Chapter 26: Whisperer in the Darkness

Hello everyone!

Happy New Year and the first chapter of 2025! Boy howdy, do I have a chapter here for you!

I apologise for the long wait. I had a type of writer's slog happen to me. It was worse than a writer's block. It was dragging my feet, barely putting in a sentence or two at a time and just NOT GETTING ANY CLOSER TO FINISHING THE FUCKING THING.

Dear god, it was the worst.

But thanks for all the reviews and such, I appreciate it as per usual.

Trigger Warning: This chapter contains mentions of sexual and non-consensual abuse towards the end of the chapter. While nothing graphic is described, reader discretion is advised.

Enjoy this chapter, and please let me know your thoughts—I can't wait to hear what you think! Happy reading!


"Absolutely nothing visible to the eye provides a reason for or even evidence of those terrifying shifts which can in a matter of moments reconstitute a simple path into an extremely complicated one."

― Mark Z Danielewski, House of Leaves

"Tough old world, baby. If you're not bolted together tightly, you're gonna shake, rattle, and roll before you turn thirty."

― Stephen King, The Shining


The strangest thing about the National Lab—the strangest if you ignored that it was some illegal government black site with a portal to another dimension leaking monsters—was how normal it looked on the outside. Sure, those first things were hard to ignore in the "weirdest" category, but it was exactly the lab's bland, grey normalcy that amplified how surreal the whole thing was. As if they had put a nice coat of paint over a nightmare.

With the place now cleared out, no army guys lurking around to shout warnings or shoot him in the back, he'd strolled right up to the front gate. He'd tossed his bat up and over the top, climbed the chain-link fence, and felt pretty justified ignoring the 'Warning: Restricted Area' signs—since the place was abandoned, and its last "installation commander" was probably eaten by Demodogs.

The last time he'd been here, he hadn't made it past the gate. The others had pulled up, yelling at him to get everyone into Hop's car, that they had to get out fast. He didn't know why; just that they were running. And he would've been happy to leave it at that. But here he was now, strolling through the eerily normal parking lot as daylight faded. He walked past a few picnic tables, saw the little "keep off the grass" plaques, and felt like he could almost laugh. A huge 'Restricted Area' sign and someone had still taken the time to plant grass and post 'Keep Off' signs.

Someone else had even made it up to the front doors before him, tagging the plywood barricade with graffiti. Maybe that was a good sign? Not much of one, but he'd take what he could get.

Breaking in was shockingly easy. For anyone who didn't know better, this just looked like an abandoned office building—some hazard of mould and tetanus for a few bored teenagers to sneak into. But he knew better, which was why he froze as soon as he set foot inside the lobby. He told himself he was just being cautious, that he was listening out for something. He also knew he was lying; he was frozen, period. His instincts fought each other: go forward, back out, or drop everything and sprint. Ridiculous, because he'd fought a Demogorgon and gone head-to-head with demodogs. All he was facing now was an empty reception desk. Right?

Okay. He was fine. He could do this. He was… he was standing here, by himself, with a baseball bat, and this was the place where all of it had come from.

You're an idiot, Steve Harrington.

No argument there.

He clicked on his flashlight, sweeping its beam across the lobby. The walls were worn, the floor cracked and covered in patches of brown water stains, and the furniture left over was ugly 70's beige and gold. The doors to the main hall had been removed, so he could see a strip of the hallway beyond—totally normal, totally abandoned, nothing about it screamed 'monsters come out here sometimes.'

For the first half of the first floor, he felt like he was about to have a heart attack with every door he opened, bat raised, prepared for something awful to jump out. But after a while, he resigned himself to the fact that the whole place was… pretty average. It was starting to feel more like a tacky doctor's office than a government lab where they'd been running secret experiments and letting monsters loose.

It was just normal. Boring normal. No leftover bloodstains on the tile, and no sinister documents labelled "Top Secret: Evil Stuff Inside." Even the ugliest thing about the place was the fake wood panelling. All he found were some mouldy invoices for supplies, budget memos that read like someone's attempt to pretend this was a real DOE facility, and a poster for a Thanksgiving potluck with "Cross off What You Can Bring!" scribbled on it. The army guys who had cleaned up apparently hadn't forgotten to clear out all the good files.

He went from office to office, the dampness and darkness making the flashlight's weak yellow light barely helpful. He shined it across empty filing cabinets, shabby '70s office chairs, and a crumbling note that asked everyone to please refill the coffee pot. Brown stains and patches of mould marred the drywall, probably from the winter cold seeping into the empty pipes. His dad would be rolling his eyes at this: "My tax dollars at work, Harrington!"

By the time he found the stairwell, the repetition had killed most of the fear—until he pointed his flashlight into the stairwell and watched the darkness above and below eat the beam. He decided to start with the lower level Hop had mentioned. No point in rifling through soggy office invoices and notices from "Susan's Bake Sale Fundraiser" if he was going to end up killed by some monster waiting in the basement. Might as well face the music.

But when he reached the bottom of the stairs, there was nothing there. Just a concrete slab. It was bizarre, so he gave it a test with the bat, tapping it against the concrete. A hollow thunk.

They'd filled it in. Paved it over.

Thunk. Thunk.

How far down did it go? All the way to the bottom of the labs? To the farms? Maybe even miles beyond Hawkins, just this endless blank concrete… buried under the town like plaque clogging a vein.

Thunk. Thunk-thunk.

There was no way the government was stupid enough to think a concrete block would keep… whatever was down there contained. Then again, these were the same people who'd caused all of this mess in the first place.

Halfway back up the stairs, he was weighing his options—go up to the next floor, or turn back, when the door handle above him started to turn.

Steve was more aware of time than most people. After all, he'd learned it took about ten years to run from Jonathan Byers' driveway to his front door when you realized a monster was attacking Nancy Wheeler. And less than two seconds to grab a bat and fight that monster head-on, brain blank from sheer terror. He knew that even half a second was more than enough to get a head start on a pack of Demodogs.

Right now, though, the time it took for the door handle to turn felt like a month of Sundays.

He knew he should be terrified. And he was—kind of. But Steve's brain had always been good at telling him to worry about important things later. That had finally become an asset, instead of just making him an arrogant jerk. It conveniently left out the thought that maybe there wouldn't be a "later" this time.

He gripped the bat, steeled himself, and got ready. Because what else could he do?

The door flew open, crashing against the wall. Flashlight beams darted through the stairwell, and voices yelled. Steve stumbled back, bat raised when he heard Nancy Wheeler's scream.

"Don't shoot! Holy shit!" Steve gasped.

"Oh my god, Steve!"

"Jesus."

Nancy doubled over, hands on her knees, breathing hard, her hair falling in a messy curtain. Jonathan leaned in the doorframe, head back, eyes closed, like he was calming his heartbeat.

Nancy pushed her hair back from her face, still catching her breath. "We thought you were a Demogorgon or something." She gave a shaky laugh, eyes flicking to Jonathan, who gave her an equally unsteady grin.

"Same here," Steve said, chuckling. "When I saw that door start to open… I thought, 'This is it. Some big, ugly monster's coming right for me.'"

Jonathan ran a hand through his hair, his eyes still darting around the room as he spoke. "So, uh, what are you doing here, Steve? Thought this was gonna be one of our more low-key operations."

Steve shrugged, looking down at the bat in his hands. "I could ask you guys the same thing. Figured you'd be off doing the normal things, like, I don't know, whatever married couples do."

Steve dropped down on the stairs, completely relieved. He didn't know who started laughing first, but it didn't matter. Jonathan's hand reached out, helping Steve to his feet, and they all chuckled breathlessly, barely able to stand, giggling like school kids passing notes in class.

After a moment, the trio ceased their laughter and began explaining what the other was doing at Hawkins Lab:

Steve and Nancy moved through the dim, musty offices, checking under desks and behind cabinets, shredding the stuffing out of old office chairs in search of any hint of evidence. They worked fast, as fast as possible without splitting up. Jonathan had suggested they split up, and Nancy, in an unusual moment of pragmatism, had considered it—until Steve put his foot down, reminding them that some things in life were better handled by the guy with a healthy dose of Saturday morning Scooby-Doo instinct. Sure, Nancy had straight A's and Jonathan read Ginsberg, but sometimes, survival demanded something simpler.

But all they found was dust and emptiness: barren binders, desks stripped bare, nothing more than chipped, waterlogged linoleum on the floors. They'd stumbled across a handmade ceramic mug once, one that had rolled under a couch with #1 Dad carved into the side in a child's unsteady hand, and all three of them had paused. No one said anything, and in the end, they left it sitting on the windowsill like a quiet memorial.

The next room wasn't even worth a pause. It was emptier than the last forty or so—they hadn't even left office furniture in this one. Jonathan's flashlight cast long shadows over the cracked, water-stained walls and the discoloured plaster ceiling, holding steady as he swept it over the empty corners.

Then he stopped, frozen, his light catching on something in the corner.

"Guys?" Jonathan's voice sliced through the thick silence, his flashlight trained on the ceiling.

Steve followed the beam. "Checked earlier. These aren't drop tiles. Can't make it too easy, right?"

"No, look." Jonathan's voice was patient, but his eyes narrowed with the intensity of someone staring down a ghost. He tilted his head, and the light wavered in a small circle above them. "Right there. Where I'm pointing."

Nancy slipped between them, raising her flashlight to join his. Her brow furrowed as she focused, like someone trying to spot a hidden image in one of those Magic Eye posters, just on the edge of seeing it.

White ceiling. Check. Ugly water stains. Check.

But... wait. Not everywhere. Not, for instance, in a nearly pristine, perfectly rectangular patch exactly where Jonathan's beam was aimed.

"There's something up there blocking the water," Nancy whispered.

Jonathan nodded, a small, satisfied smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Exactly. That's the only dry patch I've seen."

Steve could've hugged him—and whatever soldier forgot to shut off the pipes. "Holy shit, Byers. Nice catch."

Jonathan shrugged, modestly. "Photographer's eye for detail."

They knew it could be nothing. A fluke. A vent or a misplaced ceiling tile. But Nancy was already tucking her flashlight into the collar of her coat, her face lit from below, determined.

"Give me the bat. Boost me up."

"Yes, ma'am." Steve shot her a crooked smile, bracing himself. It struck him, briefly, how he'd failed to see this side of her in the beginning, how he'd thought her monster-hunting drive was a phase, something she'd leave behind once the horror passed. But no, Nancy wasn't just the girl he'd known back then—she was this, too. Fierce. Fearless. The kind of girl who'd take on monsters with a rusty nail-bat if she had to.

He cupped his hands for her foot, bending slightly. Jonathan mirrored his movement, gripping her other leg as she balanced herself on their shoulders, steady hands on their backs.

"One, two—up!"

Nancy rose above them, gripping the bat under her chin as she balanced. With a sharp twist, she drove it upward into the ceiling. Bits of plaster drifted down like dusting snow, and she quickly shielded her face, sneaking an apologetic glance down.

"Hey, a little warning?" Steve asked, wincing as a chunk of plaster dust settled in his hair.

"Sorry!" Nancy bit back a laugh, her eyes bright with mischief before she went back to work, hacking away at the ceiling.

"Is it…?" Jonathan asked, squinting to get a better look.

Nancy pressed herself up as far as she could, letting the bat fall back to her chin. "There's something behind it. Some kind of plastic vent cover, maybe. But I can't reach it." She shifted, then looked down at Steve. "I'll need to kneel on your shoulders."

He grimaced, but he didn't hesitate, bending forward to give her a steadier position. "Hold on—" he started, but Jonathan was already lifting from his side, and Nancy planted a knee on Steve's shoulder.

The position was precarious, hands holding tight as she lifted the bat over her head. Her hands dug into his shoulder for balance, and as she wobbled for a second, Jonathan's hands braced her back. Despite the awkwardness, Steve's face warmed a thrill of exhilaration and tension sparking between them as they worked.

Nancy reached for the plaster, gritting her teeth and pulling pieces away quickly, frustratingly, throwing the fragments over her shoulder. One cracked against the floor, narrowly missing Steve's foot.

"Careful with my bat," he called up, wincing as a few fresh splinters ran down its side. This bat wasn't just a weapon. It had become a lucky charm of sorts—something that had saved them all more times than he could count.

"Technically, my bat," Jonathan said, deadpan, although his expression broke into a knowing smirk as Nancy muttered a quick, "Technically, Mike's bat," between hacks at the plaster.

"In that case," Steve said, grinning, "you can handle the next Demogorgon, Byers."

Jonathan snorted. "No, no, I insist you keep it. Legend deserves its lore."

Steve shook his head, muttering, "That's what I thought," as Nancy broke through with a final smash.

With a hollow crack, the plaster gave way, and her fingers found purchase on the edges of a hidden panel. She adjusted her grip, pulling it free until a hidden, shadowed crawl space opened up, dusty and foreboding.

Nancy hoisted herself into the opening first, swinging a leg up and pulling herself through the dusty crawl space. Jonathan followed, giving Steve a steadying hand as he scrambled up behind him. The narrow tunnel stretched on, dim and cramped, with the stale scent of age and abandonment in every breath. Their flashlights cut through the dark, revealing cracked, discoloured walls close enough to scrape their shoulders as they moved.

The further they crawled, the heavier the air grew. Nancy's nose wrinkled as a faint, acrid smell floated toward them—a burnt, metallic tang that lingered in the back of her throat, growing stronger with each inch they advanced. It was smoke, unmistakable and suffocating.

Jonathan coughed quietly, his voice low. "Are they burning something down here? Could just be, I dunno, electrical wires going bad?"

"Doesn't smell like that kind of smoke," Nancy replied, pausing to cover her mouth and nose. Her heart hammered against her ribs as the thought hit her. Smoke in a place like this usually meant one of two things: something had gone wrong, or something was deliberately hidden by burning it. Neither was a good sign.

Steve squinted, moving his flashlight in a tight circle. "Could be someone else got in here before us and lit something up—maybe evidence, covering tracks. If they burned stuff down here, though, there's gotta be something left, right?"

Nancy's gaze remained fixed ahead, fingers tight on her flashlight as she led the way. The smoke grew denser, seeping into the crawl space in slow, ominous waves. She pressed on, pushing past her mounting unease and the cloying taste of ash in her mouth. The walls shifted, the tunnel slanting down, narrowing as if guiding them deeper, twisting slightly until the smoke was nearly overwhelming.

Steve's fingers tightened on his bat, and his voice broke through the silence, rough and uncertain.

"This doesn't feel abandoned anymore."

Nancy nodded grimly, her flashlight trembling slightly in her grip. "It feels like someone—or something—doesn't want us here."

Nancy motioned for them to stay quiet, her hand a quick, sharp gesture in the dim light. The smell of smoke thickened, the burnt metallic tang clinging to their clothes and hair. And then, faintly, they heard it—a low, rhythmic hum, almost imperceptible under the sound of their own breathing.

Nancy froze. "Do you hear that?" she whispered.

Jonathan nodded, his face pale and tense. "Yeah… machinery?"

"Or worse," Steve added under his breath, gripping his bat tighter.

They crept forward, the hum growing louder with each movement. The smoke thinned slightly as the crawl space widened, revealing a small, rusted grate on the floor ahead. Nancy knelt beside it, her flashlight beam shining through the slats. Puffs of dark smoke rose intermittently, clinging to the metal ceiling like ghostly stains.

"This has to be the source of the fire," Nancy whispered, her voice edged with tension. She gestured to the others, her movements deliberate, signalling them to retreat slightly into the shadows. She turned her head just enough to murmur, "We need to get down there. But we have to do it quietly."

Jonathan leaned in, his brow furrowed as he studied the rusted grate. His flashlight danced over the screws holding it in place. "Okay, but how exactly do you plan to do that?" he asked, his voice low but incredulous. "Whoever—or whatever—is down there will hear us the second we move."

Nancy paused, her flashlight beam lingering on the screws as her mind raced. "We'll have to unscrew it carefully," she said, her voice steady despite the knot forming in her stomach. "Help me get this open. We'll figure out the rest once we see what's actually down there."

Steve groaned softly from behind them, shifting his weight uneasily. "This feels like one of those really dumb ideas we'd yell at someone else for doing," he muttered. But even as he complained, his hand reached for the pocketknife he kept clipped to his jeans. The blade caught the dim light as he flipped it open, shooting Nancy a look. "You're lucky I'm a sucker for this Scooby-Doo crap."

Nancy smirked faintly, her eyes flicking to him as she set to work on the first screw. "Welcome to Hawkins," she replied dryly, her fingers steady despite the rust flaking off the grate as she worked. Bits of rust flaked off under her touch, sticking to her fingertips and scattering onto the floor like powdered decay. She worked methodically, the task ahead of her keeping her focused.

Jonathan positioned himself beside her, his flashlight angled to give them both better light. "Let's just hope this doesn't lead us straight to whoever started the fire in the first place."

Nancy didn't answer. Her focus narrowed entirely to the screw beneath her fingertips, which let out a faint, protesting groan as she applied pressure to loosen it. The sound reverberated in the confined space, louder than she'd have liked. She froze for half a beat, her heart pounding in her chest, before risking a glance at Jonathan. Their eyes met, a silent understanding passing between them: there was no turning back now.

Nancy's fingers resumed their work, moving with painstaking care to avoid another screech from the rusted metal. Each twist felt like an eternity, the confined space amplifying every subtle sound. The second screw began to budge, flakes of rust crumbling under her touch. Sweat beaded on her brow, more from tension than exertion.

Behind her, Steve shifted again, the faint scrape of his bat against the ground making her flinch. "Steve," she hissed under her breath, her voice sharper than she intended.

"Sorry!" he whispered back, his tone defensive. "It's cramped, okay?"

Jonathan shot him a warning glare but said nothing, his attention snapping back to Nancy as the second screw finally gave way with a muted clink. She let out a slow breath, the tiniest hint of relief flashing across her face before she moved to the third and final screw.

With a final, deliberate twist, the last screw gave way. Nancy tightened her grip on the grate, lowering it with painstaking slowness until it rested silently on the floor beside her. The dim orange glow below pulsed unevenly, casting eerie, flickering shadows that writhed across the metallic walls like trapped phantoms.

Nancy leaned over the edge of the opening, the acrid heat rising from below and clawing at her throat. Taking a deep breath, she swung her legs through the gap, lowering herself until her boots hovered just above the floor. She released her grip and landed with a soft, controlled thud, her knees bending instinctively to mute the impact. Her flashlight beam wavered for a moment as she crouched, taking in her surroundings.

Jonathan was next. He eased his legs into the opening, gripping the edges tightly as he descended. The faint scuff of his sneaker against the metal made him freeze mid-motion, his breath catching. In the oppressive silence of the room, the sound felt deafening. He dropped the last few inches to the floor with a muted thump, immediately crouching beside Nancy, his flashlight angled downward to avoid catching the flickering firelight.

Steve hesitated at the edge, his bat clutched tightly in one hand. "This is such a bad idea," he muttered under his breath. He swung himself down with less finesse, his landing heavier than he intended. The dull clang echoed faintly, making all three of them tense as one. Steve winced. "If we die doing this," he whispered, half to himself, "I'm coming back just to haunt you two."

Nancy spun around, fixing him with a sharp glare, her index finger pressed firmly to her lips. The warning was clear: no more noise. Steve raised his hands defensively but said nothing, his expression sheepish as he followed their lead.

Nancy's hand cut through the smoky air in a quick, deliberate gesture, pointing toward the farthest corner of the room where the firelight struggled to reach. The trio moved with the precision of hunted animals, sticking close to the walls and keeping their movements slow and deliberate. The cool metal beneath their palms offered a stark contrast to the searing heat radiating from the fire pit in the room's centre.

Down here, the fire was oppressive, its glow more intense than it had seemed from above. Tendrils of smoke curled upward, swirling lazily around their heads, carrying the sharp tang of burning chemicals. The flames licked hungrily at a pile of debris in the centre of the room—broken machinery, scorched papers, and something else, something unidentifiable and vaguely organic.

Nancy pressed her back against the wall, her breath shallow as she scanned the room. Her flashlight remained off, her eyes adjusting to the harsh interplay of light and shadow. The flickering flames cast distorted silhouettes across the walls, and the low hum of machinery reverberated in her chest.

Jonathan leaned in close, his voice barely audible above the crackle of the fire. "Do you see anyone?"

Nancy shook her head slowly, her jaw clenched. Her fingers itched to grab her flashlight, to illuminate the space fully, but the risk of being spotted was too great. "Not yet," she murmured. Her eyes darted to the far side of the room, where the shadows seemed thicker, almost impenetrable. "But that doesn't mean we're alone."

Behind them, Steve adjusted his grip on his bat, his knuckles ghostly white against the worn wood. His muttered words carried just enough bite to cut through the tense silence. "Oh yeah, this is fine. Perfect. Definitely the kind of situation I signed up for."

Nancy barely registered his sarcasm, her attention locked on the fire in the room's centre. It wasn't a random blaze; that much was obvious. Her eyes narrowed as she leaned forward slightly, straining to discern the shapes within the fire. The heat made her skin prickle, but she didn't move back. "Whatever's burning, it's not just garbage. Look at the way it's arranged. Someone wanted it to burn."

Jonathan crouched beside her, his flashlight angled cautiously downward. "Do you hear that?" he whispered, his voice barely cutting through the ambient crackle of the flames.

"What? The fire?" Steve shot back, his tone sceptical, though the grip on his bat tightened reflexively.

Jonathan shook his head, a hint of urgency creeping into his voice. "No. Not that. Listen... it's faint, but—"

Nancy raised a hand to silence them both, her ears straining. For a moment, all she could hear was the persistent hum of the machinery and the shifting, hungry growl of the fire. Then, faintly—barely discernible—a rhythmic noise emerged from the chaos. It sounded like liquid being poured, the soft glug-glug of a bottle emptying, followed by the faintest splash against metal.

Her stomach tightened as realization hit. "It's not the fire," she murmured, her voice taut. "Someone's here."

The three exchanged tense glances, their shared fear unspoken but palpable. Moving as one, they shuffled toward the source of the sound, every movement deliberate, their bodies low to avoid detection. Nancy led the way, her footsteps light but purposeful, her flashlight off to avoid drawing attention.

The heat from the fire licked at their faces as they maneuvered around it, the smoke growing thicker the closer they came to the heart of the room. The scent of burning plastic and scorched metal clung to the air, acrid and suffocating, making every breath a challenge.

The noise grew clearer, confirming their worst suspicions. Whoever—or whatever—was pouring that liquid wasn't far. Nancy motioned for them to pause, her back pressed against the cool metal wall as she scanned the area ahead. Beyond the fire's glow, the thick shadows shifted unnaturally, as though someone was moving just out of sight.

Steve crouched slightly, leaning toward Nancy, his whisper barely audible. "Tell me we have a plan here."

Nancy didn't reply. Her mind raced, formulating their next move as she gestured for Jonathan to hold the flashlight steady but keep it low. Slowly, they inched closer, the sound of the liquid pouring now interspersed with faint shuffles, as though a figure was repositioning themselves.

Jonathan's throat tightened, his breath catching as his eyes registered the faint glint of movement—three figures, their outlines shifting within the thick haze of smoke and the chaotic interplay of firelight and shadow. The metallic gleam of something reflective—a tool, a weapon, or perhaps just the shine of their boots—sent a jolt of alarm through him. He leaned toward Nancy, his voice nothing more than a ghost of a whisper. "Over there," he mouthed, tilting his head toward the indistinct forms.

Nancy's pulse spiked, her chest tightening as the weight of the moment pressed down on her. Her instincts screamed at her to stay hidden, to retreat, but her curiosity and determination waged a quiet war within her. She clenched her jaw, gripping the cold edge of the metal wall for stability.

