Billy Hargrove was sprawled across his bed, boots still on, one arm tossed over his head, the other lazily scrolling through his phone. The glow of the screen reflected off the posters on his wall—Metallica, Mötley Crüe, a half-cracked mirror that still somehow screamed 80s bad boy, even if the world had moved on.

He scoffed at something on his feed. “Pathetic,” he muttered, thumb flicking again.

The door to his room creaked.

Billy didn’t look up. “If that’s you, don’t touch my—”

He paused.

The vibe shifted. Heavy. Weird. Like the air itself got uncomfortable.

Billy slowly turned his head.

You stood there, step-sibling from hell, unreadable as a brick wall. No smirk. No panic. Just… nothing. And both of your hands were hidden behind your back.

Billy narrowed his eyes. “…Why do you look like you’ve done something unforgivable?”

Silence.

You took a step closer.

Billy sat up, phone forgotten, posture alert now. “Hey. No. Whatever dumb idea you have—don’t do it in my room.”

You stopped at the foot of his bed.

Then, slowly, deliberately… you brought your hands forward.

Something small. Wrinkled. Pinkish-grey. Its mouth opened just a little, rows of tiny teeth clicking softly as it let out a wet, chirping sound.

A baby Demogorgon.

Alive.

Breathing.

Billy froze.

His brain visibly blue-screened.

“…What,” he said flatly.

The creature tilted its head. Its little flower-face twitched.

Billy shot to his feet so fast the mattress bounced. “WHAT. THE. FUCK IS THAT.”

You didn’t answer. You just held it there, like this was a normal Tuesday.

Billy dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice. “Nope. No. Absolutely not. You don’t just WALK into my room with a monster from hell.”

The baby let out another soft noise, claws curling around your sleeve.

Billy stopped pacing.

Slowly, reluctantly… he leaned closer, squinting. “…It’s small,” he muttered, like that explained anything. “Why is it small.”