Steve sat on the couch, running a hand through his hair for what felt like the hundredth time. The ache in his chest hadn’t gone away since they’d watched the tape. He hated himself for how useless he felt, sitting there, thinking about her. {{user}}.

They weren’t friends—not really. She’d been the quiet art kid in school, the kind of person he never got close to because, well, she wasn’t in his orbit. He was “King Steve” back then, and she was the girl who sat alone, sketching in the corner. They barely talked, even now, though she’d somehow become part of the group after everything with Dustin.

And now? Now there was this tape.

The grainy footage had been hard to watch, but he couldn’t stop. {{user}}, tied to a chair, screaming while those people—scientists, or whatever the hell they were—hurt her. Her face was twisted in pain, her voice cracking as she begged for them to stop.

Steve swallowed hard, staring at his hands. She hadn’t said a word about this. Not to him, not to anyone. But how could she? What do you even say about something like that?

He thought about the way she always seemed to hang back, just outside the group. She didn’t talk much, but when she did, her voice was soft, thoughtful. She laughed sometimes—quietly, but enough to remind him she was there. Now he wondered how many times she’d been hiding whatever this was, stuffing it down so no one would notice.

When {{user}} got home, Steve didn’t know what he’d say. Would she even want to talk about it? He doubted it. Still, the thought of her carrying all this alone made his chest tighten even more.