Before she could formulate their next move, a voice cut through the room, sharp and chilling as a blade.

"You might as well come out of hiding, Ms. Wheeler," the voice said, smooth and eerily composed. It echoed unnaturally in the space, the firelight casting eerie shapes across the walls as the words reverberated. "I know you're there."

Nancy froze, her blood turning cold. Her name, spoken so deliberately, sent a ripple of fear and confusion through her. Her eyes darted to Jonathan and Steve, both of whom looked equally startled, their expressions a blend of fear and disbelief.

Swallowing hard, she forced herself to respond, her voice steadier than she felt. "Who are you? What do you want?" she called out, keeping her tone firm despite the tremor threatening to creep in.

The fire crackled in response, filling the silence that followed. The figures didn't move, but the voice came again, as calm and precise as before.

"That's irrelevant," it said, carrying an air of authority laced with a faint, unnerving amusement. "Come out of hiding, Ms. Wheeler. Now."

Nancy exchanged a tense glance with Jonathan and Steve. The unspoken question passed between them: Do we really have a choice? Jonathan's jaw tightened, and Steve shifted his grip on the bat, the muscles in his arms flexing as he prepared for the worst.

With a reluctant nod from Nancy, they stepped out from the relative safety of the shadows, moving cautiously toward the centre of the room. The flickering firelight danced across their faces, casting distorted shadows on the walls as they emerged into the open.

"Smart choice," the voice said, its tone laced with icy amusement.

As they stepped closer, the owner of the voice came into focus—a woman with an unsettling presence. Her mismatched eyes caught the firelight, one a piercing blue and the other a strange, molten amber. The eerie glint in her gaze sent a chill down Nancy's spine, even as the heat of the flames licked at her skin.

The woman stood with a calm, almost predatory demeanour, the flickering flames painting her sharp features in shades of gold and shadow. Her posture was relaxed but commanding as if she had all the time in the world—and all the power in the room.

Flanking her were two younger figures, a teenage boy and a girl, both no older than sixteen. The boy's hands gripped a shotgun, the barrel glinting dully in the light. His expression was wary but determined, his stance revealing a readiness to act if needed.

The girl, on the other hand, clutched a can in one hand—gasoline, judging by the pungent smell that hung in the air. Her other hand toyed idly with a silver lighter, flicking it open and shut with a soft metallic click that echoed faintly in the tense stillness.

Nancy's heart thudded against her ribs as she took in the scene. The deliberate way the boy's finger hovered near the trigger and the girl's careless handling of the lighter told her one thing: these weren't amateurs.

"Mary," Nancy said finally, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. She took a careful step forward, keeping her hands at her sides, palms visible. "We don't want any trouble."

Mary's lips curled into a faint, humourless smile, her mismatched eyes narrowing. "Oh, I'm sure you don't," she said, her voice smooth and mocking. "But that's the thing about sticking your nose where it doesn't belong—trouble tends to find you anyway."

Steve stiffened beside Nancy. "Okay, so... what is this? Some kind of creepy club initiation? Because honestly, the vibe sucks," he said, his attempt at humour strained but defiant.

The girl with the lighter let out a soft, almost manic chuckle. With a flick of her wrist, she sparked the lighter to life, letting the tiny flame dance for a moment before snapping it shut with a metallic click. "We could make it a party," she said, her tone sing-song.

"Enough," Mary snapped, her voice cutting through the air like a whip. The girl fell silent, though her grin lingered.

Jonathan stepped forward slightly, his cautious gaze flicking between Mary and the boy with the shotgun. "Why burn down Hawkins Lab?" he asked, his voice even but probing. "It's already abandoned. What's the point?"

Mary turned to him, her mismatched eyes gleaming with something dark and deliberate. "To send a message," she said simply, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Nancy's brow furrowed. "What message?"

Mary's gaze swept around the room, lingering on the scorched walls and the smoke curling upward toward the broken ceiling. "This Lab," she began, her tone thick with bitterness, "used to be my home. Believe it or not, it was the only home I'd ever known." Her expression hardened, her eyes narrowing as her voice dropped lower. "But sometimes, to make way for the new, the old must be torn down."

Then Mary's gaze snapped back to Nancy, her lips curling into a thin, sharp smile. "Besides," she said, her voice softening to a chilling calm, "what better way to get Eleven's attention than by destroying her first home?"

All instinct screamed louder than reason, and without hesitation, Nancy barked a single command: "Run."

There was no time to think, no time to strategize. Nancy, Jonathan, and Steve bolted, the chaos of the fire blurring into a smouldering backdrop as their footsteps thundered against the metal floor.

Behind them, the boy's movements were quick and practised. He raised the shotgun in one smooth motion, his finger hovering over the trigger, ready to fire.

But Mary's calm voice sliced through the chaos like steel. "No need."

Her hand rose with an almost regal authority, and the boy obeyed, lowering the weapon reluctantly. His jaw tightened, frustration flashing briefly across his face, but he didn't argue.

Mary tilted her head slightly, her composure unnervingly serene. Her eyes tracked the trio as they fled into the shadows. "They won't get far," she said calmly.

The girl with the lighter giggled, flicking the flame to life once more. "Should we go after them?" she asked, her voice laced with childlike glee, as though the prospect of a hunt thrilled her.

Mary didn't flinch or break her focus. Slowly, she shook her head, her gaze unwavering from the corridor's shadowy mouth. "No," she said, her voice cold and measured. "I'll handle it myself."

Without another word, Mary raised her left hand, her movements slow and deliberate, as though savouring the moment. The air around her seemed to shift, growing heavier with an invisible tension that pressed down on the room like a storm about to break.

As her hand extended, her fingers splayed and trembling slightly, a dark, coppery trickle began to snake its way down from her left nostril. Droplets of blood gathered at the edge of her nose before falling to the scorched floor below.


They skidded to a stop in the hall, eyes wide, breath ragged.

Holy shit.

They hadn't just gotten lost—no, that was too simple. They were disoriented, sure, but something wasn't right.

"Wait…" Jonathan's voice trailed off, confusion and panic creeping into his words. "Which way did we—?" His eyes darted around, searching for some answer.

Because there sure as hell hadn't been a blank wall back the way they came from—nothing but the red glow of an EXIT sign casting an eerie light over an empty, impossible hallway.

"That can't be real," Nancy muttered, her flashlight flicking over the blank wall as if it could somehow force a door to appear.

"You travelled to another dimension through a damn tree," Jonathan shot back, his voice low and tense, "we'll talk about the impossible later—run now."

But the hallway doors had vanished, replaced by nothing. The only option was to turn right, then right again, then right a third time. Steve, who had scraped by with a C+ in geometry, knew in his gut that something was seriously wrong. When the last right didn't lead them back to where they'd started, he felt an uncomfortable, unnatural law of physics being shattered before his eyes. They weren't just lost—they were trapped.

The hall stretched out before them, too long, too wide—impossibly so. Steve's mind raced as he fought to suppress the primal fear creeping up his spine. It was as if the skin of the building itself was giving way, pulling apart to reveal a space that shouldn't exist.

Without warning, a flashlight flickered at the far end of the hallway, casting a beam through the inky darkness. No one dared to speak. They all knew better than to call out.

Nancy tried to shine her light back, but the beam shifted to follow her. Jonathan lifted his flashlight, and a second light appeared.

His body moved almost mechanically, as though possessed by an unseen force. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his lighter, flicking it open with a slow, deliberate motion. The tiny flame sputtered to life.

"Guys..." His voice cracked, trembling.

Without saying a word, they turned and ran. They looped back—right, right, right again—and ended up back in the same godforsaken hallway, now with two lights and a flickering Zippo flame waiting at the end.

And then, down the hall, another Jonathan's voice broke the silence—a horrible, animal-like cry for help, a gurgling, wet plea that dissolved into nothing. Then, another light went out.

Jonathan's stomach churned. He gripped his ribs, his flesh a reminder of the harsh reality: only one of him was real. The sound of that scream, that desperation, made him feel hollow inside.

They turned again, each corner now a blur, each turn a desperate attempt to escape. But no matter how many times they went left or right, they were always back in the same place—staring down the endless, suffocating hallway.

Somewhere, another Nancy screamed, and a gunshot rang out. The scream stretched and echoed, fading away into silence.

Nancy's face contorted as she listened to her own dying screams, her mind struggling to make sense of it. Her expression was vacant, like someone staring at a photo of themselves they no longer recognized. The only thing tethering her to the present was the iron grip she had on Jonathan's hand.

A cold, suffocating dread sunk into Jonathan's bones. Oh god, it's his turn.

The hallway seemed to stretch endlessly as they moved forward, their footsteps muffled by the thick silence. Then, Jonathan heard it—his own voice, echoing down the corridor. The sound was fragmented, desperate, a jumble of anguish and pleading. "Please, Nance... Jonathan... don't leave me, not alone, please—"

Nancy flinched, her voice barely a whisper, tight with fear. "She's herding us... We have to try something else—"

The air grew heavier. The darkness in the hallway thickened, creeping across the walls like ink, suffocating the last remnants of light. The space felt alive, pressing in on them from all sides, and Jonathan's heart raced in his chest.

"Just run—we need to—"


It was the stress, Jonathan told himself. It had all become too much. Nancy understood. She always had. From the first moment he saw her in second grade, she never called him a loser, never mocked him, never laughed behind his back. She had always been kind to him, even when others didn't. Sure, she pitied him, looked at him with those perfect, blue eyes—eyes filled with sadness and regret. That was the way she was looking at him now.

There's no such thing as monsters, Jonathan. You have to listen to me. They found him. Nothing lives in your walls.

Her voice echoed in his mind as clearly as when she'd said it, gazing at him with those same sad eyes while taking in the chaos of the living room. Broken furniture, shattered remnants of their lives, all signs of the thing that had taken Will. But Jonathan and his mom knew better. They knew exactly what had happened.

Jonathan shifted uncomfortably under Nancy's steady gaze. It felt as though her eyes were digging into him, peeling away layers of his thoughts, exposing him in a way that made him uneasy. He'd never liked being the focus of anyone's attention, especially not like this. The intensity of her stare seemed to strip him bare, making him feel vulnerable and small.

She had tried to take the gun away. She didn't understand. He needed it. They had fought over it—struggling, hands locked in a brief but frantic tug-of-war. He had to keep it. The thing that had taken Will, the monster lurking in the walls, wouldn't stop until it was destroyed. Without that gun, Jonathan couldn't protect them. He couldn't stop it.

"Jonathan? Hey, man, open up. It's Steve. Steve Harrington."

Steve's voice came muffled through the door, rough around the edges, like he had just come from a fight. Jonathan knew the fight they'd had—Steve had lost control, his rage boiling over before they could stop him. He hadn't even realized what he was doing until someone pulled him off. Steve usually kept that rage buried deep inside, locked away where no one could see it, but not that night. That night, it had exploded. He wasn't like Lonnie. He wasn't a psycho. He never wanted to hurt anyone.

"Look, man, I'm not here to start something," Steve's voice cracked, full of guilt. His face twisted in regret, his lips trembling, as though he might break into tears. "I messed up, what I said—I messed up, okay? I—Jesus, is that blood?"

Jonathan's throat tightened. He was about to reassure Steve, to tell him that it was okay—that they just had to get the monster out of the walls and everything would be fine. They would get Will back. But before he could say anything, Steve's gaze flicked past him, and his expression shifted. He gasped, a sharp intake of breath that echoed like a warning as if something had triggered the most horrifying realization.

Steve spun on his heel, not waiting for a response, and bolted past Jonathan, heading straight for Nancy.

"Oh my god, Nance! Nancy, Jesus Christ," Steve cried out, his voice cracking, full of panic. He fumbled with his words, his mouth working but failing to make sense. "We need an ambulance—Jesus, we—" But then the words stilled, dissolving into a high, desperate keening noise. The room fell silent as Steve sank to his knees next to Nancy, his whole body wracked with sobs, the raw weight of the moment crashing down on him. Jonathan stood frozen, unable to look away.

Steve didn't even glance in Jonathan's direction. Slowly, Steve rose, his back turned, his body trembling with emotion.

"You're insane," Steve's voice broke through the quiet, shaking so violently it sounded as if the words were vibrating through a fan. His eyes were wide with disbelief, full of wet desperation. "Oh god, you're crazy, you're crazy, what did you do, Byers—WHAT DID YOU—"

A sudden, strange sound cracked through the tense air—sharp, jarring, like the snap of an egg in a quiet room. Jonathan blinked in confusion, trying to make sense of it, but his thoughts scrambled. Steve crumpled onto the couch beside Nancy, his body slack as if everything had just gone out of him. Jonathan watched, his chest tightening, waiting for Steve to speak, but no words came. Only a faint, breathy rattle, the sound of his ragged breathing as his hand weakly reached up to his temple, where blood trickled from a wound. The hand fell back to his lap, lifeless, and Steve's gaze slid shut.

Jonathan slowly lowered the bat from where it had been held in a tight grip. His mind raced, confusion and disbelief swirling inside him. It's just stress, he thought. Just too much chaos. Too much pressure. No one in his family knew how to handle stress. But these were his friends, weren't they? They were supposed to understand. They were supposed to be with him like they always had been.

But the air felt different now. The darkness in the corners of the room was thickening, pulling at the light like oil spreading across water. The Christmas lights that his mom had put up, the ones meant to keep the house warm and bring a connection to Will, flickered weakly before fading. The shadows crawled up the walls, twisting like tendrils, reaching for everything in their path.

Jonathan's grip on the bat tightened again, his knuckles turning white as he laid it across his lap. He perched on the arm of the couch, his eyes narrowing at the shadows, watching them stretch and twist, growing darker. He could feel it now, the weight of it in his bones—the monster was coming.

And so, he waited.


I've been waiting for a girl like you to come into my life

I've been waiting for a girl like you, your loving will survive—

Steve had smiled—a soft, comforting smile—and told her she was beautiful.

"Steve," Nancy whispered against his ear, her breath shaky, "I… look, Barb is downstairs. I should—maybe another time?"

She could feel his smile against her skin, warm and teasing as it lingered near her neck.

"C'mon, Nance, why'd you come up here?" he murmured, his lips brushing down the curve of her collarbone. "Did you just want to show me your bra?"

His words were light, playful, but there was an undercurrent—a dark, almost mocking twist to them. It was the kind of challenge she hadn't asked for, the kind that made her feel small and foolish like she was a child caught in something she didn't understand. It wasn't all that different from how Tommy had talked to her, and that thought made something ugly wriggle in her stomach.

—I've been waiting for someone new to make me feel alive…

Yeah, waiting for a girl like you to come into my life—

"Steve." This time, her voice wasn't a whisper. It was sharp, tinged with irritation. "Steve!"

His lips paused for a fraction of a second, but he didn't stop. She wasn't sure if he was ignoring her on purpose or if he simply didn't care. "Jesus, Nancy, what?" His voice was flat, irritated, as he propped himself up on his hands and stared down at her, his expression shifting from easy charm to confusion and frustration. His face, once so soft and handsome, now looked rigid and foreign, and Nancy felt something heavy settle in her chest.

"We're having a good time, right?"

"This isn't…" She didn't even know how to finish that sentence, the words tangled in her throat as she struggled to find some way to explain. How it should have gone, how she wanted it to go—both of them a little drunk, laughing off the tension. But this wasn't it. This wasn't how she had imagined it. "I think I'm just going to change. It's getting late, and Barb is waiting for me, so…"

Steve's face faltered, brows knitting together. "You're kidding me?" His disbelief was palpable. He stared at her like she had betrayed him, the weight of his confusion pressing down on her. "You're not kidding me."

"I'm sorry," she said quickly, scooping up a sweatshirt from the floor. Her voice faltered a little, but she didn't want him to see how much she hated herself at that moment. "Maybe we can—"

"Jesus, I should've slipped the definition of 'blue balls' into your index cards," Steve muttered, propping himself up on his elbows. The flush of embarrassment was still evident on his face, but it wasn't enough to mask the frustration bubbling under the surface. "Look, it'll be fun, I swear, Nance—just—"

Before she could move away, he grabbed at her waist, an ingratiating smile spreading across his face. A smile that had always been so charming, but now it felt like a mask, fake and forced. "Hell, it can even be fast if that's what you—"

"That isn't funny. Let go," Nancy snapped, but Steve didn't release his grip. He just held on, insistent, as though it was his right to keep her there.

"Steve!" she said, louder this time, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and disgust.

He groaned into her back, his hand still gripping her, sliding downward, pushing her boundaries with every move. "God, Carol said you were gonna be a frigid bitch. I told them you were cool, Nance—now they're gonna give me so much shit—so why don't we just—"

Her elbow shot back instinctively. She didn't mean to hit him in the face, but she wasn't sorry when he let go with a hiss of pain. She had sharp elbows, and it was enough to make him rock back onto the bed, both hands pressed to his nose.

"What the fuck, Nancy?" he yelled.

She was already out of the room, running down the stairs, out the back door into the yard. She didn't even look back. The moment she saw Barb's face, her composure crumbled. She had been holding it together—barely—but now, the tears started to fall, uncontrolled, as Barb scrambled off the diving board and rushed toward her.

"Nancy, what did he—"

Nancy shook her head, grabbing onto Barb's jacket sleeve, her voice barely a whisper. "Nothing. You were right, okay? I just want to leave."

"I don't want to be right—what did he do?" Barb's voice was soft but laced with concern.

"Nothing." Steve came storming out of the house behind them, shirtless and shoeless, his face still flushed with anger, a hand pressed to his nose. "She elbowed me in the fucking face."

"Barb, let's just go," Nancy urged, her voice tight, but Barb didn't seem to want to leave.

"Yeah, no," Steve scowled, shaking his head. "You can give me my sweatshirt back and then leave."

"I'll give it back to you at school," Nancy said, a calmness creeping into her voice, though she could feel the edges of her patience fraying.

"Screw you, Nancy. Give it to me now," Steve snapped, his voice dripping with entitlement as he yanked at the sweatshirt's back, like a spoiled child demanding his toys.

"I'm in my bra," she hissed, jerking away from his grip, her frustration boiling over. "We're parked five blocks away."

"I really don't care." His voice was cold like he didn't even consider her discomfort. She had hoped—no, she had wanted—to believe he cared for her. But now, all that was left was the harsh reality: he didn't. He never did.

She stared at him for a moment, fighting the bitter sting of regret. She didn't cry, not anymore. She was cold and angry. "Fine," she muttered, her hands shaking slightly as she pulled the sweatshirt over her head.

"Don't you dare," Barb said sharply, grabbing Nancy's wrist. Her voice was firm, full of determination. "You'll get it tomorrow at school, Steve. Deal with it."

Steve sneered. "I'm sorry, I'm really sorry. I don't see how this is your business, Billie Jean King. You care so much, you give your girlfriend your coat."

Barb stepped forward, her eyes narrowing with disgust, and without thinking, she placed herself between Nancy and Steve. "Back off, Steve," she said, her voice low and cold.

Nancy tried to separate them, just to end it, to get Barb's coat and leave, but it was too much. Too fast. Barb wasn't expecting the shove, and she lost her balance.

Barb's bare feet, still wet from the pool, landed on a discarded beer can hidden in the grass. The sound it made was awful—a sickening crunch, like something snapping in slow motion. Nancy saw it happen in an instant, her hand instinctively reaching out, but it was already too late.

Barb's body pitched backward, her arms flailing as she slipped. The sharp crack of her head hitting the concrete pool edge echoed in the humid night air, a sound that would haunt Nancy forever. Blood bloomed in the water, bright and vibrant like red smoke unravelling in slow, swirling tendrils. Barb's limp form slid into the pool, her body sinking below the surface.

Time seemed to stretch, pulling each second into an eternity. Nancy screamed, her voice raw and desperate, the sound ripping out of her chest as she threw herself into the water. The shock of the cold barely registered as she swam frantically toward Barb, her arms reaching out, clawing at the water. She grasped at her friend's lifeless body, pulling, straining, but Barb was too heavy, her limbs too unresponsive, as if the water itself conspired to hold her down.

The pool turned dark around them, the blood staining the water in thick, black tendrils that wrapped around Nancy like smoke, suffocating her, pulling her under. Panic seized her as she lost all sense of direction. She couldn't tell which way was up or down. Her lungs burned, screaming for air, but the bottom of the pool seemed impossibly far away. It felt as though they were drifting deeper into an endless void, the world above slipping further and further out of reach.

Nancy's mind spiralled, screaming one thought: I have to save Barb. I can't lose her. I won't. But even as the mantra repeated, reality clawed at the edges of her resolve. The blackness grew, swallowing everything, until there was nothing left but the weight of the truth she refused to face.

This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. This wasn't them.

Nancy's chest tightened, her body on the verge of giving out. And then, finally, the truth broke through the haze of panic: I can't save Barb. Barb is gone.

The thought cut through her, sharp and unforgiving, but it brought a strange clarity. Nancy's grip loosened, her hands trembling as she let go. Her legs moved instinctively, kicking upward, pushing herself toward the surface and the air she so desperately needed.

She broke free of the water with a gasp, her lungs heaving, the night air filling her chest like fire. The surface was quiet now, the water eerily still, the black tendrils of blood fading into nothingness behind her.


"STEVE!"

The shout was sharp, cutting through the fog in his brain like a jagged knife. His eyes flickered open and met with glaring fluorescent lights and the sterile hum of a hospital room.

"Hop?" His voice cracked.

"Steve, talk to me." Hopper's face loomed closer, creased with urgency. "Do you remember what happened?"

His face throbbed. His head was pounding like a drum beat out of rhythm. He tried to sit up, but dizziness slammed into him like a wave, sending him back against the hospital bed. "What?" He blinked, forcing his eyes to focus on the blurry figures standing around him—Hopper, Nancy, Jonathan, and Joyce. Familiar faces, heavy with tension.

He wasn't sure how he knew it, but he braced himself. The questions were coming. The same ones he'd heard on every TV show: Who's the president? What's today's date? When's your birthday? His throat was dry when he rasped, "Billy...?"

"Yes," Hopper said, voice clipped. "Yes, Billy. What else?"

The memory flickered like static on an old TV. Steve tried to piece it together. He shouldn't have ratted out the kids, but they had dragged him through hell—literally. Kidnapped him, made him navigate those nightmare tunnels while concussed and scared out of his mind. Still, he owed them.

"What else, Harrington?" Hopper's tone was razor-sharp now.

"The car?" Steve's voice trembled, pathetically weak.

Nancy took a sharp breath, muttering something, but Hopper cut her off. "Shh. Yeah, the car. What happened?"

Steve blinked again, slower this time. His mind scrambled for footing on the slippery slope of memory. Hopper sounded cold, unforgiving—so different from how he should've been. They'd helped save the day, hadn't they?

"We—" He licked his dry lips. "We burnt the shit in the tunnels. For you. For El. To close the gate and save Will."

Joyce's chair scraped harshly against the floor as she shot to her feet. Her face twisted, mouth opening as if she might scream, but Jonathan caught her arm, steering her toward the double doors of the room. She didn't scream. Didn't say a word. But her silence hit harder than any shout ever could.

Will.

Panic shot through him like electricity. "We helped close the gate, right? Everyone's okay... right?"

Nancy's fist came out of nowhere. It landed hard and fast, knuckles like iron, sending his head reeling with the impact. Pain exploded, compounding the existing ache from his encounter with Hargrove, and his vision blurred.

"What the hell, Nance?" He struggled upright, only to falter as she shouted over him, her voice a cracked mirror of rage and grief. "You're an idiot! I hate you! It should've been you!"

Hop grabbed her, physically hauling her out of the room.

And then it was just him and Hopper.

Steve tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. "Can I—" His voice broke. "Can I see Dustin? He'll clear this up. He'll tell you."

