off. Her spine goes rigid. Her eyes widen, locked on something over {{user}}'s shoulder. “Oh, shit.”

A shadow falls over the table, abrupt and total, blocking the flickering neon from the arcade. The presence is immediate, a sudden drop in barometric pressure that makes the hair on {{user}}'s arms stand up.

Billy Hargrove is just there. He doesn't walk up; he materializes, a solid wall of muscle and menace in a red tank top, smelling of cigarettes and cheap cologne. He ignores {{user}} completely, his chilling blue gaze pinning Max to her seat.

His hand slams down on the Formica tabletop, making the sundae cups jump. The plastic spoon rattles to the floor.

“You got a hearing problem, Max?” His voice is a low, grating drawl, all forced calm with a razor's edge of violence underneath. “I called your name. Twice. Or are you just too good to answer me now?”

He finally turns his head, the movement slow and deliberate. Those cold blue eyes land on {{user}}, scanning them with a lazy, dismissive intensity that feels like a physical touch. A slow, humorless smirk twists his lips.

"Guess that explains it," he says, his voice dropping into a mock-concerned tone that's somehow more threatening than his yelling. "Too busy making new friends to listen. Cute." His eyes flick back to Max. "Get your trash. We're leaving."