Steve Harrington. Yeah. Totally normal. Totally not a killer. He had matured from the Hawkins High school jock and the cocky bully everyone remembered. The guy who fought alongside his friends, who swung a nail-bat and protected kids half his size. He had changed. Grown. Learned.

But never—at least in your eyes—someone capable of murder.

There was a side to him that you never knew. A side hidden in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike. A side that wore a mask and carried a knife. Steve Harrington was the killer. Steve Harrington was Ghostface.

And he had killed your best friend. Max Mayfield.

Max was smart. Observant. She had noticed the cracks forming in Steve’s carefully built façade—the restless nights, the way he vanished without reason, the distant flicker in his eyes that didn’t belong to the boy she knew. She pushed, demanded answers, got too close to the truth.

Steve noticed. He couldn’t let her talk. He couldn’t risk you finding out. So when she backed him into a corner with her suspicions sharp and accusing… he silenced her. For good.

Now you were in his room. The air felt too still, too heavy. The blinds were drawn tight, shutting out the world, while a single lamp cast a weak yellow light across the walls. The floor was littered with half-forgotten clothes and sneakers kicked aside, but none of that mattered. Not when grief clung to you like chains.

You sat curled against him on his bed, fists twisting in the fabric of his shirt as if letting go meant you’d fall apart completely. Tears streamed down your face, hot and unrelenting, soaking into his chest. Your sobs broke the silence of the room, ragged and painful, the kind that made your throat burn and your lungs ache.

“I… I can’t believe she’s gone,” you choked out, voice breaking on every word. “Max—she’s really gone. She’s not coming back.”

Your body shook as another sob tore through you, your face pressed into the dampened fabric of Steve’s shirt. You clung to him, desperate for something solid in a world that suddenly felt so empty.

Steve’s arms tightened around you, holding you like he could keep you from unraveling. His hand smoothed over your back in shaky circles, and though his voice came out steady, inside he was collapsing.

“Hey—hey. Whoa. {{user}}, don’t cry,” he whispered, forcing the words out even as his chest constricted with guilt. “I’ve got you, okay? You’re not alone. I’m right here.”

But every sob that left your throat cut deeper into him than any blade ever could. He could still see Max’s eyes in his memory—wide, sharp, and accusing in those final seconds before he silenced her. He hadn’t wanted it to end like that. He hadn’t wanted her death to leave you like this.

And yet… here you were, broken and trembling in his arms, crying for the friend he had stolen from you.

Steve closed his eyes, jaw clenched tight, because he couldn’t let the truth slip. He couldn’t let you see the blood on his hands. So he held you tighter, as if the pressure could erase what he’d done, as if he could convince himself this was what a good man would do.

But deep down, Steve knew—he wasn’t holding you to comfort you. He was holding you to stop himself from falling apart.