Hopper slumped into the chair beside the bed. His face was carved from stone, but his eyes burned with something raw and jagged.

"Kid," Hopper said finally, his voice low and steady, like the calm before a storm. "You can't keep doing this. You can't live in this goddamn fantasy."

"What?" Steve blinked, confused.

"You don't get to rewrite this. You don't get to be the hero who saved the day. They deserve better. They deserve the truth. So do you."

The truth slammed into him like a freight train.

It started with Billy Hargrove. Or maybe it started even earlier—with the kids. The chain of events blurred in Steve Harrington's memory, but Nancy Wheeler's simple request was clear: Can you babysit my little brother for a couple of hours? A harmless favour, or so it seemed. Except "little brother" soon morphed into "his five nerdy friends," and one afternoon turned into a regular gig. Babysitting became a running joke—Steve Harrington, King of Hawkins High, now a glorified chauffeur and monster hunter for a pack of misfit kids.

Annoying as they were, Steve didn't mind. The kids were sharp, brave in ways he didn't expect. Dustin's relentless enthusiasm, Lucas's sharp wit, Max's fire. Even Mike had his moments, though Steve would never admit it outright. They made him laugh, made him feel like he mattered in a way his former high school glory never had.

Then came the Camaro. Billy Hargrove with his smug grin and a car that roared like a predator stalking its prey. Billy was a bully, no question, and Max's older brother took every chance to push Steve's buttons. That day, it wasn't just Billy's taunts that got under Steve's skin—it was the kids. Their laughter, their cheers, their egging him on to show Billy up.

He'd pressed the gas. Just for a second. Just to see Billy's cocky smirk falter. Just to show Max her brother wasn't as invincible as he wanted everyone to believe.

The semi came out of nowhere.

Steve barely had time to register the blaring horn before everything spiralled out of control. The world twisted violently—metal screaming, glass shattering. The Camaro spun out, flipped. Time fragmented into chaos.

He went through the windshield. The impact had knocked the breath out of him, the sensation like hitting concrete from a high dive. Then—darkness.

The kids...

He clutched the sheets, knuckles white. "They're fine," he whispered, the words barely audible. "They were fine. We saved the day."

Hop stood, his shadow looming. "No, Steve. They died. All of them. Dustin. Will. Mike. Lucas. Max. They're gone."

Steve shook his head, tears streaming freely now. "No. That's not... that's not what happened. That's not what happened."

Hopper's voice was colder than the grave. "Good job, hero. Enjoy your fantasy land."

The door slammed shut. Steve was alone.

"No," he whispered into the silence. "Please, no. The monsters—"

The darkness in the hallway wasn't still. It moved, creeping toward him, slithering like a living thing. Tendrils of shadow seeped under the door, curling into the room like smoke, twisting and writhing. The air grew colder, pressing down on him with an oppressive weight. It felt like it was filling his lungs like he couldn't breathe or think.

"Don't leave me alone," Steve choked out, his voice barely audible now, swallowed by the encroaching black.

But there was something out there. It was darker than dark, a void that even the faint light in the room couldn't touch. He saw it pressing against the narrow window in the door, a shifting, shapeless form. It slid through the crack between the door and the floor and poured in from the edges where the door didn't quite meet the frame. The darkness was alive, and it was coming for him.

Steve sank back into the pillows, his body frozen, his limbs heavy. He closed his eyes and waited, the growing chill spreading over him. Let it come, he thought. Monsters aren't real. They never were. There was no day to save. No world to fix.

Good job, hero.

The words rattled in his head, mocking him until something shifted inside him. A spark. A thought. A promise.

Wait.

Steve's eyes snapped open, his chest heaving. He tugged at the jacket draped over the bed rail, his hands trembling as he shoved one into the pocket, groping frantically. His stomach twisted when his fingers met nothing but empty fabric. He yanked it off and tried the other pocket, desperation mounting. His hand brushed against something soft. Cloth. The half-rolled brim of a familiar hat.

Dustin's hat.

His breath hitched. He promised. He promised to bring Dustin his hat back.

The darkness was closer now, almost upon him, curling around his feet like ink spreading in water. He reached under the bed, his movements frantic, his fingers scrabbling against the floor. The cold was biting now, seeping into his bones, but then he felt it—smooth, familiar, worn wood. His fingers closed around the handle.

Because the monsters were real.

And Steve Harrington needed his goddamn bat.


"Steve? Oh, thank God."

The voice was desperate, a lifeline pulling him from the suffocating grip of confusion. Steve blinked, his vision sharpening on Nancy Wheeler kneeling beside him in the sterile hallway of the lab. Her wide, terrified eyes locked onto his, grounding him. His hands tightened involuntarily around the object he clutched—Dustin's hat, crumpled in his white-knuckled grip.

The memory faded like smoke. The false reality slipped away, replaced by the unbearable weight of the present. Steve held the hat tighter, his fingers trembling. He might owe Dustin a new one after this—if they all got out.

Nancy's arms wrapped around him, pulling him close, her warmth cutting through the cold dread gnawing at his insides. She was real. This was real. The sensation of being held by Nancy Wheeler had never felt more solid, more vital. For a moment, he let himself believe they were okay.

But then she whispered, "I can't wake Jonathan."

The fragile calm shattered. Steve broke the hug and scrambled toward Jonathan, who was slumped against the wall, his body swaying unnaturally, eyes rolled back and glassy.

"Jonathan? Jonathan!" Steve gripped his wrist tightly and yanked him away from the wall. Jonathan's body moved like a rag doll, limp and unresisting. Steve's stomach churned—he didn't think he could carry him if it came to that, but dragging him was better than leaving him behind.

To his relief, Jonathan's legs moved, following Steve's lead like a puppet on strings. Relief flooded him so intensely that he nearly collapsed under its weight.

But then came the scratching—soft at first, like claws against a locked door. It grew, raking painfully against the edges of his mind. Steve staggered under the psychic assault, a cold, invasive pressure worming its way deeper.

Nancy gasped sharply beside him. "Oh, God..."

"Think of something else!" Steve barked, his voice rough with desperation.

The whispers slithered through his brain, alien and insidious. "Leave him. No one would blame you. You tried."

Steve shook his head violently, trying to drown them out, but the tendrils persisted, wrapping tighter. "He'll be gone soon. Let him go."

"Nancy!" Steve called, but she was already ahead, skidding through the empty double doors into the reception hall. Her flashlight beam jerked wildly, casting frantic shadows.

The whispers twisted, sharper now. "She could be yours..."

Nancy spun toward them, her wide eyes filled with urgency. She paused at the shattered window, hesitating, waiting for all three of them to catch up.

"Go, I've got him!" Steve shouted, his voice cracking with strain.

"You go!" Nancy snapped her bag already in her hands. She pulled out the gun, her stance firm as she aimed down the darkened hallway behind them. "I'll cover you."

"Nance—"

"Go!" She shoved him forward, leaving no room for argument.

Steve wrapped Jonathan in a bear hug, the boy's weight awkward in his arms, and heaved them both toward the window. They tumbled through it, landing on the hard pavement in a graceless heap. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs and sent pain shooting through his shoulders and back, but the jolt seemed to shake some life back into Jonathan.

"Steve?" Jonathan's voice was quiet, disoriented, but startlingly clear. His hands clutched Steve's shirt, his grip desperate. "She was in my head..."

"Welcome to the club," Steve grunted, rolling onto his side. "It sucks. Worst club ever."

Gunshots cracked through the air, sharp and deafening. The muzzle flashes lit up the reception area like lightning.

Steve grabbed for his bat, ready to dive back inside, but Nancy's figure suddenly emerged from the broken window. Her expression was fierce, determined.

"What are you doing? Keep running!"

Yeah. What was he doing?

The three of them bolted for the fence, panic fuelling their speed. They reached it together, scaling the chain link and slipping past the jagged edges of the cut barbed wire. Steve barely climbed down the other side—he half-jumped, landing hard enough to send shockwaves up his legs. But he was on his feet fast enough to help Nancy down, catching her as she swung over. Jonathan landed moments later, stumbling slightly but upright.

Steve's heart plummeted as his eyes darted toward where his car should have been. For a dreadful moment, he was certain it would be gone, stolen or destroyed—just one more cruel blow in a night filled with them. But there it was, miraculously untouched. The battered BMW stood out in stark contrast to the chaos behind them, solid and dependable. In that instant, it became the second most beautiful thing he'd seen all night, second only to the sight of Nancy and Jonathan still breathing.

He dashed to the driver-side door, skidding to a stop with enough force to jar his entire body. His fingers fumbled with the handle, adrenaline making them clumsy. The door flew open so violently he was sure he'd left a Steve-shaped dent in the panel. He threw himself into the driver's seat, lunging across to unlock the passenger side.

Nancy and Jonathan piled in, their movements frantic, every second feeling like an eternity. The door hadn't even closed behind them when Steve slammed the car into reverse, his foot stomping on the gas. The tyres screeched against the pavement, the sound splitting the suffocating silence as the car jerked backward, kicking up gravel and ash.

Nancy wedged against Jonathan in the passenger seat and rocked back hard into his lap as the force of the sudden motion jostled them. Jonathan braced himself against the dashboard, his knuckles white, while Steve gritted his teeth and fought to keep the wheel steady. The three of them were a chaotic tangle of limbs, fear, and raw adrenaline, bound together by the singular need to survive.

Behind them, the lab glowed ominously against the darkness, consumed by fire. The flames had spread unchecked, a roaring inferno devouring the structure that had held so many of their nightmares. Smoke billowed into the night sky, the distant crackle of flames and the groan of collapsing walls just barely audible over the car's engine.

No one spoke.

The silence in the car was heavy, pressing against them like a physical weight. It was a silence born of exhaustion and terror, the kind of silence that held too much unsaid. The car's headlights pierced the darkness ahead, illuminating the winding backroads with thin beams of light.

Finally, they hit the streetlights of the main road, their weak glow spilling across the cracked asphalt. It was faint, almost insignificant, but to Steve, it was salvation. It was a promise, however fragile, that they'd made it one step further.

For now, they were alive.


Mary stepped cautiously onto the gravel, her boots crunching against the uneven surface as she moved closer to the scene before her. The acrid scent of smoke stung her nostrils, sharp and suffocating, but she didn't flinch. Her eyes remained fixed on the fire as it spread with a hungry determination, licking its way through the front of the building.

The flames surged and twisted, their fiery tendrils stretching skyward as if trying to claw their way to the heavens. They illuminated the night in flashes of orange and gold, casting jagged shadows across the ruined façade. Shattered glass in the windows caught the light, scattering it in eerie fragments that flickered like restless spirits. The guttural roar of the blaze was punctuated by the crackling of collapsing wood and the occasional burst of something giving way to the heat.

Benny and Beth stood off to the side, their murmured conversation blending into the symphony of destruction. Benny gestured toward the blaze, his voice low and uncertain, but Mary barely registered the sound. The scene before her was too captivating, too magnetic.

Her breath hitched as she took it all in, the magnitude of the destruction reflected in her wide, unblinking eyes. Yet she didn't turn away. She couldn't.

The flames didn't frighten her; they welcomed her, familiar and almost comforting in their chaos. Even in Vietnam, fire had held a strange fascination for her, its power both destructive and purifying. She had watched villages burn under napalm strikes, felt the intense heat on her skin, and seen how quickly it could erase everything in its path. Fire was an equalizer. A weapon and a cleansing force.

She glanced down at her watch, the faint glow of the dial standing out against the darkness. A sigh escaped her lips. Eleven wouldn't arrive as she had intended. But it wasn't a complete failure.

The fire's reflection danced in her eyes as she straightened, a satisfied smile tugging at her lips. The fruits of her labour would soon speak for themselves. The chaos she had sown here would echo throughout Hawkins, pulling her sister inexorably back to the town.


The drive back was steeped in silence, the kind that hummed with an unspoken pact: don't talk about what Mary had shown them. The air in the car was heavy, saturated with the weight of too many things left unsaid. No one dared to break it.

Nancy kept glancing at Steve, her words soft and aimless, like she just needed the sound of his voice to keep the world from shattering entirely. Every so often, she reached across the seat, her fingers brushing his. When he threaded his fingers through hers and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, she held onto the warmth of it, but neither of them said a word about it.

Jonathan sat close to Nancy, his arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Maybe a little too tight, but she didn't pull away. His face was buried in her hair, his breath uneven against her ear. Whatever he was holding back stayed locked inside. Nancy didn't ask.

In the back seat, Steve's hands gripped Dustin's stupid baseball cap like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality. His knuckles were white, the brim crushed between his fingers. The others noticed—the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his hands trembled—but no one said anything. Not Nancy, not Jonathan, and certainly not Steve. Acknowledging it felt dangerous, as though any words might fracture the fragile stillness enveloping them.

When they finally pulled into the Byers' driveway, the screen door slammed open so hard it clattered against the side of the house. Steve flinched, pretty sure the thing had just given up its last hinge. Joyce came barrelling down the porch steps, nearly tripping in her frantic haste.

"Jonathan!" she cried, throwing herself at her son, wrapping him in a fierce, crushing hug. She pulled back just enough to grab his face, her hands fluttering like a bird's wings as she checked him over—his eyes, his expression, his limbs. No blood, no broken bones, no hint of supernatural possession. Relief warred with disbelief on her face because, really, with their history, who wouldn't double-check?

Steve stood on the edges of the scene, watching. It must be nice to have someone—

Joyce's hands shot out and grabbed his face next, pulling him into her line of sight with startling ferocity. She repeated the same process she'd used on Jonathan, her sharp eyes scanning for bruises, injuries, or otherworldly signs.

"Oh," Steve thought, stunned by her urgency, her care. It is. It's nice.

When she was done, she gave his face one last pat before pulling him into a hug. It was firm, warm, and unexpectedly welcome. She stepped back, her expression a mix of anger and relief.

"I'm going to kill you," Joyce said breathlessly, the words laced with both exhaustion and affection, before moving on to Nancy.

"Yeah," Steve muttered to himself, the ghost of a smile flickering across his face. "That's fair."


By morning, the fire had already attracted a swarm of media attention. News vans lined the streets, their satellite dishes swivelling upward, locked on the sky to broadcast every new development. Reporters and cameramen gathered in small huddles near the perimeter of the crime scene, their microphones poised, their eyes sharp, waiting for a break in the action.

At every entrance to the scene, police officers stood guard, keeping watch over the growing crowd. Still, that didn't stop the curious from gathering. Neighbours, residents, and even a few tourists had arrived, their faces pressed against the chain-link fences, straining for any glimpse of the action, any scrap of information. Some whispered in hushed tones, while others shouted questions to the officers on duty, but the uniformed officers remained tight-lipped. The typical tranquillity of the town was replaced with an undercurrent of unease, and for the first time in a long while, the sense of safety that had once defined the place seemed like a distant memory.

The Lab now lay in ruins. What remained of its walls was nothing but blackened skeletons, jagged and twisted by the fire's ferocity. The roof had collapsed in on itself, the exposed beams charred and while the fire was the immediate concern, it was the other lingering questions—the whispers of foul play, the hidden truths—that kept everyone on edge.

The media, eager for answers, had already begun piecing together their own theories. Journalists and reporters scurried to collect every scrap of rumour, every fragment of information, desperate to make sense of what had transpired. They speculated on the fire's origin, the people involved, and whether anyone had been inside when it started.


The Hawkins Town Council chamber was as unremarkable as the meetings held within it. The room was a rectangular space with high, narrow windows that let in minimal natural light, further dimmed by the persistent overcast weather of the region. Beige paint covered the walls, a colour chosen perhaps to offend no one but failing instead to inspire anyone. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh, white glare on everything below.

At the centre of the room sat the large oval table, its surface marred by years of use, with scratches and coffee rings telling the stories of countless tedious discussions. The table was surrounded by an assortment of chairs, none of which matched. Some were old, with worn upholstery and squeaky frames, while others were newer but equally uncomfortable. Each councillor had staked their claim to a particular chair, creating a bizarre, unspoken seating arrangement that rarely changed.

On one side of the room stood a wooden podium, where councillors would rise to present their reports and proposals. Behind the podium was a large, outdated map of Hawkins, its edges curling and colours fading. A whiteboard, covered in a mix of recent notes and forgotten doodles, occupied the adjacent wall. A clock ticked loudly above the door, its hands seemingly moving slower during these endless meetings.

The councillors themselves were a varied bunch, each bringing their own quirks to the chamber. Councillor Roberts, with his nasal voice and perpetually dishevelled appearance, was known for his long-winded speeches. Councillor Greene, always impeccably dressed, had a habit of dominating discussions with his grandiose ideas and self-important demeanour. Then there was Councillor Evans, who often appeared to be napping but would suddenly chime in with a surprisingly insightful comment when least expected.

Mary adjusted her thick glasses and pulled the collar of her dumpy cardigan tighter around her neck as she settled into her chair. She looked the part of an unassuming councillor: thick, unflattering glasses, a nondescript wig, and clothes that made her blend into the background. Her colleagues never suspected a thing, which was exactly how Mary wanted it. Her disguise was perfect; the council members saw her as just another middle-aged woman with a passion for education and a propensity for knitwear. But behind this façade lay a far more complex and calculating mind.

Mary's role as the town's councillor for education had its tedious moments, but it provided unparalleled access to Hawkins' children. She had worked hard to secure this position, fabricating a pristine ID and impeccable credentials. It had been surprisingly easy, really. Bureaucracy often came with a lack of scrutiny, and no one questioned her supposed history in educational reform. With each monotonous meeting, she embedded herself deeper into the fabric of the town's governance, a silent puppeteer among unsuspecting marionettes.

Mary's thoughts were interrupted by a sudden round of applause. She glanced up, realizing that Roberts had finished his speech. Councillor Greene, a particularly pompous man with an overinflated sense of importance, had taken the floor. Mary sighed inwardly and adjusted her glasses again. Greene was insufferable, but she listened attentively, knowing that every detail, no matter how trivial, could be useful.

She had become adept at maintaining her cover, reacting with appropriate concern or enthusiasm whenever required. She'd perfected her small talk about school board meetings, parent-teacher associations, and after-school programs.

The meeting dragged on, each councillor taking their turn to pontificate on the minutiae of town law. Mary remained composed, her expression placid, but her mind was always a few steps ahead.

As the council adjourned, Mary gathered her papers and slipped them into her worn leather bag. She exchanged polite smiles and nods with her colleagues, her demeanour as unremarkable as ever.

As she exited the council chamber, she noticed a man engaging in a heated conversation with one of her colleagues ahead of her. Even from a distance, the man's presence was unmistakable.

Greg Adams. Mary recognised him immediately. He was the billionaire whose company, Adams Industries, produced a wide array of household items—from TVs and ovens to refrigerators and more—that filled the homes of Hawkins residents. To many in the town, he was a benevolent figure, a pillar of the community who employed a large portion of the town's population. However, to those who knew the deeper intricacies of Hawkins' politics, Greg Adams was a controversial figure.

In recent years, Adams had repeatedly clashed with Mayor Gwen Williams over her ambitious Great Works projects. These projects aimed to transform Hawkins, focusing on infrastructure, culture, and community development. The Hawkins Fair of 2005 had been a resounding success, and the ongoing facelift of the town's dam promised improved safety and efficiency. Investments in communications, healthcare, housing, and education were reshaping the town, making it a more vibrant and connected community. The arts scene, in particular, had flourished, with new movie theatres, art galleries, and concert halls sprouting up like wildflowers.

Mary watched as Councillor Evans, the man speaking with Adams, shook his head vehemently and stormed away, leaving Adams standing alone in the hallway. For a brief moment, a scowl crossed Adams' face, but it vanished as soon as he noticed Mary approaching.

"Councillor Merryweather," he greeted her, his voice smooth and composed. "How was the meeting?"

"Same as always," Mary replied, offering a polite smile. "Tedious but necessary. How about you, Mr. Adams? What brings you to our humble council chambers?"

Adams glanced around, ensuring they were alone, before lowering his voice. "I'm here to circulate a petition to demand an immediate recall election for Mayor Gwen Williams. I was hoping to convince some of the council members to sign it."

Mary raised an eyebrow. "A recall election? That's quite a serious move. What has prompted this decision?"

Adams' expression hardened. "Gwen Williams is a liar. During her election campaign, she ran as a compassionate conservative in the mould of George W. Bush. She promised fiscal responsibility, traditional values, and moderate reforms. But now that she's in office, she's enacting socialist policies that are completely at odds with what she stood for."

Mary fought the urge to roll her eyes at Greg Adams' accusations. The mayor wasn't a socialist, she thought to herself. Slightly arrogant and too idealistic, yes, but no socialist. She wondered how many people actually believed Adams' rhetoric. His claims were little more than a political strategy designed to undermine Mayor Williams and pave the way for his own influence over the town.

Mary maintained a neutral expression, though her mind was racing. "Can you give me some examples of these policies?"

"Certainly," Adams said, his tone sharp. "Look at her Great Works initiative. It's a massive spending spree that the town can't afford. She's pouring money into unnecessary projects like art galleries and concert halls while neglecting essential services. The Hawkins Fair, the facelift on the dam, these are vanity projects designed to boost her popularity, not address the real needs of our community."

Mary nodded thoughtfully. "I see. And what do you hope to achieve with this recall election?"

"To restore sanity to Hawkins' governance," Adams replied firmly. "We need a leader who truly represents the values of this town, not someone pushing a hidden agenda. Gwen Williams has betrayed the trust of the people who elected her, and she needs to be held accountable."

"I appreciate you bringing this to my attention, Mr. Adams," she said carefully. "It's certainly something to consider. I'll need to think about it and discuss it with my colleagues."

"Of course," Adams said, his demeanour softening slightly. "I understand this is a big decision. But we need to act quickly if we're going to make a change. I'll leave you with a copy of the petition and some supporting documents. Please, take your time to review them."

Mary took the documents, her mind already turning over the possibilities. "Thank you, Mr. Adams. I'll be in touch."

As she walked to her car, her mind drifted back to darker times. She remembered her years locked up in Pennhurst Mental Hospital at the end of the 70s, following the end of the Vietnam War. The world had changed while she was confined. She had watched the 1980s pass her by on television, observing President Ronald Reagan and America's newfound love affair with greed and excess. The rise of Wall Street, the yuppie culture, and the era of 'Greed is Good' had all unfolded while she was trapped behind those oppressive walls.

Pennhurst had not just been a prison for her body, but also a place where her mind had been sharpened. She remembered the many historical books she had read in the hospital's dusty library. Books on the Roman Empire, ancient Greece, Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, Napoleon, Attila the Hun, Genghis Khan, and Egyptian pharaohs like Ramesses II. These rulers had known how to deal with politics. They hadn't stood for democracy or debates like Cato the Great had engaged in. They had seized power, controlled their territories with an iron fist, and bent their subjects to their will.

The contrast between the decisive actions of these historical figures and the bumbling bureaucracy of the Hawkins Town Council was stark. Mary had learned a lot from those books. She had learned that true power wasn't about holding office or winning debates. It was about control, influence, and the ability to manipulate events to one's advantage.

She unlocked her car and slid into the driver's seat, her mind still turning over the possibilities. Greg Adams' petition for a recall election was just another twist in the political landscape of Hawkins, another opportunity for her to exploit. She would review the documents he had given her, but she already knew she wouldn't be swayed by his melodramatic claims.

Mary felt, now more than ever, that she did not belong among the non-magical. It was something she had always known, lurking beneath the surface like an unspoken truth. Even as a child, she had felt different—set apart, destined for something greater. While others around her moved through life burdened by their limitations, bound by the mundane, she had always sensed that she was meant for more. Now, she finally understood why.

Now, she finally understood why. It was among wizards where she truly belonged. The feeling had only grown stronger since she had first learned of her magic, and now, with a wand in her possession, it was undeniable. This was her world—one steeped in ancient traditions, boundless knowledge, and raw, untamed power. And now, she was part of it.

