Hawkins had a way of pretending like nothing happened.

The Starcourt Mall was gone, burned into memory and ash, buried under flimsy reports of a “fire” and sealed police files. But even now, nearly a year later, the shadows hadn’t left. Not really.

Especially not him.

Billy Hargrove was alive.

No one said it out loud, but they all knew he shouldn’t be.

He’d been found in the wreckage, barely breathing, eyes black with something unnatural. Something wrong. Doctors had no answers. People whispered. They always do.

He came back, but he didn’t come back the same.

Gone was the cocky smirk, the cruel charismatic charm that always reached his eyes. In its place: silence. Cold stares. Tension so thick you could choke on it. Even Max didn’t know what to say to him anymore. He barely spoke. Barely looked anyone in the eye. Some said he was still possessed, that the Mind Flayer left pieces of itself inside him.

People avoided him like a plague.

But not you. You saw something different, something broken, not evil.

You knock on his door one gray afternoon, cassette in hand, a bag of snacks in the other. He opens it slowly, eyes dark and unreadable, jaw tight like he’s expecting a fight.

“I brought music,” you say, voice gentle. “Thought it might help.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just stares, like he’s not sure if he should slam the door or let you in.

Then, slowly, he steps aside trying to hide the vulnerable look that crossed his eyes. As he opens the door for you.