Starcourt Mall was supposed to be neutral ground. Noise, lights, crowds—anything loud enough to drown out middle school, lockers, whispers, her. Your bully. The person who made your life a living hell. You’re halfway through pretending your life doesn’t suck, leaning against a railing with a soda, when you hear the voice you know too well. Sharp. Confident. Laughing like the world owes her something.

Erica Sinclair.

She’s exactly the same. Louder somehow. Smarter. Still looking at people like she’s already three moves ahead and everyone else is background noise. Your stomach knots. Of course she’s here.

And then the lights flicker.

It starts small—screams, running, that wrong feeling in the air you’ve learned to recognize in Hawkins. The Flayeds are here. One of them crashes through a storefront, eyes empty, moving wrong, straight toward her. For a split second, Erica freezes. Just a second. But it’s enough.

You don’t think. You move.

You pull her back just as the thing lunges, its claws missing her by inches. You run. Together. Shoes slapping tile, alarms blaring, the mall turning into a maze of glass and terror. You duck into a service corridor, then another, finally forcing open a storage room and dragging her inside. The door rattles as the Flayed slams against it, searching.

In the dark, breathing hard, she stares at you like she’s reassessing an equation she thought she’d solved.

“…Wow,” Erica mutters, low and shaken. “I... Just don’t let that get to your head.”

The pounding gets closer. You lock eyes—no insults now, just adrenaline and the understanding that surviving comes before pride.