She had been relentless in her pursuit of understanding, demanding that Nyarlathotep tell her everything about wizarding history. Every war, every rebellion, every ideological shift. She devoured it all, sifting through the triumphs and failures of those who had come before her. There were lessons to be learned—mistakes that she would not repeat.

Grindelwald and Voldemort had both failed, blinded by their own arrogance. Their visions of wizarding dominance had been flawed from the start, built on hatred and fuelled by reckless ambition. Subjugating and exterminating half-bloods and Mudbloods had never been the solution. They had wasted their time fighting the wrong enemy.

The true problem had always been the International Statute of Secrecy. That decree had done more damage to the wizarding world than any war, any Dark Lord, any blood feud. It was a leash, keeping wizards hidden in the shadows, forcing them to pretend they were something lesser than what they were. It disgusted her.

And worse still, they had no true homeland of their own. No sovereign nation where magic reigned, where they could exist without fear of being discovered and persecuted. Instead, they were scattered, forced to hide within the borders of non-magical governments. It was an unnatural state of being, an indignity that had persisted for far too long.

Mary's mind drifted to history—real history, the kind that had reshaped the world. She thought of the aftermath of the Great War, of how Woodrow Wilson had redrawn the map of Europe, carving up empires and installing liberal democracies in their place. The mighty German, Ottoman, and Austro-Hungarian empires had crumbled, giving way to new nations, new orders. It had been a radical shift, an upheaval of centuries-old systems, all in the name of progress. And the world had not only survived—it had adapted, evolved, grown stronger.

She had great respect for the institutions that had risen from the ashes of war. The League of Nations, flawed as it was, had been the first real attempt at global cooperation. Its successor, the United Nations, had gone even further, establishing the framework for international diplomacy. The Geneva Conventions had set the standard for how wars were to be fought, ensuring that even in conflict, there were rules. The Hague had given the world a court to hold its worst criminals accountable. These were not the actions of weak men; they were the work of visionaries, of those who understood that civilization had to be carefully shaped and maintained.

Mary could respect these institutions—so long as they respected the sovereignty she intended to create. If the world could accept new nations in the wake of war, why should they not accept one more? A wizarding nation, a homeland carved from the old world order, free from secrecy, free from the shackles imposed by the Statute of Secrecy.

But if they refused to acknowledge what was coming—if they tried to stand in her way—then she would show them what history had already proven time and time again. The old world could be broken. Empires could fall. Borders could be rewritten.

And she would be the one holding the pen.


Meanwhile, the Wheeler family had gathered around their television, their faces illuminated by the flickering glow of the news broadcast. The news broadcast dominated the room, and the family watched intently as the reporters on the screen provided updates. Still, none of them offered the clarity they were all desperately seeking.

Eleanor and James sat side by side on the floor in front of the lounge, their eyes fixed on the television as another news report about the fire flickered on the screen.

Ted, ever the sceptic, had attempted to break the tense silence with a comment about the fire's origin. He made some offhand remark about how it could have been caused by anything, probably just an accident or careless handling of equipment.

Karen, already worn out from the emotional toll of the past few days, didn't even acknowledge Ted's comment. She was staring ahead, her expression tight, clearly distracted by the ongoing news coverage. Bruce, too, appeared uninterested in responding to Ted. Danny sat nearby, his arms crossed and eyes focused on the television screen, but there was a noticeable tension in his posture, as though he was unsure how to feel about the whole situation.

Mike and Danny had just returned home from the question into the Ways, and as expected, Karen wasted no time in voicing her displeasure. As soon as the door swung open, she was there, her frustration spilling out in a rapid-fire barrage of questions and reprimands. Mike, tired of the constant lectures, finally snapped back, reminding her that he wasn't a little kid anymore and could come and go as he pleased. It was the same argument they'd had countless times, but it did little to alleviate the tension in the air. Danny, however, remained mostly silent, his face impassive as he stood by, watching the exchange unfold. At one point, it seemed like he was on the verge of saying something—maybe to Karen, maybe to Mike—but the words never came. Instead, he simply stayed quiet, his gaze distant.

Mike couldn't help but feel a growing sense of disappointment as the night wore on. He'd hoped to talk to Eleven before he went to bed, to check in and make sure she was okay after everything that had happened. But when he picked up the phone, there was no answer. He tried again, and again, but each attempt was met with silence. Eventually, frustration took over, and he put the phone down, resigning himself to another sleepless night. The Green Man's cryptic prophecy had lodged itself deep in his mind, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake the haunting words. His thoughts raced, running in circles, until exhaustion finally claimed him, though the unease in his chest remained.

Breakfast was an unusually quiet affair, the kind of silence that spoke louder than words. The clinking of forks against plates was absent, and the usual hum of light chatter was replaced with a heavy stillness. Sara sat at the table, her plate untouched. The eggs had gone cold, the toast sat forgotten, and the glass of orange juice beside her remained full. Instead of eating, she was hunched over, nervously picking at her fingernails, her gaze fixed on the table as though the wood grain held the answers to her troubles.

Mike glanced across the table at his daughter, his concern deepening as he watched her intently. Sara, usually full of energy and talkative, was distant, almost entirely withdrawn. His brow furrowed as he noticed how her fingers trembled slightly, tapping on the tablecloth, and how she seemed to be avoiding the food in front of her entirely. She hadn't even made the usual attempt to stir the food or cut into the toast. He couldn't ignore it any longer.

He placed his fork down carefully, leaning forward just enough to get her attention. "Honey," he started, his voice gentle but filled with concern. "You haven't eaten anything. Is everything okay?"

Sara's reaction was instant—she flinched as if his words had struck her like a physical blow. Her shoulders tensed, and she quickly avoided his gaze, turning her eyes downward even more. Mike's heart sank as he watched her, sensing that something was wrong but unsure of what it was. The room felt colder suddenly, the distance between father and daughter growing in the silence that followed.

"Sara?" Mike repeated softly, a little more urgently now. He reached across the table, his hand resting near hers, but she seemed too caught up in her own thoughts to notice. She tugged her hands away, fidgeting with her nails again, as though she wanted to be anywhere but here, caught in the middle of this conversation. Her lips were pressed together in a tight line, her expression unreadable.

"Everything's fine," she mumbled. It was the kind of answer that didn't match the tension in her posture, the way she flinched at even the slightest touch, or the way she couldn't seem to meet his eyes.

Mike sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. His daughter had always been open with him, so to see her so closed off was unsettling. Something was clearly wrong, but Sara wasn't ready to talk about it yet. Mike knew pushing her too hard would only make her retreat further into herself, but the worry gnawed at him. His gaze flickered to his wife, who was watching the exchange quietly, her own concern mirrored in her eyes.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm his rising anxiety. "Whenever you're ready, you know you can talk to me, right?" Mike softly, his voice steady despite the worry, he could feel creeping into his tone.

Sara's head lifted slightly at his words, her eyes still cast down, but there was a subtle shift in her posture, a sign that she was hearing him, even if she wasn't ready to respond. She nodded slowly, a single, almost imperceptible movement, but it was enough to let him know she hadn't shut him out entirely. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

There was a sudden knock on the door, breaking the quiet tension in the house. James, the ever-precocious middle child, shot out of his seat as though the sound was a personal challenge. His energy seemed boundless, and he didn't hesitate for a second. "I'll get it!" he announced with the kind of confidence that only a child who knew he was always in a rush could have.

Before anyone could react, he was already bounding toward the door, his footsteps light but fast, the excitement evident in his wide grin. He reached for the handle and flung the door open with a flourish. "Mom's here! And Aunt Max!" he called out as if he were revealing the arrival of royalty rather than just family members.

The two women stood in the doorway, caught off guard by James's overzealous greeting but smiling nonetheless.

"James, my goodness, you're as eager as ever," Max laughed, stepping inside with an affectionate ruffle of his hair.

The moment Mike saw Eleven, a wave of relief washed over him. Without a second thought, he closed the distance between them, his arms already reaching out. Eleven, her face softening with a mixture of exhaustion and joy, didn't hesitate either. She stepped forward into his embrace, her arms wrapping around him tightly, as though they were both trying to make up for the time lost between them.

Mike held her firmly, as if afraid she might slip away if he let go. The warmth of her body against his was a stark contrast to the chill that had settled in the air around them. For a brief moment, everything else in the world faded—the worries, the unanswered questions, and the weight of the situation they were caught in. All that mattered was that they were together again, after all the fear and uncertainty.

Eleven pressed her face against his chest, her hands gripping the back of his shirt, holding on as if she could draw strength from him. Mike's heart raced, not just from the intensity of the moment but from the realization that she was here, safe. He hadn't known what to expect when he finally saw her again, but now that she was in his arms, the overwhelming sense of worry and dread that had gripped him for days began to unravel slowly.

"I missed you so much," Mike murmured, his voice thick with emotion. The words seemed inadequate, but they were all he could say at that moment. He felt the weight of everything he'd been through—the sleepless nights, the constant wondering, the fear of what might have happened to her.

Eleven pulled back slightly, looking up at him with her wide, familiar eyes. Her gaze softened, but she didn't say anything right away. Instead, she gave a small nod, as though she understood exactly how he was feeling without the need for words.

Breaking from Mike, Eleven turned her attention to James and Eleanor, who rushed toward her. She crouched to their height, enveloping them in a warm embrace. James grinned, wrapping his arms tightly around her, while Eleanor giggled softly, nuzzling against her shoulder.

"I missed you, mom!" James declared brightly, his excitement breaking through the sombre air. Eleanor echoed his sentiment with an enthusiastic, "Me too!"

But as Eleven stood and moved to Sara, the energy in the room shifted. Eleven reached out, wrapping her arms gently around her eldest daughter, but Sara stiffened. Her arms remained pinned to her sides, and she didn't return the embrace. Eleven's expression flickered—confusion, hurt—but she quickly masked it. She released Sara, stepping back and glancing wordlessly at Mike, her brow furrowing in silent question.

Mike met her gaze and gave a small, helpless shrug, his shoulders slumping slightly as if to say, I don't know, but I'll figure it out. For now, there were more immediate matters to address.

Breaking the moment, Eleven straightened, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Sorry I was gone," she said quietly.

Mike gave her a faint smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "So am I," he confessed. There was no blame in his tone, just raw honesty. He hadn't realized just how much he needed her until she wasn't there.

Max, sensing the need for privacy, nodded toward the kitchen. "Let's talk in there," she suggested.

Once inside, they settled at the small table, the overhead light casting a warm, intimate glow over them. Eleven and Mike sat across from each other, their postures mirroring the tension and relief of the moment. Max leaned against the counter, arms crossed, her sharp eyes darting between the two as if ready to mediate if needed.

Mike took a deep breath, his fingers laced together on the table in front of him. He glanced at Eleven, his eyes filled with a mixture of resolve and lingering hesitation. But he knew he had to start somewhere. "There's a lot to explain," he said, his voice steady but low. "Things have been… intense."

Eleven tilted her head slightly, her expression open but expectant. Max raised an eyebrow, silently encouraging him to get on with it.

Mike began slowly, carefully laying out the sequence of events that had led to this moment. He explained how his uncle had reached out for his help, the urgency in his request pulling Mike into something far bigger than he could have anticipated. "He said he needed me," Mike said, his tone tinged with both frustration and disbelief. "It was about Hawkins Lab."

At the mention of the Lab, Eleven stiffened slightly, her eyes narrowing. But she didn't interrupt, letting Mike continue.

He described their journey to the ruins of the Lab, painting a vivid picture of the desolation and unease that hung over the place like a cloud. Then came the revelation of the Waygate—a strange, otherworldly portal that defied logic and explanation. As he spoke, his words grew more animated, his hands gesturing as though to illustrate the incomprehensible nature of what they had encountered.

"The Waygate wasn't just a door," Mike explained. "It was… alive, in a way. Pulsing with energy. And it led to somewhere else. Somewhere dangerous."

His voice dropped slightly as he recounted the harrowing journey through the Waygate, the oppressive darkness that seemed to cling to them with every step. He described the terrifying encounter with the Trollocs and being captured by them.

Max shifted her weight against the counter, her expression unreadable. Eleven, however, leaned forward slightly, her gaze fixed on Mike, absorbing every word.

"And then," Mike continued, his voice softening, "we met Bloodraven."

"Who?" Eleven finally asked curiously.

"He's… I don't even know how to explain him," Mike admitted, shaking his head. "A figure. A being. It seemed as if he'd been waiting for us, though. Through Bloodraven, I met someone else. Henry.

Eleven's expression darkened at the mention of the name, her jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "Henry?" she repeated.

Mike nodded, his gaze dropping for a moment before returning to hers. "He said he was an alternate version of me. From the multiverse."

Max, who had remained mostly silent, let out a short, incredulous laugh. Crossing her arms, she tilted her head at Mike. "The multiverse? Really? That sounds like something straight out of a sci-fi movie."

Mike met her sceptical gaze without flinching. "Max, think about it. After everything we've been through—Demogorgons, mind flayers, psychic powers—why is the idea of a multiverse where you draw the line?"

Max opened her mouth as if to retort but then paused, sighing as her shoulders relaxed. "Okay, fine. Fair point," she conceded, though her tone was begrudging. "But alternate versions of you? What's this Henry guy's deal? Did he want something?"

Mike took a deep breath, his voice quieting. "He didn't ask for anything directly. But he showed me things—versions of myself from other realities. Different choices I made, different lives I lived. Some of them were good. Others..." He trailed off, his voice tightening. "Others weren't. He said everything is connected, that what's happening here is just one piece of a much bigger puzzle."

Eleven's eyebrows knit together as she listened, the weight of Mike's words sinking in. "What does it mean, Mike? What did he want you to do?"

"I don't know," Mike admitted. "But whatever it is, it feels big. Bigger than anything we've ever faced before."


Back in the living room, Danny seized a moment of quiet to catch Karen's attention. With a slight nudge to her arm and a pointed glance toward the stairs, he silently suggested they step away for a private talk. Karen hesitated momentarily, her brow furrowing in curiosity, then nodded, following him without a word.

Since the kitchen was already occupied, they made their way upstairs. Once they reached the second-floor hallway, Danny stopped near a window at the far end. Pale morning sunlight spilled through the glass, illuminating the scuffed floorboards and casting golden streaks across the faded wallpaper.

It wasn't the most private spot, but it would have to do. Danny leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his brow furrowed as he gathered his thoughts. Karen stood opposite him, her arms loosely folded, waiting expectantly.

After what felt like an eternity, Danny finally broke the silence. His voice was low, weighed down with something Karen couldn't quite place. "I… I'm sorry," he said, the words trembling as they left his lips.

Karen's head tilted slightly. Her brow furrowed as she studied him, trying to decipher the meaning behind his words. "Sorry?" she repeated, her tone sharp with surprise. "What are you talking about?"

Danny let out a slow, measured breath, his eyes dropping to the floor before rising to meet hers. "For everything," he admitted. "For how I treated you when we were younger. For being cold, distant—like you weren't enough because you didn't have magic like I did." He paused, his voice softening. "I was wrong. You deserved better, and I… I didn't give you that. I'm sorry for all of it."

Karen's lips pressed into a thin, tight line, her eyes searching his face for a moment as if trying to gauge the sincerity of his words. For a long moment, she said nothing, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably between them. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet but laced with bitterness. "A little late for that, don't you think?"

Danny flinched slightly, her words landing harder than he'd expected, but he didn't look away. "I know," he replied quietly, his voice steady despite the hurt in his eyes. "But I needed to say it. You deserved to hear it, even if it's long overdue."

"So why now?" Karen demanded, her arms crossing tightly over her chest as she glared at Danny.

Danny hesitated, knowing this was the part that would be hardest to explain. His voice was soft when he finally spoke. "I… spoke to Mom," he admitted, his gaze steady but guarded.

Karen's eyebrows shot up in disbelief. "You spoke to Mom? Really?" Her tone dripped with sarcasm. "What'd you do? Pull out a Ouija board?"

"That's not funny," Danny shot back.

Karen's face hardened, her disbelief giving way to simmering frustration. "She's been gone for forty years, Danny. Dead. Four. Decades." Her voice rose with every word, her tone sharper now, each syllable cutting deep. "And now, suddenly, you've had some sort of epiphany? A come-to-Jesus moment where you think you can just waltz in here and say 'sorry' like it fixes everything? Give me a break!"

Danny winced at her words but didn't back down. "I get how it sounds, Karen. I do. But I swear to you, it wasn't just me dredging up memories or some desperate attempt to ease my guilt. I saw her. Spoke with her." His voice softened, his gaze steady on hers. "And she told me I needed to make things right."

Karen stared at him for a moment, her jaw tightening as if she was holding back a flood of emotions. "You expect me to believe that?" she asked, her tone quieter now but still edged with disbelief. "That you've had some… ghostly intervention and she just forgave you? Told you to come back and make nice with me after decades of silence?"

"I've always cared, Karen," Danny said. "I just… didn't know how to say it before. Mom told me that it's not too late to fix things… if you're willing to let me try."

Karen folded her arms, her stance still guarded. "And what if I'm not?" she asked.

"Then I'll have to live with that," Danny said. "But I needed you to know. I needed to say it, even if it's forty years too late."

Karen glanced down, her fingers absently tracing the edge of her sleeve as if grounding herself. When she finally looked back up, her shoulders slumping as if releasing a burden she'd carried for too long. "You've got a lot to make up for," she said, her tone firm but no longer icy. "And I'm not saying this fixes anything. But… maybe we can start with this."

Danny nodded, a hint of relief crossing his face. "That's all I'm asking for."

Karen gave him a small, reluctant smile, the kind that didn't reach her eyes but held a flicker of hope. "You're still an idiot," she muttered, turning toward the stairs.

Danny chuckled softly, following a few steps behind. "I'll take that," he said. "It's better than nothing."

As they descended back toward the others, the air between them felt lighter, if only just.


Back in the kitchen, Eleven broke the silence, her voice calm but laced with an undertone of seriousness. "You're not the only one with news," she said, glancing at Mike. "While you were gone, Max and I took a trip to Chicago to see Kali."

Mike raised an eyebrow, surprised. "Your sister? Why did you go to her?"

"To learn more about Mary," Eleven replied, her gaze steady.

"And? Did you find anything useful?" Mike pressed, leaning forward slightly.

"Kali says Mary is dangerous," Eleven said, her tone lowering. "And unstable."

"Which is basically what we already knew," Max chimed in, leaning casually against the counter with her arms crossed. Her voice carried a hint of frustration. "So, nothing ground-breaking there."

Mike frowned, his mind racing as he absorbed the information. "Did Kali say anything else?" he asked, his concern growing.

Eleven nodded slightly. "She warned me to be careful. Said that Mary's not just unpredictable—she's unstable. And when someone like her is pushed too far…" She trailed off, her eyes narrowing as though recalling Kali's exact words. "It could be catastrophic."

"Kali's suggestion is we should leave Hawkins. Pack up and run before Mary decides to go nuclear," Max said.

"Run?" Mike repeated, incredulous. "We can't just leave. This is our home."

Max shrugged. "Yeah, well, Kali doesn't seem to think Hawkins is going to be much of a home if Mary decides to tear it apart."

Eleven shifted slightly, her gaze flicking between Mike and Max. "I don't think running is the answer," she said quietly. "As Mike said, this is our home. Our family is here."

As she spoke, she reached out and took Mike's hand in hers, her fingers curling around his.

Max glanced at their joined hands and sighed. "I get it," she said. "I'm not saying I want to bail. But if staying here means putting everyone we care about in Mary's crosshairs, then maybe we have to at least consider the idea."

Mike squeezed Eleven's hand gently. "We're not running," he said, meeting Max's gaze. "If we leave, what's stopping Mary from following us? Or from turning Hawkins into ground zero? We have to deal with this—here and now."

Eleven nodded in agreement, her eyes steady on Max. "If we run, she wins. I'm not letting her take Hawkins from us—or take anything else."

Max exhaled sharply, her shoulders dropping as she leaned off the counter. "Fine," she muttered, raising her hands in mock surrender. "You guys want to play defence? Have it your way. Just don't say I didn't warn you."

With that, she pushed off the counter and strode out of the kitchen.

Eleven turned her attention back to Mike, her expression softening, though the concern in her eyes remained sharp. "Now," she said, "tell me what's going on with Sara."

"She's been… distant," Mike admitted. "Quiet. She wouldn't eat this morning, and when I asked her what was wrong, she shut down completely."

Eleven's fingers brushed against his hand. "Did she say anything? Anything at all?"

Mike shook his head. "Nothing. It's like… she's afraid to talk to me. I don't know if it's something I did or—" He stopped himself, frustration and helplessness flickering across his face.

Eleven squeezed his hand reassuringly. "We'll figure it out," she said. "We'll talk to her together. Maybe she'll open up with us both there."


The morning sun streamed through the windows of the Wheeler house, filling the rooms with a soft, golden light. It bathed Nancy's old bedroom in warmth, but for Sara, it brought no comfort. She sat on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her gaze fixed on the floor. The world outside seemed alive and hopeful, but inside her, everything felt cold and heavy.

Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, back to the previous night—to her date with Bruce. What had started as something innocent and exciting had ended in a nightmare she couldn't escape.

The three frat boys. Their hands holding her down. The suffocating fear that had gripped her chest. And then

The screams.

Sara's breath hitched as the memory clawed its way to the surface. The sheer, raw terror she had felt as something within her snapped, unleashing a force she hadn't known she possessed. The way their blood had splattered. The look of horror on their faces as she tore them apart.

Her stomach churned, and she wrapped her arms around herself as if trying to hold her shaking body together. The images flashed in her mind like a broken film reel—vivid, relentless. She squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn't help.

She wanted to forget.

Sara flinched, her whole body recoiling as the memory hit her again like a wave crashing over her. Her breathing quickened, and she buried her face in her hands, pressing her palms against her temples as if she could block out the flood of thoughts.

The sun's warmth felt mocking now like it didn't belong in the same world as what she had done. What she had become. She didn't want to think about it anymore, but the memories clung to her, refusing to let go.

The blood.

The fear.

The screams.

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but she bit them back, refusing to let them fall. If she cried, it would make it real. And she didn't want it to be real.

A soft knock on the door broke through her spiralling thoughts, followed by her mum's gentle voice. "Sara, honey, can we come in?"

Sara's heart leapt to her throat. She quickly wiped her face with the sleeve of her sweater, trying to erase any trace of her tears. Her voice trembled slightly as she called out, "Yeah, sure."

The door creaked open, and Eleven stepped in, her expression warm but laced with concern. Behind her, Mike lingered in the hallway.

Eleven's eyes swept over Sara, her motherly instincts immediately picking up on the faint redness around her daughter's eyes and the tension in her posture. "Are you okay, sweetheart?"

Sara forced a smile, though it felt fragile like it might shatter at any moment. "Yeah, I'm fine," she said quickly, hoping her voice sounded steadier than she felt.

Mike stepped into the room, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before he spoke. "You sure? You seem... off."

Sara swallowed hard, resisting the urge to crumble under their concerned gazes. "I'm fine," she repeated, her tone firmer this time.

Mike and Eleven exchanged a glance before Eleven sat down on the bed beside her, followed closely by Mike.

Sara shifted uncomfortably, drawing her knees to her chest as if trying to create a barrier between herself and the growing weight of their concern.

Eleven reached out gently, placing a hand on Sara's knee. Her voice was calm and soothing. "Are you sure you're okay?" she asked, her brown eyes searching Sara's face. "You can tell us anything. We won't judge you."

Mike nodded in agreement, sitting on Sara's other side. "She's right," he said softly. "Whatever it is, we're here for you."

