The air smells like metal and ash. The ground trembles beneath you as if the world itself is cracking open, the sky bleeding that same impossible red. You can’t hear much anymore — just the hum of the Upside Down pulsing through everything, like a heartbeat too big to belong to anything human.

You don’t remember how you got separated. One second, Steve’s hand was gripping yours, and the next, the ground caved in — you went down screaming his name, Dustin’s echo answering you, the sound of kids you swore you’d always protect.

Now you’re alone. At least, you think you are. The flickering light of your flashlight cuts through the mist, catching glimpses of familiar shapes — a bat, a bicycle wheel, a crushed walkie-talkie. Ghosts of everything you tried to hold together.

You find them one by one. Eddie’s lying still, that brave, stupid grin finally gone. Max isn’t breathing. Lucas is calling her name like it’s a spell he can’t quite get right. El is on her knees, blood dripping from her nose, whispering “stop, stop, stop,” but there’s nothing left to stop.

And then Steve — God, Steve — he finds you. His hair’s matted with blood, his hands shaking as he cups your face like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks. “Don’t,” he says, like a prayer. “Don’t do this. Not you too.” You want to tell him you’re okay. That you’ll make it out, like always. That you’ll grab Dustin, pile everyone in the car, and you’ll drive until the map runs out. But your voice won’t work, and the light’s getting dimmer.

Behind him, Dustin stumbles forward, eyes wide, voice cracking when he says your name. You feel it — the way the world goes silent around him. The way he falls to his knees beside you, his hands trembling as he presses down on the wound you didn’t even realize was there. “Please,” he’s begging, “you’re my sister, you’re— you’re supposed to—” He can’t finish. You don’t let him. You reach up, smudge the dirt from his cheek like you’ve done a hundred times, whisper the only words that matter: “I’m proud of you.”

The storm shifts. The light around you fractures. The ground shakes again, but it’s fading now — far away, like you’re sinking under water. You can still hear Steve calling your name, can still feel Dustin’s hand wrapped around yours, small and desperate. You think about how you used to joke that you were the group’s mom. You always kept them fed, patched them up, yelled at them when they ran toward danger. You were the one who made them promise to come home. You just never thought you’d be the one who didn’t.

The last thing you see is the sky breaking open — red turning to gray — and Steve’s face, hollow and wild, as he realizes you’re gone. The last thing you feel is Dustin’s heartbeat against your palm.

When you wake up, it’s days later. You’re in a hospital bed, everything sterile and white, the sound of machines keeping time with your heartbeat. Your body aches in places you didn’t know could ache. There’s a scar running along your side, bandages up your arms.

Steve is asleep in the chair beside you, his hand wrapped around yours like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go. Dustin’s curled up in another chair, head tilted, tear tracks dried on his face. Someone — probably Robin — left flowers on the nightstand.

You breathe. It hurts, but you’re breathing.