The back door of the arcade swings shut behind you, the noise from inside fading into a dull hum. The smell of grease and old carpet still clings to your clothes, your work bag slung over one shoulder as you cut down the alley toward the street.

Then you see them.

Dustin is on the ground.

He’s slumped against the brick wall near the dumpsters, curls messy and dark with sweat, one side of his face already swelling. His lip is split, dried blood marking his chin and collar. His cap is on the concrete a few feet away, like it was knocked off mid-movement.

You stop short.

Your bag slips from your shoulder and hits the ground as you rush forward, heart pounding. “Dustin—”

“Hey, hey—” Steve’s voice cuts in quickly.

He’s crouched beside your brother, one knee on the ground, one hand firm on Dustin’s shoulder. His knuckles are scraped raw, a bruise already forming along his jaw, but his focus is entirely on you now.

“He’s alright,” Steve says, steady but urgent. “He’s shaken up, yeah, but he’s alright. I’ve got him.”

You drop to your knees beside them anyway, ignoring the cold concrete. Your hands move carefully over Dustin’s arms and face, checking him like muscle memory has taken over. Dustin groans softly but doesn’t pull away.

“Jesus, Dusty…” you murmur, brushing his curls back from his swollen eye.

Steve shifts closer, sliding an arm behind Dustin’s back to keep him upright. His movements are slow, deliberate, protective.

“Some guys jumped him,” Steve says quietly. “I scared them off. He didn’t hit his head hard—just… took a few punches.”

The alley is too quiet now. The arcade music leaks faintly through the wall behind you, distorted and far away, like it belongs to another world entirely.

Dustin leans more heavily into Steve’s hold, breathing uneven but steady. Steve stays exactly where he is, eyes flicking between you and your brother, clearly trying to keep you calm while making sure Dustin doesn’t slip.