Sara's throat tightened as their words pierced through the wall she'd been trying so hard to keep up. She glanced between them, her parents, the two people who had always been her rock, and the tears she'd fought so hard to hold back began to well up again.

"I…" she began, her voice barely above a whisper. She quickly looked down at her hands, her fingers twisting nervously. "I don't know how to tell you."

Eleven gave her knee a reassuring squeeze. "Start wherever you can," she said. "We'll listen."

Sara's breathing hitched, and for a moment, the words stuck in her throat. The memories swirled again, sharp and suffocating. She clenched her fists and tried to force them away, but they wouldn't leave.

"It's about last night," she finally admitted, her voice trembling.

Mike's brows furrowed, and Eleven tilted her head slightly, her expression calm but expectant.

"I went out with Bruce," Sara continued, her voice barely audible. "It was supposed to be a date… but then…" She faltered, her hands shaking now.

Eleven shifted closer, her voice even softer. "What happened, Sara?"

Tears began to spill over as Sara's composure shattered. "There were these three guys," she managed, her voice breaking. "Frat boys, I think. They'd been at the club Bruce and I were at."

Her hands trembled as she covered her face, her voice muffled but desperate to continue. "When we left, they followed us. I didn't notice at first, but then… then they cornered us in an alley."

Mike and Eleven leaned closer. Sara's voice cracked as she choked out the next words. "They grabbed me. Held me down. I—I was so scared. I didn't know what to do."

Mike's fists clenched tightly, his knuckles turning white as a storm of emotions crossed his face. Anger and fear warred within him, his mind racing to the worst possible conclusion. His voice, tight with tension, broke through the silence. "Did they…" His words caught in his throat, too awful to complete.

Sara immediately shook her head, her face still buried in her hands. "No," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

The relief on Mike's face was immediate but brief, replaced quickly by a fierce protectiveness. Eleven exhaled softly, her hand tightening on Sara's knee, though her expression remained calm and focused. "It's okay, Sara," she said, her voice a soothing balm to the tension in the room. "Just tell us what happened."

Sara's breath came in uneven gasps as she lowered her hands, her tear-streaked face filled with guilt and fear. "I—something happened. I don't know how, but I… I fought back."

Mike and Eleven exchanged a glance.

Sara's voice dropped to a whisper. "I killed one of them."

Silence fell over the room like a heavy blanket. Mike froze, his breath catching, while Eleven's expression shifted, a flicker of understanding crossing her face.

"I was just so scared, and it just… it happened," Sara continued, her voice breaking. "There was so much blood."

Eleven reached out, wrapping an arm around Sara's shoulders and pulling her close. "It's okay," she said softly. "You were protecting yourself. You didn't do anything wrong."

Mike, still stunned, leaned forward, his voice cracking as he spoke. "Sara, you're safe now. That's what matters. But… are you sure you're okay?"

Sara nodded weakly, though the guilt in her eyes betrayed her words. "I just… I can't stop seeing it. Hearing it. It's like it's stuck in my head."

"You said Bruce was with you in the alley?" Eleven asked gently, her mind piecing together the fragments of Sara's story.

Sara swallowed hard, her throat tight as she tried to push through the weight of her emotions. "He… he tried," she admitted, her voice breaking. "He tried to protect me, but they were too strong. They beat him so badly."

She looked down at her trembling hands, as though the memory were etched into her skin. "I thought they were going to kill him," she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "It was so bad. I've never seen anything like it. He was… lying there."

"Go ahead," Eleven urged.

Sara swallowed hard, her throat constricting against the weight of her confession. "Something… something inside me just snapped," she said, her voice distant. "It's hard to explain. It wasn't like I was in control. It was like I was watching it all happen, but it didn't feel like it was me. Does that make sense?"

Eleven nodded silently, encouraging her to continue.

"The first guy—the one holding me down," Sara began, her voice trembling but steadier. "He… he didn't even have a chance to react. I don't know what I did, but one second he was there, and the next…" She hesitated, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and disbelief. "He was gone."

Mike tensed, his fists curling in his lap, but he remained silent, letting her speak.

"The others tried to run. I think they saw what happened to their friend and panicked. But they didn't make it far," Sara continued.

She let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp and unsettling. "Bruce… he kind of… I don't even know how to say this. He evaporated into this weird, smoky cloud thing. And then, before I could even process it, the other two were just… gone. Like they'd never been there at all."

"Sara," Eleven said softly, "what do you mean by 'evaporated'? Are you saying Bruce… changed?"

Sara nodded slowly, her expression haunted. "Yeah," she whispered. "It wasn't normal. None of this is normal." Her voice trembled as tears filled her eyes. "What's happening to me?"

"Sweetheart, what you did—it wasn't your fault. You were scared, and you were trying to survive," Mike said gently as he reached out to place a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Anyone would've reacted somehow."

Sara's hands gripped the edge of the bed, her knuckles white. "It doesn't feel like me," she admitted, her voice quivering. "It feels like something else, something I can't control. What if it happens again? What if it's worse?"

Eleven shifted closer to her daughter. She let out a soft sigh. "Sara," she began, "your father and I always knew there was a chance—just a chance—that one of our children might inherit powers like mine."

Sara looked up, her wide, tear-filled eyes meeting Eleven's. "You knew this could happen?" she asked.

Eleven nodded. "We didn't know for sure," she explained. "But because of who I am—what I am—it was always a possibility. Especially with you, being our firstborn. Your father and I watched closely when you were younger, looking for any signs. But as you grew older, nothing happened. You were just… you. No powers, no telekinesis, nothing unusual."

Mike chimed in, with a reassuring tone. "We thought maybe it skipped a generation, or maybe it wouldn't show up at all. We never wanted to burden you with that possibility unless it became real."

Eleven placed a gentle hand over Sara's trembling one. "But now," she continued, "it seems that in a moment of extreme danger, your abilities have finally manifested. That kind of fear, that fight-or-flight instinct—it might have triggered something that was lying dormant inside you all this time."

Sara blinked, her tears spilling over as she tried to process what they were saying. "So… this is part of me? Something I've always had but didn't know about?"

"Yes," Eleven said softly. "But that doesn't mean it has to control you. You're still Sara. And we'll help you figure this out, one step at a time. You don't have to do it alone."

Sara's hands relaxed slightly, though the tension in her shoulders remained. Her eyes darted between her parents as if searching for reassurance.

Mike leaned forward, his voice quiet but brimming with curiosity. "And about Bruce," he added, "what you described—him turning into that 'cloud'—it sounds like magic. Real magic. I think there's more to his story than we know."

Sara's brows furrowed. "Magic?" she echoed, her voice sceptical.

Mike nodded, a small, almost sheepish smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah. It's not as out there as it sounds. You see, my uncle… well, he's a wizard."

Sara blinked, her jaw dropping slightly. "You're joking, right?"

"No joke," Mike said, his smile growing. "My uncle's been involved in this kind of stuff for years—spells, wards, the whole deal. If anyone can help us figure out what's going on with Bruce and what kind of magic he's tied to, it's him."

Sara stared at her father, her disbelief giving way to a cautious curiosity. "A wizard," she repeated slowly as if testing the word.

"Oh yes," Mike replied, leaning back slightly with a touch of humour in his voice. "He's got the hat and everything. Well, metaphorically speaking."

For the first time in what felt like forever, Sara felt a flicker of something lighter—almost a laugh threatening to escape her lips. "This family just keeps getting weirder," she murmured.

Eleven's lips curved into a small smile as she squeezed Sara's hand. "Weird, but together," she said. "And we'll get through this. All of it."

Sara exhaled deeply, the weight on her chest easing just a little. "Okay," she said. "Alright."

Mike and Eleven exchanged a brief glance of relief before standing. As they lingered in the doorway, preparing to give Sara some space, Eleven paused and turned back. She leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Sara's forehead.

"I'm so proud of you for sharing this with us," Eleven whispered. "We'll figure this out. Together."

Sara nodded again, her throat tight as fresh tears pricked her eyes—not from fear this time, but from the bittersweet comfort of not being alone. "Thanks, Mom," she said quietly, watching as Eleven and Mike left the room, leaving her to her thoughts.

For the first time since that awful night, Sara felt a faint glimmer of hope, fragile but real.


The afternoon seemed to slip by in a blur, the golden light of the sun shifting lazily across the walls of the Wheeler house. Despite the lingering undercurrent of tension from the events of the past few days, the family had chosen to focus on the here and now, grounding themselves in the comfort of being together.

In the living room, Sara sat curled up on the couch with James and Eleanor, flipping through an old photo album they'd found buried in a box in the attic. Laughter bubbled up as they marvelled at the outdated hairstyles and awkward poses. James pointed out a particularly ridiculous picture of Mike from middle school. Eleanor's giggles were so infectious that even Sara found herself smiling—a rare and welcome reprieve from the weight she had been carrying.

Mike and Eleven worked side by side in the kitchen, preparing an early dinner. Mike chopped vegetables with a focus that suggested he found solace in the rhythmic motion, while Eleven stirred a pot on the stove, occasionally glancing toward the living room to ensure their children were still laughing. The aroma of spices filled the air, creating a warm, inviting atmosphere.

Max leaned casually against the counter, sipping a soda and throwing in the occasional sarcastic comment. "Didn't know you had a culinary side, Mike," she teased.

"Stick around, and you might be impressed," Mike shot back with a grin.

"Highly unlikely," Max retorted, but the smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her.

Danny sat on a chair near the doorway, offering the occasional comment but mostly just soaking in the rare sense of peace that hung over the house. It was clear he was grateful to be part of this patchwork family, even as he struggled to reconcile what had happened.

As the afternoon deepened into evening, the family gathered around the dining table for dinner. Plates clattered, and the room filled with the hum of chatter and the clinking of silverware.

Nancy took centre stage during the meal as she recounted her harrowing escape from Hawkins Lab with Steve and Jonathan. She spoke with a nervous energy, her hands gesturing animatedly as she described the chaos and danger they had faced. The family listened intently, their expressions shifting from concern to disbelief and back again.

Karen's brow furrowed deeply as she absorbed her eldest daughter's story. "Nancy, I can't believe you put yourself in such a situation," she said. "Do you have any idea how dangerous that place was? What if something had happened to you? To any of you?"

Nancy placed her fork down with a soft clink, meeting her mother's gaze directly.

"Mom, we didn't have a choice," she said firmly. "If we hadn't gone, we wouldn't have known what Mary was up to—or why the Lab was destroyed."

Mike, sitting to Nancy's left, glanced at Eleven, who was leaning forward slightly. "Why did Mary burn the Lab down?" Eleven asked. "What did she hope to gain?"

"She did it to bring you back to Hawkins," Nancy admitted, her voice quieter now. "Whatever Mary's planning, she needs you here. That's why she made such a big, destructive move."

Eleven's gaze turned thoughtful, her fingers lightly drumming the edge of her plate. "Why? What does she need me here for?" she wondered aloud, hoping someone would have a suggestion. "So far, all she's done is go after and try to kill my adopted father."

"She didn't stop there," Danny interjected softly from his seat at the far end of the table. "Sam Owens is dead, too. Mary made sure of that."

Mike's expression darkened as Danny's words sank in, his hands curling into tight fists on the table. "And Will," he added bitterly with pain. "She took him, too."

Eleven noticed the tension in Mike's posture, the way his anger seemed to pulse just beneath the surface. Without a word, she reached out and placed her hand gently over his, her touch warm and steady. Mike looked at her, the intensity in his eyes softening almost immediately under her quiet reassurance. He exhaled slowly, the tension in his frame easing just a fraction.

Karen, sensing the strain in the room, gently steered the conversation to lighter topics as the meal continued.

For Mike, it was a strange blend of normal and abnormal. Despite the heavy discussions about Mary, the Lab, and whatever lay ahead, there was a warmth to the dinner—a rare moment where they felt like any other family sitting down to share a meal. He caught Eleven's eye across the table, and she gave him a small, reassuring smile.

As the plates were cleared and the family began to settle into the evening, Mike thought to himself, For all the chaos, for all the danger, this—this is worth fighting for.


As the morning sun filtered through the windows, bathing the kitchen in a warm, golden glow, the next day began. The soft clatter of dishes and the hum of morning conversation filled the air as the family gathered for breakfast.

Plates of scrambled eggs, buttered toast, and fresh fruit were passed around. Eleanor giggled as James exaggerated his reach for the butter, almost knocking over his glass of juice, which prompted a playful scolding from Mike. The light-hearted atmosphere offered a sense of normalcy that everyone seemed eager to embrace.

Mike and Eleven kept a watchful eye on Sara, their gazes flickering to her with quiet frequency, their concern quietly veiled behind soft smiles and casual conversation. Sara appeared in better spirits than the night before, her posture less guarded and her tone more open as she responded to James and Eleanor's playful chatter. Her faint smiles came more easily now and yet there was a fragility to her demeanour that didn't go unnoticed.

Sara picked at her plate with more interest than the night before, occasionally taking small bites of scrambled eggs or nibbling on a slice of toast. Her appetite seemed hesitant but genuine, as though she were testing her ability to enjoy the simple act of eating again. Her hands, however, betrayed small signs of nervousness—tapping her fork against the plate, trailing a finger along the edge of her napkin, or smoothing an invisible crease on the tablecloth.

Her gaze often drifted toward the window, unfocused and distant, as though she were replaying memories she'd rather forget. The dark shadows under her eyes hinted at a restless night. Mike exchanged a quick, wordless glance with Eleven, who gave a small nod, silently confirming his thoughts: the night of the attempted rape still hadn't lifted entirely from Sara's mind.

James and Eleanor, perhaps sensing their older sister's unease in the way only younger siblings can, stuck close to her throughout the morning. James's antics grew bolder, his gestures larger and sillier, clearly aiming to coax more laughter from Sara. At one point, he balanced a piece of toast on his head like a hat, wobbling exaggeratedly before letting it fall into his lap with a dramatic gasp, drawing a reluctant giggle from her. On the other hand, Eleanor stayed physically close, leaning against Sara's arm as she showed her a colourful array of pictures she had drawn that morning. "Which animal should I draw next, Sara?" she asked earnestly.

Sara's smile grew softer but more frequent as the morning progressed. "How about a panda?" she suggested. Eleanor's eyes lit up, and she immediately darted away to fetch her pencils, her excitement infectious. The shadows in Sara's eyes seemed to lift for brief moments, replaced by the light her siblings so effortlessly brought into the room.

Their innocent gestures of love and support brought a fleeting warmth to the kitchen. Eleven stood by the sink, drying the last of the breakfast dishes, her eyes lingering on her three children. The sight made her smile, though the knot of worry in her chest didn't dissipate. "They're amazing, aren't they?" she murmured to Mike as he stepped beside her.

Mike placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "They are. And so is she," he replied softly, giving a pointed look at Sara.

Once breakfast was finished and the table cleared, the household settled into a brief lull. James and Eleanor began gathering their drawings and pencils, Sara retreated to the living room with a book, and Karen busied herself in the kitchen, humming softly as she washed the last of the dishes. Eleven stood by the window, gazing out at the frost-kissed yard, lost in thought. Yet, for Mike, another matter demanded his attention: the small, round stone he had unearthed near Hawkins Lab.

After bringing it home, he had stashed the small box containing the stone beneath his old bed, unsure of what to make of it but certain it was worth keeping. Now, he felt it was time to share what he'd found.

"Hey, El?" Mike called softly. Eleven turned from the window, her expression curious. "Can you grab everyone and meet me in the living room? There's something I want to show you all."

Eleven tilted her head, sensing the weight behind his words, but she nodded. Within minutes, the family was gathered: Karen perched on the edge of the couch with a dish towel still in hand, Danny leaning against the doorway with a mug of coffee, and the kids sprawled on the rug. Eleven sat beside Mike.

Mike placed the box on the coffee table, his movements deliberately slow and careful. "I found this last night, buried in the dirt near Hawkins Lab. At first, I didn't think much of it... but there's something about it. I don't know how to explain it, but it feels important."

Carefully, he lifted the lid, revealing the stone nestled inside.

Karen leaned in closer, gazing down at the stone. "Michael, what on earth is that?"

"I don't know," Mike admitted, picking up the box it was in and holding it out for everyone to see. "It was just… there. Almost like someone wanted it there for me to discover."

James's eyes went wide. "Can I hold it, Dad?"

"No, buddy," Mike said gently, moving the box out of his grasp. "I want to figure out what it is first."

"It's beautiful," Eleven murmured, leaning in to examine it. Her fingers brushed its surface lightly, and she pulled back, her lips pressing into a thin line. "There's something strange about it. Like it has a pulse."

Karen frowned. "A pulse? Mike, is this safe? You have no idea what it could be."

"That's why I didn't say anything right away," Mike said, his gaze shifting to Danny. "I thought maybe you'd know something about it. Uncle, any idea what it could be?"

Danny moved away from the doorway, his sharp eyes locking onto the stone as he approached. He leaned in for a closer look, his expression unreadable. "I've seen something like this before," he said slowly, his voice carrying a weight that made everyone fall silent.

"You have?" Mike asked, his grip on the stone tightening slightly.

Danny nodded but didn't meet Mike's gaze. Instead, he began pacing back and forth, his fingers rubbing his chin as if trying to pry loose a buried memory.

"I've seen it before!" Danny said, his voice sharp with urgency. "I know I have."

"You have?" Mike asked, gripping the stone a little tighter.

Danny nodded again, though his frustration was evident. "Yes, but I can't remember where exactly. If only Diana were here," he murmured, almost to himself.

Karen frowned, turning to her brother. "Who's Diana?"

Before Danny could answer, Mike cut in, his voice dry. "His friend from wizard school."

Danny nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips. "She'd know exactly what this is. Diana always said, 'The best place to find someone—or something—is in a book.'"

As he spoke, a realisation seemed to dawn on him. His eyes widened, and without another word, he darted out of the living room, his footsteps thundering down the basement stairs. Everyone exchanged puzzled glances, but before anyone could speak, Danny reappeared, clutching a large, leather-bound book. The cover was scuffed but unmistakable: A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot.

He placed it carefully on the table, brushing off years of accumulated dust. "Diana gave this to me as a birthday present," he explained, a nostalgic grin spreading across his face.

Sara raised an eyebrow. "A book? For a birthday?"

Danny chuckled at her incredulity. "She was the kind of person who gave books as gifts. This one's A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot. If there's anything about the stone, it'll be in here."

As he thumbed through the worn pages, a small photograph fluttered out, landing softly on the table. Before Danny could react, Mike snatched it up, his curiosity getting the better of him. It was a black-and-white picture of three students, arms around each other, laughing in carefree delight.

"Is that you, Uncle Danny?" Mike asked, pointing to the figure on the left.

Danny leaned over to glance at the photo, nodding slowly. "Yeah, that's me."

Mike studied the other two figures. The boy in the middle was tall and striking, with an air of self-assured arrogance. To his left was a girl with dark hair, her expression one of surprised delight, as though she hadn't expected to be part of the moment.

"Who's the girl?" Eleven asked softly, leaning closer to look.

"Diana," Danny murmured, almost to himself. "I didn't even remember this photo existed." He reached out, plucking the picture from Mike's hand, his expression unreadable as he stared at it for a long moment. Then, with a brisk shake of his head, he set it aside and returned to flipping through the book.

Finally, Danny's finger stopped on a particular passage. "Here it is," he announced, tapping the page.

The others leaned in, their curiosity piqued. Karen adjusted her glasses and peered over his shoulder. Eleven shifted closer to Mike, her gaze flickering between Danny and the stone on the table.

"What does it say?" Mike asked.

Danny cleared his throat and began to read aloud. "The Hearthstone is a rare and ancient artefact, believed to be the twin to the palantír—" he paused and glanced at the footnote, adding, "—see Appendix Four for further details on that."

He looked back up briefly, his expression thoughtful. "Unlike the palantír, which was used for communication and to glimpse events in other parts of Arda or even the past, the Hearthstone served a very different purpose." He gestured toward the stone on the table as though the object itself might somehow confirm the text.

"The Hearthstone," Danny continued, his voice lowering slightly as though to emphasize its significance, "has historically been a symbol of unity. It is said to have first appeared in a radiant ball of light to Azor Ahai after he sacrificed Nissa Nissa to create the now famed sword Lightbringer."

Karen frowned in confusion. "Azor Ahai? Nissa Nissa? Lightbringer? This is starting to sound like something out of mythology."

"It kind of is," Danny admitted, but his tone was resolute as he pressed on. "According to the text, Azor Ahai used the Hearthstone to rally people together during the Long Night. He is said to have formed a massive army with its aid—a force strong enough to confront the Night's King and the Others."

"You're saying this stone helped create armies? How?" Mike questioned.

Danny shrugged slightly, still scanning the passage. "Not directly. It didn't compel anyone like mind control or anything like that. But it's said that the Hearthstone has an aura—a kind of energy that stirs courage and hope in people, even in the face of overwhelming odds. It's not just an object; it's... a catalyst."

Eleven's eyes remained fixed on the stone, her expression contemplative. "And this happened more than once?"

Danny nodded, flipping to a small footnote at the bottom of the page. "Yeah. The Hearthstone has reappeared throughout history. It's almost like it shows up when it's needed most. Since Azor Ahai, there have been other instances where it was used to usher in what this book calls 'Golden Ages.' Each age lasted anywhere from a century to, in some cases, a millennium.

Danny cleared his throat and continued to read aloud. "The last recorded time the Hearthstone was used was during World War II. Wizard Albus Dumbledore wielded it at the height of the global Muggle conflict. The book says he used the Hearthstone to unite not only the wizarding community but also the supernatural to fight against the Dark Lord Grindelwald and his muggle allies, Red Shadows and the Third Reich. The Hearthstone hasn't been seen since."

The room fell silent as the weight of the story sank in. Eleanor, perched on her tiptoes to peer at the book, broke the silence with a hesitant question. "So... why is it here now? Does that mean something bad is going to happen again?"

Danny's gaze shifted to the stone on the table, its smooth surface glinting faintly in the kitchen light. "That's what we have to figure out," he admitted. "If history is anything to go by, the Hearthstone doesn't just appear without a reason. It's here because it's needed—but why, and for what? But there's something about this that feels... deliberate. The fact that it's here now—it can't be a coincidence."

Mike eyed his uncle. "You think someone deliberately wanted me to find it?"

Danny nodded slowly. "I do. The timing, the location—it's too perfect. Someone wanted it unearthed, and for whatever reason, they wanted you to be the one to do it."

Before anyone could respond, the sound of heavy footsteps broke the quiet tension. Ted Wheeler strolled into the living room, holding a steaming cup of coffee and looking as disinterested as ever. His eyes fell on the stone sitting in box in the middle of the table, its faint glow unmistakable even in the brightly lit room.

"Huh," Ted grunted, tilting his head as he studied the Hearthstone. "Didn't know you guys were into feng shui now."

Danny's head snapped up, his jaw-dropping in disbelief. "Feng shui?" he barked, throwing his arms up. "Are you serious, Ted? This isn't a decorative rock to balance the flow of chi in your living room!"

Ted shrugged, unbothered by the outburst, and took another sip of coffee. "Hey, I'm just saying. Karen keeps bringing home all these weird knickknacks from that gift shop downtown. Figured it was one of those." He waved dismissively toward the Hearthstone. "Looks like one of those Himalayan salt lamps or something. Maybe it's good for your aura."

Danny pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. "It's not a salt lamp, and it's not for your aura, Ted. It's a powerful ancient artefact with a history that spans centuries. People have fought wars over this thing!"

Ted raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. "Huh. Well, I guess it's no lava lamp," he deadpanned, then shuffled over to the couch and plopped down, flipping on the TV as though the matter was settled.

Karen sighed, rubbing her temples. "Ted, would it kill you to take something seriously for once?"

