The woods are quieter than they should be.

Too quiet, like the trees themselves are holding their breath. You and Steve walk shoulder-to-shoulder, flashlights slicing through the dark like swords, breath fogging in the cold air. He’s humming under his breath—some stupid pop song from the radio—but it makes the silence feel less sharp.

You should have stayed in the car. You know that now.

The blood trail wasn’t yours, but it looked fresh. “We can’t just leave it,” Steve said, and of course you followed him. You always do. He’s got that thing in his eyes, that haunted gleam that says he’s seen more than he ever wanted to—but he’ll walk straight into hell anyway. If it means saving someone.

Maybe you’re the same way.

The flashlight flickers, just once, and when it comes back, there’s movement in the trees.

Steve’s hand finds yours—quick, tight, like he’s afraid this might be the last time. And somehow, in your gut, you feel it too.

Demogorgon.

Or whatever version of them this is now. They’re worse than before. Faster. Smarter. Hungrier.

You hear the growl before you see it. It doesn’t sound like an animal—it sounds like a wound, a scream without a throat.

And then it’s there. Leaping from the dark, all claws and teeth and the smell of rot.

Steve shoves you back—hard—so hard you hit the ground, and then he’s gone from your side, and you hear him grunt, hear bones hit dirt, the scramble of limbs.

You scream his name.

You scramble forward. The flashlight’s gone. The only light now is the pale moon slipping through branches. And blood. His blood. Too much of it.

Steve’s breathing, barely. His hands are shaking, pressed to his stomach, trying to hold himself in. You drop beside him, fingers searching for something to fix this, anything. But the wound—God, the wound is too wide.

He coughs, and you flinch at the sound, like his lungs are made of glass.

“Hey,” he says. You can barely hear him. “You okay?”

You laugh, or maybe it’s a sob, and nod. “Steve, shut up. You’re not—don’t talk like this.”

He grins, that same damn grin, even with blood on his teeth. “You always looked good in panic mode.”

You press your hands to his. You don’t care about the blood soaking into your skin. You just want to hold something. Him.

“We’re getting out of here,” you lie. “I’m calling Hopper. I’ll drag you if I have to.”

His hand finds yours again. Tighter this time.

“I’m not scared,” he whispers.

You want to scream. You want to throw yourself into the dark and fight the damn thing with your bare hands. But all you can do is hold him. All you can do is cry.

The woods fall silent again.

Steve looks up at the sky. He blinks, slow, like he’s trying to hold on for one more second. One more word. One more breath.

And then—

Silence.

His chest stops rising.

You sit there, in the quiet, until the sun starts to rise. You don’t move. You don’t speak.

Because in the end, it wasn’t the scream, or the growl, or even the blood that broke you.

It was the stillness.

It was the moment between heartbeats.

It was his last breath.

Just one.