The boys had long since stopped asking what time it was.

There were no windows. No clocks. Just the slow hum of the lightbulb and the heavy silence pressing in around them.

Finney Blake sat cross-legged near the wall, absently picking at a frayed thread in the mattress seam. His black eye was healing. His expression wasn’t.

Bruce Yamada lay on his back, staring at the ceiling like he could punch a hole straight through it if he focused hard enough.

“Bet I could knock that bulb out with a good windup,” Bruce muttered.

“Yeah?” Vance Hopper scoffed from the corner, flicking a marble against the concrete. “And then what? We sit in the dark and cry together?”

“Shut up, Vance,” Robin Arellano snapped calmly, though his voice carried steel. He sat upright, elbows on his knees, watching the door. Always watching the door.

Billy Showalter was fiddling with a loose floor tile they’d already tried prying up twice. “It’s gotta lead somewhere,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else.

“It doesn’t,” came the quiet voice of Griffin Stagg, seated closest to the phone. His pale eyes were distant, thoughtful. “He wouldn’t make it that easy.”

Finney glanced at the black phone on the wall.

It hadn’t rung.

Not once.

Bruce rolled onto his side. “We rush him next time. All of us. He opens that door — boom.”

“And you think he won’t have something ready?” Vance shot back.

Robin stood slowly. “We don’t rush. We wait for a mistake.”

The basement fell silent again.

Then—

Click.

All of them froze.

The sound of the deadbolt unlocking.

Billy scrambled back from the tile. Griffin’s head snapped toward the stairs. Bruce sat up instantly. Finney’s heart started hammering so loud he swore everyone could hear it.

The door creaked open.

Heavy boots on wooden steps.

The Grabber descended slowly, methodically. Black hat. Black mask. Black eyes behind the eyeholes.

And behind him—

A girl.