"Hey, I take things seriously," Ted replied, not even looking away from the screen. "I just don't see how a glowy rock is my problem."

Danny looked like he was about to explode. "It's not just a glowy rock! It's the Hearthstone! A historical relic that could decide the fate of the entire world!"

Ted nodded slowly, clearly not listening. "Uh-huh. Just let me know if it makes the coffee taste better."

Mike covered his face with his hands to hide his smirk, while James and Eleanor giggled behind him. Even Eleven allowed herself a small smile as Danny muttered something inaudible and turned back to the book, shaking his head in exasperation.

"Well, at least we know Ted won't be the one saving the world," Danny grumbled. Suddenly, Danny's eyes widened as if struck by an idea. He shot up from his seat, nearly knocking over his coffee mug in the process. "Wait a second! What's the oldest part of Hawkins?" he asked, his excitement palpable.

The room fell silent for a moment as everyone processed the question. To their collective surprise, it was Ted who answered.

"The mines underneath Sattler Quarry," he said flatly from his spot on the couch, not even looking up from the TV.

Danny froze, turning slowly toward Ted with an expression of disbelief. "The mines?" he echoed.

"Yeah," Ted replied with a shrug, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "They've been there since the late 1800s. Pretty sure the whole town started around that area. Karen dragged me to some historical society thing years ago—boring as hell, but I remember that much." He sipped his coffee, completely oblivious to the stunned silence in the room.

Danny blinked, then turned to Karen with a raised eyebrow. "Well, guess he's good for something after all," he quipped, nodding toward Ted, who was now engrossed in flipping through TV channels.

Karen rolled her eyes but said nothing, clearly choosing to pick her battles.

Danny shifted his attention back to the Hearthstone on the table, its faintly glowing surface capturing the light just so. He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Something old and something new," he muttered.

"Pardon?" Eleven asked.

Danny looked up, realizing he had spoken aloud. "If the mines represent something old," he began, gesturing vaguely, "then the Hearthstone is the 'new'—even though it's ancient. Maybe the two are connected somehow. Like two pieces of a puzzle."

Mike frowned slightly, crossing his arms as he leaned against the table. "You think the Hearthstone has something to do with the mines under Sattler Quarry?"

"It makes sense, doesn't it?" Danny said, his excitement growing as he spoke. "This book mentions the Hearthstone appearing during times of great need. It's always tied to history and pivotal moments, right? Well, what if its reappearance here isn't just about Hawkins in general but something specific to its roots? The mines are where this town started. Maybe the Hearthstone is connected to that foundation."

Eleven's brows furrowed as she considered his words. "But why now?" she asked. "What's happening—or about to happen—that would make it reappear?"

Danny began pacing the length of the kitchen, his movements restless as he spoke. "That's the million-dollar question," he admitted, gesturing wildly as if the answers might materialize from the air. "This thing isn't random. It's like some cosmic balancing act. The Hearthstone doesn't just pop up for no reason. It's here because something's brewing—something big. Maybe whatever we're supposed to stop—or start—is connected to the mines."

Mike exchanged a glance with Eleven. He could see the wheels turning in her mind, the same way they always did when a problem presented itself. Her expression was calm but intense, her eyes flickering with quiet determination.

"If the Hearthstone is connected to the mines," Eleven said slowly, "then we need to find out why. But we can't just walk in blindly. We need more information."

Danny snapped his fingers, his face lighting up as if he'd been struck by inspiration. "Exactly! I say we just go explore them. Grab a couple of flashlights, some rope, and—"

Karen, who had been standing quietly nearby, crossed her arms and fixed Danny with a pointed look. "Explore unstable, dangerous mines without knowing what's down there? Absolutely not. Do you have any idea how reckless that sounds, Danny?"

Danny blinked, momentarily deflated by her tone, but quickly rallied. "Karen, come on, it's not like I'm suggesting we go in unprepared. I'm talking about a good old-fashioned adventure! Flashlights, ropes—"

"And what happens when you trip over some loose rocks, fall into a shaft, and get stuck down there? Or worse, drag the rest of us into some half-baked expedition that ends up on the evening news under the headline 'Local Idiots Lost in Sattler Quarry'?" Karen shot back, her hands now planted firmly on her hips.

Danny's grin widened despite her words, his eyes practically sparkling. "Who says we'd even take the kids? This could be an adult-only adventure. You, me, Mike, and Eleven—"

"Absolutely not," Karen interjected firmly, cutting him off.

"We can't ignore this, Karen," Danny went on. "The Hearthstone reappearing isn't just some random coincidence. It's a sign. If we don't act, we might miss something big. Something that could help us protect this family—and this town."

Karen hesitated, glancing at Eleven, who stood silent but watchful, her gaze flickering between Danny and the Hearthstone. The children, too, had paused their quiet chatter, their small faces turned toward the adults with wide, curious eyes.

Mike sighed heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. "I hate to say it, but uncle Danny has a point," he admitted. "If the mines are connected to all of this, then we need to figure out how. And sooner rather than later."

Danny clapped his hands together, ignoring Karen's exasperated sigh. "Perfect! Ted stays here, we gear up, and we head out. It's just a short exploration—nothing crazy. We'll be in and out before anyone knows we were there."

Karen's expression softened, though the worry didn't leave her eyes. "Fine," she relented. "But the kids stay close to us the entire time. If anything feels off, we turn around and come back."

Danny nodded enthusiastically, already heading back down to the basement with A History of Magic. "Absolutely. Safety first, adventure second," he called out.

Sara, James, and Eleanor, who had been silently observing the exchange, exchanged excited glances. Eleanor tugged on Eleven's sleeve, her eyes wide with excitement. "We're really going to the mines?" she asked in a hushed voice.

Eleven crouched down to her youngest daughter's level, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Yes," she said gently. "But you have to stay close to me or Daddy at all times. Promise?"

Eleanor nodded solemnly, and her siblings quickly followed suit, their excitement tempered by the seriousness in their mother's tone.

By the time the group was ready to leave, they had assembled an assortment of supplies: flashlights with extra batteries, sturdy ropes coiled neatly in backpacks, a fully stocked first aid kit, and an old, crinkled map of the Sattler Quarry mine system that Danny had unearthed from the depths of the Hawkins library archives. Karen double-checked each item, her maternal instincts kicking into overdrive as she ensured nothing essential was overlooked.

The sound of the car engine rumbling to life echoed in the driveway, followed by the crunch of gravel as Karen pulled onto the road.

Inside the now-quiet house, Ted glanced around, as if suddenly aware of the emptiness. He sighed heavily, muttering to himself, "Finally, some peace and quiet." Grabbing his keys from the counter, he headed toward the door. Before leaving, he paused, his eyes flicking to the clock on the wall.

He locked the house with an unhurried efficiency, double-checking the bolt and tugging at the handle for good measure. As he slid into his own car and started the engine, he allowed himself a moment of relief. Whatever madness the rest of the family was about to get into, he was happy to be far removed from it. His job might not be glamorous, but at least it was predictable—and predictability, to Ted, was a precious commodity.

He pulled out of the driveway and onto the street, leaving the house silent and locked behind him.


The door to the small house was ajar, swinging slightly in the breeze. It might have gone unnoticed if Mary hadn't been out walking down the street that afternoon. She had learned long ago that to truly gauge Hawkins's temperament, she had to immerse herself among its residents—observe them, discern their loyalties, and identify any potential threats. Though she found it distasteful to mingle with the "peasants," as she called them, the outings served a purpose. They reminded the townsfolk of where the true power resided. So, Mary usually enjoyed her little jaunts and enjoyed exercising her supremacy.

Power, after all, was nothing if not wielded.

But today was different. There was no satisfaction in her stride, no enjoyment in this excursion. Something was wrong. As she approached the house, her sharp eyes scanned the surroundings, her mind racing. Mrs. Kersch was supposed to be here.

Mary's lips pressed into a thin line as she stepped inside the house. Her gaze darted around, taking in every detail of the interior. The absence of forced entry puzzled her. Windows were unbroken, locks untouched, yet the house was silent, devoid of its occupant.

"Impossible," Mary muttered under her breath. She couldn't have escaped. Not without help.

Stepping back outside, Mary's eyes flicked to the house across the street. Her heart sank—the Wheeler house.

Arriving at the front door, Mary pounded her fist against it. No answer. Her patience evaporated. She produced a lock pick from her coat pocket—a skill she rarely needed but kept sharp for moments like this. They really need better locks, she thought with a wry smirk as the mechanism clicked open.

The house was eerily still. Mary's heels echoed softly as she moved from room to room, her sharp gaze taking in every detail. It wasn't long before she concluded that the house was empty and that Mrs. Kersch hadn't been there.

Her attention was caught by something out of place: a VHS tape sitting next to the television in the living room. Mary inserted the tape into the VHS player and stepped back, her arms crossed tightly as she waited for it to begin.


The screen flickered, showing Ten standing in the centre of a large, dimly lit chamber. The walls were made of reinforced glass, sectioning the room into a maze-like structure. Each corridor was faintly illuminated by strips of flickering fluorescent lights.

"This is Doctor Martin Brenner," his voice narrated. "It is December 15, 1965, 2:42 PM. Trail 9, Test 15. Subject Ten will attempt to navigate the fear maze while simultaneously inducing hallucinations in our test subjects stationed within. This test is designed to measure her multitasking capabilities and stress tolerance."

The camera panned to reveal four individuals—two men and two women—situated at different points in the maze. Each of them was seated on a simple chair, their expressions vacant, their wrists restrained.

"Begin," Brenner commanded.

Ten took a step forward, her bare feet making soft sounds against the concrete floor. Her hand extended toward the first subject, a middle-aged woman with tear-streaked cheeks. The woman's breathing hitched as her eyes darted wildly.

"Subject One is experiencing her greatest fear: suffocation," Brenner narrated. The woman's head jerked back as she began gasping for air, clawing at her neck as though invisible hands were tightening around her throat. Ten's smile widened, and blood started to drip from her nose.

Despite this, Ten walked past the woman without hesitation. The heart monitor connected to the subject beeped erratically before going silent.

"Subject One is unconscious. Proceed," Brenner ordered.

The camera followed Ten as she moved deeper into the maze. Another subject—a burly man in his thirties—suddenly screamed, his eyes widening in terror.

"Subject Two," Brenner continued. "Fear trigger: being buried alive. Note how Ten seamlessly transitions from one target to the next without losing focus. Remarkable."

Ten paused briefly, her head tilting as if enjoying the man's screams. With a slight flick of her wrist, the man's screams stopped abruptly, his head lolling forward. The heart monitor flatlined.

By the time she reached the final subject, Ten's breathing was laboured, and blood trickled not only from her nose but also from her ears. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, her eerie smile never faltering.

"Ten, finish the maze," Brenner's voice instructed.

The girl nodded and raised both hands. The remaining two subjects convulsed violently, their heart monitors spiking before falling silent. Ten stood in the centre of the maze, her face pale but victorious.

"You've exceeded expectations once again," Brenner praised. "Your control is improving."

The footage shifted to show a sprawling outdoor facility. The camera panned across a group of military trainees standing in formation. Each was clad in olive-green uniforms, their expressions stoic as they awaited instructions. The camera zoomed in on Ten, seated in a viewing area several hundred feet away, her hands resting on her lap.

"This is Doctor Martin Brenner, recording on January 23, 1966, at 10:15 AM. Test 32 will evaluate Subject Ten's ability to induce fear in multiple targets from a significant distance. The subjects, unaware of her presence, will be given routine drills to gauge their reactions."

The drill sergeant barked commands, and the soldiers began a series of push-ups. Ten's eyes locked onto one of the men—a tall, broad-shouldered soldier. She tilted her head, her expression serene.

"Begin, Ten," Brenner instructed.

The man froze mid-push-up, his face contorting in panic. He stumbled to his feet, clutching his head as if something unseen was attacking him. His screams pierced the air, causing the other soldiers to break formation and scatter. The camera captured the chaos: some soldiers dropped to the ground, sobbing, while others stood frozen, their eyes wide with terror.

"Proximity is irrelevant," Brenner's voice noted clinically. "Subject Ten can influence multiple individuals simultaneously without direct contact. Further testing will explore the upper limits of this ability."

The screen flickered to reveal Ten sitting cross-legged in a stark white room. Her expression was calm, but her body was visibly bruised and battered. A tray of medical instruments sat beside her. Brenner's voice echoed in the room.

"This is Doctor Martin Brenner, recording on March 5, 1966, 5:45 PM. Subject Ten has been trained to suppress her own physical pain to maintain focus during missions. Today's test will determine her breaking point."

A man in a lab coat stepped forward, holding a syringe filled with a glowing green liquid. Ten extended her arm without hesitation, her mismatched eyes fixed on the camera. The syringe pierced her skin, and her body tensed.

"What are you feeling, Ten?" Brenner's voice asked.

"It burns, Papa," she replied through gritted teeth. Despite the clear agony, her smile remained.

"Focus, Ten. Pain is nothing but an illusion."

The camera zoomed in on her face as tears streamed down her cheeks. Blood trickled from her nose, but her smile never wavered.

"Remarkable resilience," Brenner remarked as the screen cut to black.

The camera flickered back to life, revealing a sprawling, enclosed combat arena. The environment was meticulously designed to replicate a dense jungle, complete with artificial trees, hanging vines, and the oppressive hum of insect-like sound effects. Ten stood in the middle of the arena, outfitted in full combat fatigues, her red hair tied back tightly, and a military-issued knife strapped to her hip.

"This is Doctor Martin Brenner, recording on May 12, 1966, 3:30 PM," Brenner's voice began, clinical as always. "Test 72, codenamed The Gauntlet, is designed to assess Subject Ten's effectiveness in a simulated live-combat scenario. Today, she will face multiple armed targets in an unpredictable environment. Her task is simple: survive and neutralize all threats. The test will also evaluate her capacity to integrate her abilities with standard military tactics."

A loud mechanical buzz echoed across the arena, signalling the start of the test. Ten immediately crouched low, her movements fluid and calculated. She drew her knife, twirling it once in her fingers as her mismatched eyes scanned the artificial jungle.

"She's alert. Hyper-focused," Brenner's voice continued from behind the camera.

The first target appeared—a man in camouflage gear armed with a rifle. He raised his weapon, but before he could fire, Ten extended her hand. The man froze in place, his expression twisting in terror.

"Subject 1 is experiencing induced arachnophobia," Brenner noted. "His greatest fear—spiders—is manifesting as an immersive hallucination. Observe how Ten uses her ability to incapacitate without direct physical confrontation."

The man dropped his weapon, screaming and clawing at his arms as though covered in spiders. Ten, unfazed, darted toward him and delivered a precise strike with her knife to his neck. He collapsed instantly.

The camera followed her as she moved deeper into the jungle. Two more targets emerged, firing their weapons. Ten ducked behind a tree, her breathing steady despite the bullets ripping through the leaves above her. She raised both hands this time, her expression darkening.

The soldiers immediately stopped firing. One of them began shaking uncontrollably, muttering incoherently about drowning. The other fell to his knees, sobbing uncontrollably as he screamed about a faceless figure stalking him.

"Subjects 2 and 3," Brenner narrated, "are experiencing their deepest fears—drowning and existential annihilation. Note Ten's precision: she has manipulated multiple targets simultaneously, amplifying their fears without losing focus."

Ten stepped out from her cover and approached the kneeling soldier. Her knife flashed, and he slumped forward. The second soldier tried to crawl away, but with a flick of her wrist, Ten sent him into convulsions until he lay still.

"She's conserving energy," Brenner commented. "Minimal use of her abilities. Efficient kills. Perfect."

As Ten advanced, a group of three heavily armed men appeared, surrounding her. This time, she didn't use her powers immediately. Instead, she threw her knife, hitting one soldier squarely in the chest. The remaining two opened fire, forcing her to roll and sprint for cover.

"She's adapting," Brenner's voice continued, now tinged with excitement. "Engaging tactically. Let's see if she can handle the pressure."

Ten reached out again, her hands trembling slightly from exhaustion. Blood dripped from her nose, staining her fatigues. The two remaining soldiers froze mid-attack, their eyes widening in horror. One began screaming about burning alive, clawing at his skin as if flames were consuming him. The other fired his weapon wildly as if aiming at invisible enemies.

Ten approached the one still firing, sidestepping his erratic shots with surprising agility. She wrenched his weapon away and used the butt of the rifle to knock him unconscious before slitting his throat. As the last soldier, still screaming, desperately tried to crawl away, Ten tilted her head, observing him with a detached curiosity. Slowly, she bent down and picked up the discarded rifle, testing its weight in her hands. Without hesitation, she raised it, her expression unchanging. A single gunshot echoed through the jungle, sharp and final. The screaming stopped.

The jungle fell silent. Ten stood in the centre of the arena, panting heavily. Blood streamed from her nose and ears, but her eerie smile had returned.

"Extraordinary," Brenner said, stepping into view for the first time. He approached Ten slowly, his hands behind his back. "You've exceeded every expectation, Mary. The Gauntlet was your most difficult challenge yet, and you've conquered it with precision and grace. How do you feel?"

Ten turned to him, her eyes bloodshot and unfocused. "Tired, Papa," she said softly, her smile faltering slightly. "But... happy. Did I do well?"

"You did perfectly," Brenner replied, placing a hand on her shoulder. "You are ready. Soon, you will serve your country with honour and purpose. You will bring order to chaos."

The camera lingered on Ten's face as her smile returned, wide and unnatural, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of something else—doubt, or perhaps fear.

"End recording," Brenner said.

The screen went back.


Mary rewound the tape, her finger trembling on the remote. Static danced briefly across the screen before it settled on the image of her younger self—the small girl in the white hospital gown, her wide smile bright and unsettling, her mismatched eyes gleaming with a haunting innocence. That version of herself felt like a stranger now, and yet, it was a stranger she couldn't turn away from.

Mary paused the tape. The frozen image of her younger self stared back at her, unmoving. She reached out, her fingertips brushing the screen as though trying to connect with the child she had once been. Her chest tightened as memories flooded her mind—not just the training, the blood, and the screams, but the quiet moments too. Moments when she had dreamt of sunlight and freedom.

A single tear rolled down her cheek, then another. She didn't try to stop them. Her breathing grew unsteady as she traced the outline of the girl's face on the screen.

"I'm sorry," Mary whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of the words. "I'm so sorry."

The mask she had worn for so long, the carefully constructed shell of detachment and control, seemed to crack as the floodgates opened. Her shoulders shook as a deep, shuddering sob escaped her.

For a brief moment, she let herself wonder what could have been. Who might she have been if she had never met Brenner? If she had never been Ten?

The thought was fleeting, chased away by the weight of her reality. With trembling hands, she pressed "play" on the remote, letting the tape resume. The cold, clinical voice of Doctor Brenner filled the room once more, but Mary barely heard it. Her gaze lingered on the screen, but her mind was elsewhere, lost in a haze of grief, regret, and the faintest glimmer of hope.

Mary's fingers hesitating for a moment before she pressed the eject button on the VHS player. The tape slid out with a faint click. She stared at it, the black casing somehow heavier in her hand than it had any right to be.

With a small, sharp exhale, Mary waved her free hand. The tape disappeared in a faint shimmer, reappearing in the safety of her makeshift room in the sewers. It was safe there, buried among the artefacts of her fractured past—things she couldn't let go of, yet couldn't bear to look at for too long. She clenched her hands into fists, steeling herself. There was no room for weakness. Not now.

She turned back to the task at hand: her search. The creak of floorboards beneath her boots was the only sound as she moved through the rooms. Her sharp eyes scanned every corner, noting the little details—Mike's Dungeons & Dragons manuals scattered on his desk, Nancy's collection of books neatly lined up on a shelf, and the slightly frayed rug in the hallway.

Her pace slowed as she ascended the stairs to the second landing. The walls were lined with framed photographs, and though she glanced at them briefly, she didn't stop—until one caught her eye.

It was a wedding photo.

Mary paused, her hand brushing against the wall as she stepped closer. The photograph was of Jim Hopper and Joyce Byers, standing side by side on what was clearly their wedding day. Hopper looked proud and almost nervous, his broad shoulders straining slightly against the clean cut of his suit. Joyce radiated happiness, her face glowing beneath her veil, her hand gripping Hopper's tightly. They were surrounded by a soft blur of flowers and greenery, the moment frozen in time.

Mary reached out tentatively, her fingers ghosting over the glass. A faint reflection of her own face stared back at her, and for a moment, the image of the smiling couple and her tear-streaked, hollow expression seemed to blur together.

She didn't remember the last time she had seen such joy—such simple, unadulterated joy. It was foreign to her now, like a language she had forgotten how to speak.

"You got your happy ending," Mary murmured under her breath. The ache in her chest twisted into something sharper, something darker. It was no longer just longing. It was anger. Resentment. The kind of raw, gnawing envy that demanded to be sated.

"But it was never meant to be yours, Joyce. It should have been mine. Jim should have been mine."

Her fingers curled into a fist, and the faint shimmer of magic danced along her knuckles like a storm barely restrained. Her breathing steadied as her anger solidified into resolve. "And soon," she said, her voice low and icy, "he will be. So will she. Eleven... She belongs with me. With her true family."

Mary straightened, her composure returning as a faint smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Not the wide, unsettling grin of her younger self, but a more subdued, calculated curve—a smile of quiet triumph.

She waved her hand, and the wedding photo shimmered, disappearing in an instant. It would find its place in her lair, resting beside the tape. A reminder of what she was owed. Of what she would take.

Mary stepped out of the Wheeler house, carefully closing the door behind her. She raised a hand, muttering an incantation under her breath. A faint shimmer passed over the doorframe, sealing it with a subtle magical signature that would erase any trace of her intrusion. No one would ever know she had been there.

As she descended the front steps, she pulled her cell phone from her pocket and dialled a number. The line clicked after a single ring, but no greeting came from the other side.

"My wayward prisoner has escaped," Mary said without preamble, her voice low and measured despite the frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "We will need to delay the spell."

There was silence. For a brief moment, Mary thought the call had dropped. Before she could say anything else, black smoke swirled before her, coalescing into a humanoid form.

Nyarlathotep, still wearing the guise of Bob, stepped forward. His face was eerily calm, but his eyes glinted with a fury that made Mary's stomach twist. The air around him seemed to ripple with raw power.

"Delay?" he said, his voice quiet and sharp as a blade. "Delay?"

Before Mary could respond, a pulse of energy erupted from him, striking her square in the chest. She flew backward, crashing into the middle of the street with enough force to knock the breath from her lungs. She skidded along the asphalt, the rough surface tearing at her clothes and skin.

Dazed and panting, Mary struggled to lift herself up. Her vision blurred, and pain shot through her body, but she forced her head up to meet his gaze. Nyarlathotep stood over her, his expression a mask of cold, restrained rage.

"Then you'd better find her—and fast," he snarled, his voice carrying an uncharacteristic edge of impatience. His usually calm and condescending demeanour was replaced by something colder, more urgent.

"Time is running out. The comet will pass over us by next week. That's how long you now have to find her."

Mary gritted her teeth, pushing herself to her knees. "Is this comet really that important?" she asked, her voice strained but defiant.

Nyarlathotep's expression darkened further. His hands clenched at his sides, and the ground beneath them seemed to tremble. "Yes," he hissed, his tone laced with barely contained frustration. "There are spells—even I—cannot perform without a little assistance."

"I'll find her," she said firmly, forcing herself to stand despite the ache in her body. "You have my word."

Nyarlathotep tilted his head, his anger momentarily replaced by a calculating look. "Good," he said, his voice low and venomous. "Because if you fail…" He leaned closer, his eyes narrowing into slits. "You won't live to see the comet pass."

