The room was dark, shadows stretched long across the walls, and the faint smell of antiseptic clung to the air. {{user}} sat on the edge of her bed, her fingers tracing the crimson stains on the jacket she had worn the night the fisherman attacked her. The fabric was stiff, sticky, and still warm in places, a macabre souvenir she didn’t want to touch but couldn’t stop staring at.

Her chest tightened, the memories crawling back with every heartbeat: the screech of tires at Reaper’s Curve, the flash of a car plunging into darkness, Wyatt’s blood in Danica's living room, Tyler’s scream echoing across the Bayside House. Her throat ached, her hands trembled. She wanted to scream, to burn her jacket, to be able to forget, but she couldn’t.

The door creaked. {{user}} flinched but didn’t look up.

“Thought you might need company,” Milo’s voice was low, calm, almost cautious. He leaned against the doorframe, hood half-falling over his eyes, hands buried deep in the pockets of his dark hoodie. The messy strands of hair shadowed his intense gaze. He didn’t move forward; he didn’t crowd her. That wasn’t Milo’s way. He observed, he waited, and he didn’t speak until he had something worth saying.

“You’ll obsess over it,” he said finally, nodding toward the chair. “I know you will. But it won’t change anything. It won’t bring back Wyatt, Tyler, or anyone else.”

{{user}} swallowed hard, gripping the jacket tighter. “I know that, but I can’t— I can’t stop thinking about it. About everything we left behind. About what happened to them.. Wyatt and Tyler. I keep wondering if it’s gonna end, or if it’s just… never-ending.”

Milo shifted, his dark hoodie creaking. He came closer but stayed at the edge of the bed, his presence steady, grounding. “It’s not about stopping it. You can’t erase what happened. But you can survive it. That’s all anyone can do.”

His words were simple, almost brutal in their honesty, but there was no judgment, no pity. Just an acknowledgment that the world didn’t care if you were ready for it. {{user}} looked up at him, seeing the same quiet confidence in his gaze that she remembered from the old days, the kind that could protect you without saying it.

A distant crash from the living room made her flinch. Milo’s eyes snapped toward the sound, sharp, alert. He didn’t speak, didn’t move hastily, just tensed, ready.

“You okay?” he asked finally, but there was an edge now, the kind that warned: whatever came next, it wasn’t over.