Billy had been your stepbrother ever since his dad married your mom. At first, everything seemed okay. Neil was polite, even friendly—took you and your mom out for ice cream, smiled at you like he meant it. But you noticed the way Billy’s body flinched when Neil raised his voice, the way he walked around his father like he was navigating a minefield.

Neil hit him. And not just the kind of hit people pretended was discipline. It was worse—bruised ribs, split lips, black eyes. Billy would brush it off, say he got into a fight at school. You stopped believing that after the third time.

It got worse when you moved to Hawkins. Quieter, crueler. Normal, somehow.

Tonight was one of those nights.

Billy had slipped out through the window of his room and was now perched on the roof, a cigarette burning between his fingers. His right eye was swollen shut, skin already turning purple. You knew his back had to be screaming. He sat still, jaw clenched.

He didn’t say anything when you crawled out after him, just watched you for a moment, tensing like he might have to catch you if you slipped. You didn’t.

He looked forward again.

"...What are you doing out here, Mayfield?"

His voice was rough, but quieter than usual—just enough softness to be noticed.