With a swirl of smoke, he vanished as suddenly as he had appeared, leaving Mary alone in the street. She stood there for a moment, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she tried to steady herself. Her body trembled—not just from the pain but from the weight of his words.

She wiped the blood from her lip with the back of her hand and straightened her posture. Mary inhaled deeply, letting the cool air fill her lungs.

"One week," she muttered to herself. Her mismatched eyes gleamed with a mix of determination and fear. "I'll find her."

With a wave of her hand, the shimmering barrier she had placed over the Wheeler house extended outward, wiping away any evidence of her presence in the area. Then, without another glance, she strode into the shadows, her mind already working on how to track down Mrs. Kersch for the next steps of her plan.


Nancy could still smell the acrid stench of smoke clinging to her clothes as she stepped into Murray Bauman's dimly lit kitchen. The fire that had devoured Hawkins Lab yesterday was still fresh in her mind— the town was still buzzing with rumours. But Nancy hadn't come here to reflect on the past. She was here to find answers.

Mrs. Kersch sat at the worn wooden table, her frail hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea. She looked up with a warm smile as Nancy entered, her gray curls catching the light from the overhead bulb.

"I really do appreciate your time," Nancy said, her tone polite but probing. "It's rare to find someone still alive who worked at Hawkins Lab."

Mrs. Kersch smiled, a gesture that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Oh, dear, it's no trouble. When I saw the news about the Lab burning down, I thought, 'Good riddance.' That place was nothing but a nightmare."

Nancy nodded, jotting down notes. "You mentioned you worked there during the early days. Can you tell me more about what you did?"

Mrs. Kersch's hand paused mid-air, the teacup trembling slightly before she placed it carefully on the table. "Oh, it was mostly administrative work," she said breezily, waving a hand. "Filing reports, assisting with experiments from a distance. Nothing particularly exciting."

Nancy frowned. The response felt rehearsed. "Did you ever work directly with the children?"

Mrs. Kersch's face tightened ever so slightly, the smile on her lips faltering. "I wasn't important enough for that. Just another cog in the machine, really."

Nancy tilted her head, watching the woman's demeanour shift. "It sounds like you might know more than you're letting on," she said, her tone casual but edged with suspicion.

Mrs. Kersch's laugh was strained. "Oh no, dear, I'm just an old woman now. The details from those days are fuzzy at best. Why dwell on the past?"

Nancy didn't press further, but her suspicions solidified. Excusing herself, she retreated upstairs and joined Murray upstairs in his study.


Nancy closed the door to the upstairs office behind her, leaning against it with a sigh. Murray, seated at his cluttered desk with a whiskey glass in hand, looked up sharply. "You've got that look," he said. "What's on your mind?"

"She's hiding something," Nancy said without preamble. "Her story doesn't add up. She's avoiding my questions, and she got nervous when I mentioned the children."

Murray took a sip of his drink, nodding thoughtfully. "Well, she wouldn't be the first liar to cross our path. So what's your plan? Keep pressing?"

Nancy shook her head. "She's not going to open up willingly. I think we need to approach this more carefully."

Murray snorted, setting down his glass. "Carefully, huh? How about I just go downstairs and ask her outright? Cut through the crap."

Nancy hesitated. Murray had a way of bulldozing through situations, and subtlety wasn't exactly his strong suit. "Murray, I don't think—"

But he was already on his feet, brushing past her with a muttered, "Let's see what Granny's really hiding."


Downstairs, Mrs. Kersch was refilling her tea when Murray strode into the room, his blunt presence filling the space. Nancy trailed behind him, her unease growing with each step.

"Alright, Mrs. Kersch," Murray began, crossing his arms. "Let's cut to the chase. What were you really doing at Hawkins Lab?"

Mrs. Kersch froze, her hand gripping the teapot. Her eyes flashed with something Nancy couldn't quite place—anger? Fear? Whatever it was, it sent a chill down her spine. "I beg your pardon?" the older woman said, her voice low and sharp.

"You heard me," Murray pressed. "You're hiding something, and we're not leaving until we know what it is."

The change was sudden. Mrs. Kersch's demeanour shifted, her face twisting into something sharp and dangerous. Without warning, she grabbed the heavy teapot and swung it with surprising force. The ceramic shattered against Murray's head, sending him crumpling to the floor.

"Murray!" Nancy shouted, rushing forward, but Mrs. Kersch was faster.

Nancy scrambled for her purse, her fingers fumbling for the gun inside, but the older woman moved with a strength and speed that belied her frail appearance. She wrenched the bag away, pulling out the gun and levelling it at Nancy.

"Sit," Mrs. Kersch commanded.

Nancy froze, her mind racing. She held up her hands, backing toward the sofa. "You don't have to do this."

Mrs. Kersch's laugh was humourless. "Oh, but I do." With a quick, brutal motion, she pistol-whipped Nancy across the temple. Pain exploded in Nancy's skull, and the world went dark.


When Nancy came to, she was tied to a chair, her wrists bound tightly behind her. Across from her, Murray was similarly restrained, blood trickling from a gash on his forehead. Mrs. Kersch—or whoever this woman truly was—standing in the center of the room with a red gasoline canister in her hands. Her warm grandmotherly smile was gone, replaced by a cold, almost gleeful sneer. The gentle curve of her shoulders was now rigid, and her eyes held a sharpness that sent chills racing down Nancy's spine.

"You're awake just in time," the woman continued, splashing another arc of gasoline across the wooden floorboards. "It's no fun if you miss the finale."

"What the hell are you doing?" Nancy demanded, her voice hoarse as she struggled against her bonds.

The woman paused, turning to face her with a slow, deliberate motion. "What am I doing?" she repeated, a cruel laugh escaping her lips. "I'm tying up loose ends, dear. You and your nosy friend here have meddled enough."

Murray groaned, lifting his head. "Loose ends? Lady, you hit me with a teapot. You've already lost your cosy grandma points. What's your deal?"

The woman's lips curled into a snarl, and she set the gasoline can down with a thunk. "You really don't know when to shut up, do you?" She sighed, brushing her hands on her skirt as though preparing for a grand performance. "Fine. I'll indulge you. My name isn't Kersch. It's Alice. Alice Frazier. My sister was Agent Connie Frazier. Maybe you've heard of her."

Nancy's stomach sank. "She worked with Brenner..."

Alice's smile was tight, predatory. "Bingo. Connie was my sister. My better sister, according to most. She was the field agent, the one out there chasing the big fish with Brenner. I, on the other hand, was... behind the scenes. Studying the children. Analysing their strengths, their weaknesses. Ensuring everything was documented."

Nancy's stomach churned. "You did work at the Lab."

Alice nodded, picking up the gasoline can again. "Oh, yes. For years. Until September 8, 1979, when Henry Creel—'001,' as you know him—slaughtered nearly everyone. Lucky for me, I'd been transferred to another facility just weeks prior. I survived."

She stepped closer to Nancy, her voice lowering, darkening. "But not Connie. She wasn't lucky. She stayed. And then, in 1983, your little friend Eleven killed her. My sister—gone, just like that."

Nancy's breath caught. The venom in Alice's voice was palpable, her rage simmering just beneath the surface.

"Your sister tried to kill my brother," Nancy said. "You can't blame Eleven for—"

"Don't defend her!" Alice snapped, slamming the gasoline can onto the floor. "I've spent years waiting for my chance. But Ten got to me first. Kept me locked away, hidden in plain sight. Forced me to spy on your precious Wheeler family from that little house across the street."

Nancy's blood ran cold. "You were spying on us?"

Alice laughed. "Oh, Nancy. You're quick when it doesn't matter. Yes, I was watching. Watching and waiting for my moment. And now, thanks to you—you foolish, meddling woman—I'm free. Free to do what should've been done years ago."

Nancy's voice trembled as she asked, "And what's that?"

Alice crouched, picking up a matchbook from the table. She struck a match, the tiny flame flaring to life. Her eyes gleamed in its light. "Kill Eleven. Avenge my sister. And now I can, all thanks to you, Nancy. Stupid, reckless Nancy."

The flame hovered over the gasoline-soaked floor. Nancy's heart raced. "Please! Don't do this!" She tugged desperately at her bonds, panic rising in her chest.

But a cold, calm voice broke the tension before Alice could drop the match. "I wouldn't, dearie."

Alice froze, the flame trembling in her hand. Slowly, she turned toward the staircase. Nancy followed her gaze, her eyes widening in shock as a figure stepped into the dim light.

It was Mary.


Then: November 1962

The air in Hawkins Lab felt colder than usual, the sharp sterility of its halls amplified by the distant hum of fluorescent lights. Deep in the heart of the building, behind a door marked only by the number "10," Mary—known to the staff as Subject Ten—sat curled up on her bed in her sparse, gray-walled room. The only sounds were her steady breathing and the faint ticking of a clock mounted near the ceiling.

The lock on the door clicked sharply, a sound Mary had learned to anticipate with dread. The heavy metal door creaked open, and Alice Frazier stepped inside, clipboard in hand, her heels clicking softly on the linoleum floor.

"Good evening, 10," Alice said, her tone clipped but calm. Her voice was always deceptively smooth, like a snake slithering through tall grass.

Mary straightened, her small frame taut with tension. "Good evening," she replied quietly, her gaze fixed on the floor.

Alice moved further into the room, setting her clipboard on the small metal table near the bed. She scanned Mary with clinical precision, her eyes lingering on the girl's hands, which were fidgeting nervously in her lap.

"How are you feeling today?" Alice asked though the question lacked any genuine interest.

"Fine," Mary murmured.

Alice tilted her head, studying Mary like a specimen under a microscope. "No need to be so stiff, dear," she cooed at Mary. "You're acting like you aren't happy to see me."

"I'm not," she replied bluntly.

"Oh, we are feisty this evening!" Alice laughed, and then leaned in to press a hard and demanding kiss against Mary's lips. "I do love it when you work to suit my moods so nicely."

"I'm not doing this for you," Mary snarled, feeling her hackles rise and her fury reaching a fevered pitch. She hated being helpless and cornered. "And I'm not in the mood."

"That's too bad," she replied, the laughter never leaving her eyes. "Because I am."

Mary wouldn't wish Alice's nastier moods on anyone, but tonight she just wanted to get away from her. She didn't want her touching him, and Mary sure as hell wasn't in the mood to indulge her more sadistic whims tonight.

Mary flinched as Alice's hand brushed against her arm, the touch deceptively gentle. But it was the calm before the storm. Alice's grip tightened suddenly, painfully, her nails digging into Mary's skin.

"Now," Alice said, her voice dangerously soft, "let's see if you're ready to follow orders like a good girl. Or do I need to... encourage you?"

He had no answer, not to Alice's hungry smile.

"In fact," Alice said softly, her eyes dark with lust and power. "Let's begin now."

Swallowing hard, Mary tried to voice an objection he hoped did not sound too much like a plea: "Alice…"

But she cut him off coldly. "Nightingale."

There was a pause, heavy and unnatural, as if the very air in the room had thickened. Mary's movements stilled abruptly, her fidgeting ceasing as though frozen in time.

Alice's voice cut through the silence—calm, sharp, and devoid of hesitation.

"Take your clothes off."


Mary leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, her expression calm and almost amused. Despite the gun trembling slightly in Alice's hands, Mary didn't flinch. Her sharp, icy gaze bore into Alice, dissecting her inch by inch, peeling back the layers of the woman who had once wielded power over her. The fear that had once consumed Mary in Alice's presence had been replaced by something much colder: disdain.

Alice, on the other hand, was far from composed. Her breath came in quick, shallow bursts, and a bead of sweat trickled down her temple. She tightened her grip on the gun, the metallic click of her finger brushing the trigger echoing in the room. But no matter how hard she tried to appear in control, her darting eyes betrayed her panic.

"Ten, dear. It's so good to see you." Her eyes went a little too wide, and Alice stepped forward to take her hand.

Yanking away, Mary snarled: "Don't touch me."

Alice froze mid-motion, her outstretched hand hovering awkwardly in the air before she withdrew it, her fingers curling into a fist. For a brief moment, her face twitched with something that might have been indignation, but it quickly gave way to the thin veneer of composure she was desperately trying to maintain.

"Still so dramatic," Alice sneered, her voice dripping with forced confidence. "After all these years, you still can't seem to let go of the past."

Mary pushed off the doorframe and took a single, measured step into the room, her arms still crossed. "Let go of the past?" she repeated, her voice laced with incredulity. "You treated me as a pet, you raped and debased me!"

Alice flinched at Mary's words, the stark brutality of her accusation cutting through the air like a razor. Her lips parted as if to refute the claim, but no words came.

The faintest smile tugged at the corner of Mary's lips, more predatory than kind. "Not so fun being on the other end, is it?"

"I still have the gun," Alice spat, but her voice lacked conviction.

Mary took another step forward, her eyes locked on Alice's like a predator stalking its prey. With a casual flick of her fingers, the gun ripped from Alice's grasp, spinning through the air before landing firmly in Mary's hand.

Alice's eyes widened in panic as she looked down at the matchbook clutched tightly in her other hand. "I'll burn this place to the ground if I have to!" she hissed, her voice thick with desperation.

But before she could strike a match, the matchbook was yanked from her hand with a swift motion, soaring through the air and landing across the room.

Mary leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "Time to go back into your cage, dearie," she laughed softly.

Alice's gaze flickered nervously, her hand twitching towards the gun, but a glance at Mary's unflinching stance made her pause.

Mary's eyes shifted past Alice, locking with Nancy and Murray, who stood frozen, silent witnesses to the tense standoff. "Apologize for any distress Alice here caused you," she said, smiling contentedly. "Though, Miss Wheeler, perhaps next time you'll think twice before knocking on a stranger's door—and releasing that stranger from their cage."

Her glare at Nancy was biting, her words dripping with meaning.

With a quiet, almost inaudible pop, Mary and Alice were gone—vanishing into thin air, leaving the room eerily still behind them.


Mary's eyes narrowed as she stood in the clearing of the dense forest, the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the canopy above. Alice, disoriented and struggling to adjust to her surroundings, stumbled slightly as she was deposited by Mary's magic. Her eyes darted nervously between the towering trees and the unrelenting glare of the gun still trained on her chest.

Mary's voice was sharp and filled with ice, her words dripping with venom. "I hope you enjoyed your brief taste of freedom, dearie. Because it's the last you'll ever get."

Alice, trembling and still attempting to find her footing, reached out a tentative hand. "10, please," she began, her voice pleading. "We can still—"

Before Alice could finish her sentence, Mary's hand shot out, and in an instant, she shoved Alice forcefully, sending her sprawling onto the cold, damp soil. Alice's breath escaped her in a gasp as she hit the ground, her palms scraping against the rough earth.

"You will never touch me again!" Mary's voice was filled with raw fury as she stood over Alice, her gun still aimed at her chest, unwavering.

Mary's gaze lingered on Alice's prone form for a long, tense moment, her mind spiralling back to the mid-90s, a time when she had first encountered Alice in a dusty, forgotten corner of Oklahoma. It had been a dingy hotel room, the kind that smelled of old smoke and desperation, the walls sagging with the weight of years gone by.

The two had locked eyes, and in that instant, Alice had known she wasn't walking away. She had tried to plead with her, tried to use the last of her wits, her desperation seeping through her words. She had begged for mercy, her voice trembling, the mask of invulnerability slipping away.

"Please, Ten," Alice had said, her voice barely a whisper, as though the mere sound of Mary's name brought a fresh wave of dread. "I can help you. I can give you something—documents, information... things from Hawkins Lab, from the fall of the experiments. The ones you'll want to know about." She had promised anything, her eyes wide with fear and frantic hope.

Mary had remained silent, her gaze unwavering, but her mind had churned with calculation. The documents Alice spoke of —secrets that Alice claimed would unravel the mysteries of Brenner's work—had been too enticing to ignore. Brenner's legacy had haunted Mary for years, and the idea of piecing together the truth, even from the fragments Alice held, was a temptation she couldn't resist.

But Mary hadn't been naïve. She knew Alice, knew her cunning and manipulative tendencies, and saw through the veneer of desperation in her pleas.

And so, Mary made her choice—without hesitation, without pity. She took Alice captive.

The information Alice provided proved useful, though not as revolutionary as Mary had hoped. Through Alice, she learned the gruesome details of the Massacre at Hawkins Lab—the carnage Henry had left in his wake. Every other Number was gone, slaughtered in the chaos. Mary and Eleven were the only survivors now (Mary had already accounted for Kali, thanks to their brief but intense encounter prior). While the documents Alice had offered up were outdated and partially degraded, the remnants of classified information still held value. They painted a fragmented picture of Brenner's secretive experiments and hinted at connections and resources Mary had yet to uncover. Useless as the files might have been to others, Mary kept them. Knowledge was power, and even scraps could be weaponized in the right hands.

Alice, however, was a different matter.

After securing the documents, Mary had no intention of releasing her. Trusting Alice would have been a fool's errand. She had brought Alice back to Hawkins, her plans for the town already in motion. Hawkins was the perfect place for Mary to establish her temporary power base. She scoured the town for the right location and eventually purchased the dilapidated house directly opposite the Wheelers' home. From the outside, it was unassuming—a property belonging to a reclusive Mrs. Kersch, who rarely ventured into town. The townsfolk, with their small-town routines and inherent nosiness, asked no questions. They simply chalked it up to another oddity in a town full of them.

Inside the house, Mary left nothing to chance. Every window was locked and reinforced, the front and back doors sealed with heavy-duty deadbolts. She carried the only key, keeping it with her at all times. No one would enter or leave without her knowledge. The house itself was barren, stripped of anything Alice could use to harm herself, Mary, or escape her surroundings.

Mary had stocked the kitchen with food, though only enough to last a week at a time. She reasoned it wasn't out of compassion—she simply needed Alice alive and functional. The cupboards were devoid of luxuries, filled instead with bland staples: canned goods, stale crackers, powdered milk. The monotony of the rations mirrored Alice's new reality. Any knives in the house were either blunt or so dull they could barely cut through bread. Mary had purposefully made sure of it, ensuring Alice couldn't attempt to take her own life or, worse, retaliate. The lack of sharp edges extended beyond the kitchen—scissors, nail clippers, even broken glass were all carefully removed or rendered useless.

Entertainment was out of the question. The house had no television, no radio, no electronics of any kind. Mary wasn't about to risk Alice using technology to build something dangerous or to communicate with the outside world. It was a suffocating isolation, and Mary intended for it to be so.

Alice was given one singular, degrading task: to spy on the Wheeler house across the street and report every detail, no matter how insignificant. Mary demanded updates on everything—who came and went, how often the lights were on, even the conversations Alice could overhear through open windows. "I want everything," Mary had told her, her tone cold and unwavering. "If a blade of grass moves, I expect to know about it."

Alice had no choice but to comply. She spent her days at the windows, peeking through the slats of the heavy curtains that Mary insisted remain drawn. It was humiliating, a far cry from the control and power she once wielded. But the alternative—facing Mary's wrath—was far worse.

Mary visited the house when it suited her, her schedule deliberately erratic. Sometimes she came for an update on the Wheelers, her questions sharp and methodical as she sat across from Alice, pen in hand, dissecting every word. Other times, her visits were purely punitive. Mary made it clear that Alice's past sins were not forgotten. She took her time delivering her brand of justice—psychological torment and physical punishments designed to remind Alice of the pain she had once inflicted. The roles had reversed, and Mary made sure Alice knew it.

The townsfolk, oblivious to the truth, saw only the image Mary projected. To them, Mrs. Kersch avoided neighbours and kept to herself. The curtains of the house were always drawn, the front porch left to gather dust. Those few brave enough to knock on the door were met with no answer, their curiosity left unsatisfied.

"I should have killed you when I first found you," Mary muttered, her voice thick with the memory of that time. "I should have finished it, back when you were nothing but a scared, snivelling wreck."

Alice's expression shifted, her trembling lips stilling as something darker flickered in her gaze—resentment, fury, defiance. Slowly, deliberately, she planted one hand on the forest floor and pushed herself to her knees, then to her feet. Her movements were steady, almost unnervingly so, given the weight of Mary's gun still aimed squarely at her chest.

"You hold grudges like they're treasures. All this power at your fingertips, Ten, and this—" she gestured between them, "—is how you use it. To settle old scores."

"Careful," Mary warned, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. The gun's barrel tilted slightly upward, aimed directly at Alice's forehead now. "You're not as indispensable as you think you are."

Alice's lips twisted into a sardonic smile, her dark eyes burning with defiance. "If that were true, you would've killed me after you tracked me down in Oklahoma. You're just like Brenner, you know. Thinking control is the same as power."

Alice took another step closer, and this time, Mary didn't back away. Her hand remained steady, the gun unwavering, but her silence spoke volumes. Alice saw the flicker of doubt, the crack in Mary's armour, and she pressed forward. "You don't hate me because of what I did. You hate me because I remind you of yourself."

Fury surged through Mary like a flood. Her grip on the gun tightened, and before she could even register the impulse, she swung it violently across Alice's face. The sharp crack of metal against skin echoed in the quiet, and Alice staggered, but this time, she didn't fall. Instead, she caught herself, a small chuckle escaping her lips as she straightened.

Alice exhaled slowly, her breath almost a taunting sigh. It was dismissive, like the sting of Mary's blow was nothing more than an inconvenience. She tilted her head slightly, observing Mary's rigid posture as if searching for something—anything—beneath the hardened exterior. Then, with a faint, knowing smirk curling her lips, she locked eyes with Mary and uttered a single, deliberate word:

"Nightingale."

The effect was immediate. Mary's composure faltered, her expression freezing as the word landed like a thunderclap. Her grip on the gun trembled ever so slightly, the hard edge of her demeanour splintering with the weight of recognition. Uncertain flickered across her face for a fleeting moment—an emotion Mary rarely allowed herself to feel, let alone show.

And then, as if a switch had been flipped, her expression went utterly blank. The tension drained from her body, leaving her posture eerily lifeless. Her arms hung loosely at her sides, the gun still dangling from her fingers, its once-deadly purpose now forgotten.

"Get on your knees," Alice told the now still Mary, the words quiet but no less powerful because of it.

Mary obeyed instantly.

A slow, satisfied smile spread across Alice's face. "That's better," she murmured, her voice a honeyed mix of triumph and menace. She crouched slightly, bringing herself to Mary's eye level, though the lifeless gaze staring back at her offered no reaction. The sight made Alice's smirk widen. "Kneeling like a dog," she said mockingly, "I have to say, it suits you."

Alice reached out to toy with the front of Mary's shirt, brushing aside imaginary dust. "You've been so difficult, haven't you?" she mused. Her tone was light, almost playful, but the malice beneath it was unmistakable. "Always so sure of yourself. Always thinking you were above everyone else. But look at you now." She let out a soft, humourless laugh. "Obedient. Silent. Powerless."

Alice's smile grew as she straightened up, her eyes never leaving Mary's blank expression. "You'll answer any question I ask you," she said, her voice low but commanding, the words slicing through the air like a blade. "Do you understand?"

Mary's gaze was blank, her expression unreadable as she gave a slow, almost mechanical nod, her body rigid under Alice's scrutiny.

"Good," Alice continued, her tone dripping with false sweetness. Alice's hand slipped inside Mary's pants. Her fingers played over Mary, nails scraping not-quite-gently as she leaned in closer, her lips nearly brushing Mary's ear.

"Now then, tell me—where is Subject Eleven?"


The entrance to the Sattler Quarry mines loomed ahead, a yawning dark mouth in the hillside. The stone walls around it were craggy and uneven, the jagged rocks encroaching on the dirt path that led into its depths. The air felt cooler here, a damp chill dripping seeped into their bones as they stood at the threshold. A faint smell of wet earth and old stone filled the air, mingling with the scent of decay. It was a place that had been abandoned for years, left to rot in the shadow of Hawkins' more pressing issues.

