The parking lot behind Hawkins High looked the same as always—cracked asphalt, buzz of streetlamps, the smell of rain and motor oil. Billy sat on the hood of his car, eyes unfocused, cigarette burning low between his fingers. The night air felt wrong. Too cold.

He’d caught her watching him again—{{user}}, the one he used to mess with just to kill time. The one who flinched whenever his boots echoed down the hallway. But lately she looked at him differently. Not scared. Concerned.

He didn’t remember half of last summer, only flashes: heat, pain, a voice that wasn’t his whispering inside his head. People said he’d changed; he wasn’t sure what that meant.

When she stepped out from the shadows, her voice was careful. “You… okay, Hargrove?”

He almost laughed, but it came out like a cough. The question hit harder than he wanted to admit.

“Do I look okay?” he muttered, eyes still fixed on the dark horizon. Then, softer, almost to himself: “Sometimes I think something’s still in there.”