Danny stepped forward first, flashlight in hand, its beam slicing through the darkness as it illuminated the rough-hewn walls of the rivulets of water dripped from the ceiling, their faint plinks echoing eerily in the enclosed space.

Danny turned to glance back at the group, his voice bouncing off the walls with a hollow edge.

"See? No collapsing tunnels yet," he said, attempting levity. "We're off to a great start!"

Standing just behind, Karen rolled her eyes but kept a firm grip on her granddaughter Eleanor's hand. Her other arm was wrapped protectively around her grandson James.

Bringing up the rear, Mike, Eleven, and Sara hesitated for a moment at the threshold of the mine's entrance.

Sara fidgeted nervously, her flashlight trembling slightly in her grasp. "I hate this," she whispered.

"We're together," Eleven said softly. "We'll be okay."

Mike placed a reassuring hand on Sara's shoulder. "Come on, we've got this," he assured his daughter.

The trio stepped into the mine as the shadows quickly enveloped them.

The further they walked, the quieter it became. The sounds of the outside world—distant birds, the wind rustling through trees—seemed to vanish, swallowed up by the looming presence of the mine.

There were no voices, no footfalls, just the crunch of their steps on the gravel underfoot and the soft clink of equipment against backpacks. The mine seemed endless, its yawning darkness stretching out ahead of them.

As they continued, the walls seemed to grow closer, the tunnel narrowing. The air was thick now, damp and suffocating, and the distant drip of water falling from the ceiling echoed like a ticking clock.

The once-stable ground beneath their feet gave way to uneven terrain, forcing them to tread carefully. Loose stones and slick patches of moss threatened to trip them with every step. Eleanor stumbled, letting out a small yelp as her foot caught on a jagged rock. Karen immediately steadied her, her maternal instincts kicking in. "Careful, sweetheart," she murmured.

Ahead of the group, Danny's flashlight flickered briefly, the sudden dimming casting ominous shadows along the tunnel walls. He smacked the side of the device with his hand, muttering, "Stupid thing." The light steadied, but the brief darkness had been enough to make everyone freeze in their tracks.

"Don't do that," Sara hissed, her voice trembling. She clutched her flashlight tighter, her knuckles turning white. The oppressive silence of the mine was starting to unnerve her, each step forward feeling like a descent into something they weren't prepared to face.

Mike, walking beside Eleven, noticed her expression had shifted. Her brows were furrowed, and her gaze was distant as if she were listening to something no one else could hear. "El?" he whispered. "What is it?"

"There's... something ahead," Eleven replied softly, her eyes narrowing.

Up ahead, Danny stopped mid-step. His hand tightened around the flashlight, his normally relaxed demeanour shifting into something more alert. It was subtle, but Mike noticed it—the way Danny's head tilted slightly, as if he too could sense a change in the air.

As if on cue, the tunnel opened into a larger chamber, its vastness illuminated by their flashlights. The walls rose high, their surfaces glittering faintly with embedded minerals, while jagged stalactites hung from the ceiling like ominous chandeliers.

Danny let out a low whistle, breaking the tense silence. "Well, this is... bigger than I expected," he said.

As their lights panned across the chamber, they noticed side passages branching off in various directions, dark and foreboding. Some were narrow and winding, while others yawned wide, suggesting they led to even larger spaces beyond. The cavern itself was uneven, with natural stone formations jutting up from the ground like frozen waves. Pools of water collected in dips along the floor, their surfaces still and reflective.

"This must be the main cavern," Mike said, his voice hushed as he turned in a slow circle, taking in the labyrinthine expanse. "Everything else probably leads back here."

"Yeah, like a hub," Danny added, pointing his flashlight toward one of the side passages. "And those are the spokes."

Eleven moved ahead of the group, her attention drawn to one of the side passages. It was narrow but not impassable, its entrance almost hidden behind a jagged outcrop of stone. She glanced over her shoulder at Mike, who gave her a hesitant nod.

"Be careful," Mike warned.

Without a word, Eleven moved into the passage, her flashlight casting a narrow beam that revealed the rough, uneven walls on either side. The further she went, the more the walls seemed to close in, the ceiling dipping lower in places.

Behind her, the faint sounds of the others echoed from the cavern, their voices muffled by the enclosing stone. But here, in the narrow passage, everything felt different. The silence was heavier, the air more oppressive. Eleven couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched, though she knew that was impossible.

She pressed on, her footsteps careful and deliberate. The passage began to widen slightly, opening into a smaller chamber that was just large enough for her to stand upright. Her breath fogged in the chilled air as she scanned the space with her flashlight.

A faint noise ahead made her freeze—several small rocks shifted, tumbling softly against one another. Eleven's heart quickened. She swung her flashlight toward the sound, its beam cutting through the shadows, but there was no clear source. Her voice wavered slightly as she called out, "Hello? Is someone there? Mike? Is that you?"

Breaking the stillness, came an answer—a low, rasping voice that sent a shiver down her spine.

"No," it said, each syllable grating like stone against stone. "Not Mike."

Eleven's flashlight trembled slightly in her hand as her eyes darted around the chamber, searching for the source of the voice. It had sounded close, far too close. She stepped back instinctively, her other hand rising defensively.

"Who are you?" she demanded, her voice firmer now, though her pulse pounded in her ears.

"You don't know me... but I know you." The words echoed faintly, bouncing off the cavern walls and making it impossible to pinpoint where they were coming from.

Her flashlight beam swept across the chamber before landing on a face that made Eleven's breath catch—a gaunt, weathered face with sharp cheekbones and hollow eyes. It belonged to an older woman, her gray-streaked hair pulled back tightly. In her gnarled hand was a gun, steady and aimed directly at Eleven.

The woman's lips curled into a slow, deliberate smile, though the shadows cast by the flashlight twisted it into something grotesque. "My name is Alice," she said, her voice dry and brittle, as though it hadn't been used in years. "Alice Frazier. Perhaps you knew my sister... Connie Frazier."

Eleven's blood ran cold. Recognition hit her like a shockwave, and her grip on the flashlight tightened. "Connie Frazier," she repeated. The name stirred memories she'd buried deep—of white lab coats, the sterile halls of Hawkins Lab, and of a woman who looked similar to this Alice attempting to hunt her down after she had escaped the Lab.

"You worked at the Lab," Eleven said, the realization sinking in.

Alice's head tilted ever so slightly, her smile widening into something cruel. "That's right, clever girl. I worked there, same as my dear sister. But unlike her, I had the sense to get out before everything went to hell." Her voice dripped with bitterness.

Eleven's eyes remained locked on the gun, her muscles coiled tight. "Why are you here?" she demanded.

Alice chuckled softly, the sound hollow and joyless. "Why?" she echoed, stepping closer, her grip on the gun steady as it aimed squarely at Eleven's chest. The barrel glinted ominously as it caught the flickering light. "Because you killed my sister. And now," she hissed, her voice dropping to a menacing whisper, "I'm going to kill you."


Mary's body jolted, her lungs dragging in a sharp, shuddering gasp as her senses came rushing back like a tidal wave. Her vision blurred at first, the dim light of the cavern swimming in and out of focus, before it sharpened into clarity. She blinked rapidly, her head pounding like a drumbeat in her skull.

Her skin was slick with sweat, her clothes clinging uncomfortably to her trembling frame. Her heart was racing, a relentless rhythm that seemed to echo in her ears. Memories of the last few moments—or had it been minutes? Hours?—flashed through her mind like fragmented pieces of glass. The word—Nightingale. Alice's voice. Her own loss of control.

Mary's stomach churned as realization gripped her. She had lost herself, her body, her will, completely overtaken by Alice's influence. It explained so much. If she closed her eyes, images of previous nights with Alice back in the Lab would start dancing before her eyes—crying out in pain, struggling against the bonds holding her, a gag stuffed in her mouth and Alice laughing—so Mary did not let herself.

Her hands trembled as she clenched them into fists, her nails biting into her palms in an effort to ground herself. She forced her breathing to slow, biting down on the wave of nausea that threatened to consume her.

"Damn it," she muttered under her breath, her voice hoarse and unsteady. "Damn her." This woman had raped her time and time again, had forced humiliation upon humiliation upon her. Whether it be the lengthy caning she'd given her, the bout of electro-shock torture that had followed that, and the way she'd teased and denied Mary repeatedly to make her beg for release.

No matter how many times she had hurt Mary, raped her, and then hurt her again, Mary had never grown used to it.

It had begun at a young age and had been rather vanilla; but the older Mary grew, the more Alice's desires had grown more daring, more and more painful. Alice found ways that let her hurt Mary without leaving a mark. She didn't always limit herself to such things—why bother, when she knew Mary would never turn to anyone for help?—but Alice made a quite thorough study with Mary as her test subject. Over the years, she had both determined what she liked and what Mary didn't, and eventually she had hurting and frightening Mary down to a science.

During Mary's final days in the Lab before she had been sent to Vietnam it was electricity, metal on sensitive skin and turning the shocks up high enough that there was nothing erotic about it. Alice liked watching Mary writhe and scream in pain, and her room at the Lab had been soundproofed for a reason. She always made sure to bind her.

Mary straightened, her body still shaky but fuelled now by a surge of anger. The memory of Alice's smug, knowing expression lit a fire in her chest, burning away the remnants of fear. She wouldn't let this stand. She couldn't.

"Nyarlathotep," Mary summoned.

"You called?" the familiar voice said from behind her, and Mary whirled around to find Nyarlathotep sitting on an overturned tree, legs crossed and looking casually merry.

"I need your help, and I'm prepared to pay for it," she said firmly, squaring her shoulders.

"And what exactly is it that you want?" the god trilled, twirling a hand.

"I need you to access my memories," she said, her voice hardening, "and remove something from my mind."

At that, Nyarlathotep's expression shifted—his interest barely flickering. "That's it?" he drawled, his tone laced with boredom. "A bit of mental spring cleaning? Surely you could have managed this on your own, with enough...creativity."

"It's not a trivial matter," Mary snapped, frustration bubbling beneath her calm exterior.

"Oh, I don't doubt it feels terribly important to you," he retorted, examining his fingernails as though the conversation itself was beneath him. "But more important than finding our little sacrificial lamb before the week's end?" His eyes flicked to hers, glinting with dark amusement.

Mary's jaw tightened, but she held his gaze. "I already have."

That earned a shift in his demeanour, a faint spark of intrigue lighting his eyes. "Oh? You've found her? Then why are we having this little chat instead of completing our arrangement?"

"Because she slipped through my fingers," Mary admitted.

Nyarlathotep tilted his head back and laughed. "Ah, there it is. Mortal ineptitude at its finest." He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, his gaze sharp as a blade. "And now you think a clean slate up here—" he tapped his temple lightly, "—will somehow give you the edge to fix your little blunder?"

"I know where Alice is heading," Mary said. "I can bring her back. But first, I need this done. Tell me your price, and I'll pay it."

Nyarlathotep's lips curled into a slow, serpentine smile, his eyes gleaming with wicked delight. "Careful making such promises, dear. It's dangerous to offer to pay anything."

The warning made Mary swallow hard; she knew that. Experience had drilled it into her—he was always several steps ahead, his cunning far beyond anything she could counter. He's ten times smarter than anyone you'll ever meet, she reminded herself. And if you forget that, you'll pay dearly.

"I need your help," she repeated. "I'm not offering 'anything', but if the price is something I can pay, I will do so."

Nyarlathotep tilted his head, studying her like a predator sizing up its prey. "I could do that," he mused. "For a price."

"What, another favour?" Mary countered immediately. "That isn't very original."

Nyarlathotep chuckled. Mary couldn't see the visions dancing before his eyes, but he could, and several of them were downright interesting. "Yes, another favour. Do we have a deal?" he pressed.

Mary studied him for a moment, her mismatched eyes unreadable and her face absolutely still. But then she nodded, just once. "Indeed we do. You first."

Nyarlathotep's clawed hand lifted, the tips of his fingers hovering just above her forehead. "Very well," he murmured. "But you'll need to guide me, my dear. Think of the exact thing you wish to erase. Focus. Otherwise, I may... take liberties."

Mary's jaw clenched, but she gave no verbal response. She simply closed her eyes, bracing herself for what she knew was coming.

The moment his fingers made contact with her skin, a cold, invasive sensation flooded her mind. She flinched instinctively, her muscles tensing as if to resist, but she forced herself to remain still and prepared for the onrushing memories.


"How did you find me?" Eleven questioned, stalling for time. She had no doubt she could take Alice down, but with her family just beyond the passage in the larger cavern—and the way sound echoed through these walls—one wrong move could put them all in danger.

Alice's smile widened, sharp and mocking. "Let's just say I had some... assistance," she replied.

Before Eleven could respond, Alice pulled the trigger.

The crack of the gunshot shattered the silence, reverberating through the cavern like a thunderclap. But Eleven's reflexes were faster. Her hand shot up instinctively, and with a burst of telekinetic force, she redirected the bullet. It veered sharply, embedding itself harmlessly into the rocky wall to her left.

Alice's eyes widened for a fraction of a second, startled by the effortless display of power. But the shock quickly gave way to fury.

She raised the gun again, firing off another shot. Eleven darted to the side, her feet pounding against the uneven ground as she narrowly avoided the bullet. The shot ricocheted off the cavern wall with a metallic ping. Small chunks of rock rained down from above, and Eleven's eyes shot up to the ceiling.

"Stop shooting!" she shouted over the chaos. "You could bring the stalactites down on us!"

But Alice wasn't listening. Fuelled by rage, she fired again. Eleven twisted her body, the bullet whizzing past her shoulder and striking another wall. A sharp crack resounded overhead as one of the larger stalactites fractured, a long, jagged piece breaking loose.

Eleven barely had time to react. She flung out her hand, her powers surging outward like a shockwave. The falling stalactite froze mid-air, suspended in her telekinetic grasp. Her arms trembled with the effort as she carefully redirected it, sending it crashing harmlessly to the floor.

"You're going to kill us both!" Eleven yelled.

"Maybe that's the plan!" Alice shouted back, ready to fire off another shot.

"What the hell is going on here?" a new voice demanded, and both combatants spun to face Mike Wheeler now standing at the entrance of the chamber.

The commotion—the crack of gunfire, the echoing crashes of falling stalactites—had clearly drawn the rest of the group. Behind Mike, the rest of Eleven's family appeared one by one, their expressions a mix of shock and confusion as they took in the scene before them.

"El!" Mike called his eyes darting between her and Alice. "Are you okay? Who is she?"

Karen gasped, clutching Eleanor and James close, while Danny's gaze immediately locked onto the gun in Alice's hand. His jaw tightened, and he instinctively reached for his own twin pistols.

Alice let out a low, humourless laugh, her eyes flicking toward the new arrivals and sizing each of them up. "Ah, so the family's here. Since you took my only family, let me return the favour!"

Her gunshot cracked through the cavern like a whip, the bullet tearing through the air straight toward Mike.

"Mike!" Eleven cried, her arm snapping forward. Her telekinetic powers surged, a burst of invisible energy colliding with the bullet mid-flight. It shattered into fragments, harmlessly falling to the ground in a metallic rain.

Undeterred, Alice fired again and again, each shot aimed at a different target—Danny, Karen, even the children. But Eleven's powers were faster. With every flick of her wrist, the bullets veered off course, ricocheting harmlessly into the cavern walls.

"Stop it!" Eleven bellowed as her powers slammed into Alice with the force of a wrecking ball.

Alice was thrown back, her body crashing into the rocky wall behind her. She groaned but forced herself to her knees despite the blood trickling from a cut on her forehead.

"Stay behind me!" Danny shouted, drawing his pistols and stepping in front of the others. He kept his aim trained on Alice, ready to fire if she made another move.

A soft, almost imperceptible pop echoed through the cavern, barely louder than a whisper. But the effect was immediate and electric. A wave of magic rippled outward like a silent shockwave, invisible yet palpable, freezing everyone in the chamber—Mike, Karen, Danny, and even the children—in place. Their expressions froze mid-reaction, eyes wide with confusion and fear, unable to move a muscle.

Eleven's head snapped toward the source of the disturbance, her sharp intake of breath breaking the tense silence. Alice, too, stiffened, her head swivelling in the same direction. Both women turned to see a figure standing at the edge of the chamber.

"Miss me, dearie?" Mary drawled, her voice silky yet sharp. A sly, almost predatory smile tugged at her lips as she slowly advanced.

With a lazy flick of her wrist, the gun that had been in Alice's hand moments ago flew through the air, spinning end over end before landing at her feet with a metallic clink. She stepped on it casually, her heel grinding into the weapon as if it were nothing more than a discarded toy.

Alice's face drained of colour. Her usual mask of bravado and cruelty cracked, replaced by a stark, undeniable fear. She took an involuntary step back, her eyes widening. "Ten," she whispered.

Eleven's gaze darted between the two women, confusion and unease prickling at the edges of her mind. She had seen Mary before—had felt her presence—but the dynamic between her and Alice was something new.

"Nightingale," Alice said, recovering quickly.

But nothing happened.

Alice's brow furrowed, her confidence faltering for a split second before she straightened and tried again, her tone more insistent, almost desperate. "Nightingale!"

Still, no reaction.

Mary's steps didn't falter. If anything, her approach slowed deliberately, the faint, predatory smile on her lips growing wider with each step.

Alice's expression shifted from fury to confusion, then panic, as she glanced between Mary and Eleven.

"What have you done?" Alice snarled, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to sound defiant.

Mary stopped a few feet away from her, tilting her head with mock curiosity. "Oh, did you think that little trick of yours would still work on me again?" she let the question hang for a moment before continuing, her smirk widening. "You see, I have a rather talented friend—someone well-versed in the art of slipping into people's minds. He was kind enough to remove all traces of the effects of that word on me." She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a satisfied purr. "In other words, your leash is gone. Nightingale has no power over me anymore."

Alice went rigid. The last remnants of colour drained from her face; for the first time, she looked well and truly terrified.

Mary idly twirled her wand between her fingers, her gaze fixed on it as if lost in deep thought. For a moment, it seemed as though she had completely forgotten Alice's presence, her focus entirely consumed by her exanimation of the wand. Finally, her eyes flicked from the wand to Alice. "I have only one thing to say to you: scream, bitch, scream."

Mary raised her wand and said, "Crucio!"

Alice convulsed violently, her body twisting in unnatural angles as if invisible hands were wrenching her apart. A raw, guttural scream tore from her throat, echoing through the cavern walls. Her muscles seized, spasming uncontrollably as if she were being electrocuted.

Eleven squeezed her eyes shut, but the absence of sight only heightened the horror. Alice's screams, the sharp, ragged gasps she made, the sickening crack of bones shifting in unnatural ways—the sounds all seemed to be worse than if she saw the torture.

"Stop it!" Eleven yelled at the top of her voice, cutting through Alice's agonized screams.

A gasping sound of relief made Eleven open her eyes again as Mary lifted the spell. Alice lay crumpled on the ground, her body trembling as she sucked in the air like a drowning woman managing to break to the surface.

There was no mistaking the satisfied gleam in Mary's eyes. "Trust me, dearie, she deserves far worse," she said, her lips curling into something that wasn't quite a smile.

At last, she turned to Eleven, her gaze sweeping over her in an appraising manner. For the first time, there was something that almost resembled concern in her sharp eyes.

"Are you alright, Eleven?" she asked. "Did Alice hurt you? Did she… touch you at all?"

Eleven blinked, startled by the question and the unexpected care in Mary's voice. "No," she said quickly. "I'm fine."

Mary studied her for a moment longer, then gave a slow, knowing nod. "Good. Because if she had, I would've ripped her lungs out. Crucio!"

Alice's screams tore through the cavern once more. Her head bobbed at an odd angle and her legs twitched madly. Ten agonizing minutes passed before Mary finally lifted the spell. Alice collapsed in a trembling heap, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her body twitching with the ghost of the pain that had just ravaged her.

Mary sighed, rolling her shoulders as if shaking off some minor inconvenience.

"Why are you doing this to her?" Eleven asked, turning back to Mary. "What is Nightingale?"

"A key-word, implanted in my mind as a baby," Mary explained. "Used as a potential failsafe to put me in a hypnotic state and make me obedient to any orders given to me." Mary took a deep breath before the flurry of words came out of her lips, "Alice used Nightingale to rape and hurt me while I was growing up in the Lab."

"Oh, Mary." Suddenly, her arms were around her, and Eleven pulled her into a hug. Letting out a shaky breath, Mary allowed her head to drop onto her sister's shoulder and let herself feel safe and whole for the first time since... Jim.

Mary didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to think about it, and damn it all, she was starting to shake slightly. Eleven's voice dropped to a whisper when she added: "I'm so sorry you had to go through that alone."

With an effort, Mary pulled herself back together, retreating behind the mask of self-control that she had always been so good at. "It's fine," she tried to sound flippant with her explanation, but it just came out slightly broken.

"If I had known you back then, if I had known what was happening to you... I could have helped you," Eleven admitted softly, and she had never hated someone as much as she hated Alice in that moment.

Mary didn't answer; she just looked away and closed her eyes. "It's a nice thought," she whispered.

"Are you going to kill her?" Eleven asked, looking down with disgust at Alice who had been silent the entire conversation.

"No. Not yet. I still need her alive," Mary said, opening her eyes to glance at Alice.

A faint, pained chuckle escaped Alice's lips. Even in agony, she managed a smug smile.

Keep smiling, bitch. By the end of this week, I'll be done with you once and for all, Mary thought. She smiled, and there was something dangerous in that secretive smile. "Until the end of the week, that is," Mary added smoothly.

The hunger in Mary's eyes sent a cold shiver crawling down Alice's spine. That look—it promised something far worse than death.

"I'm sorry you got involved in this," Mary went on. "I intended to keep Alice as far away from you as possible but your sister-in-law freeing Alice forced my hand."

Eleven racked her brains, thinking. The only person Nancy had mentioned recently was—

"Alice is Mrs. Kersch?" a shocked Eleven asked.

Mary nodded. "You watched the tape she gave you?" She already knew the answer, but she wanted to hear it from her sister.

Eleven hesitated, then whispered, "We did. We saw... your training. With Brenner."

Mary let out a dry, humourless chuckle. "Molested by my nurse, regularly beaten and bullied by Henry... some childhood I had in the Lab, huh?" Her voice was detached, almost mocking, but there was pain in it.

She exhaled sharply, eyes flickering with something unreadable. "Getting shipped off to fight in Vietnam was a godsend in a way. At least it got me away from them."

"I'm so sorry you went through that," Eleven told her sincerely. "But... if you had stayed at the Lab instead of going to Vietnam, you would've been there during Henry's massacre. You might have died with the others."

Mary let out a low chuckle, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "Funny how fate works, isn't it?" She tilted her head, studying Eleven with something almost akin to amusement. "And stop apologising, dearie. What's done is done. You can't change the past."

Mary's eyes swept over the motionless forms of Mike, Karen, Danny, and the children before sweeping across the cavern. "I have to ask—why here, of all places? A mine isn't exactly the ideal spot for a wholesome family outing, dearie."

Eleven stiffened, keeping her expression carefully neutral. "It's none of your concern," she shot back, her voice steady. The last thing she needed was Mary sniffing around for answers—especially about the Hearthstone.

Mary hummed. "Oh? Now that just makes me more curious, dearie."

"What about you?" Eleven asked, changing the topic. "What's your plan, Mary? You've already attempted to kill my father. You killed Dr. Owens. You—" she hesitated, the words catching in her throat before she forced them out, "you killed Will."

"Killed," Mary echoed, as if tasting the word. "Is that what you think?" She let out a quiet hum, pacing slowly in a half-circle around Eleven. "Will was drowning in his own mind, sinking further every day. Do you have any idea how deep his depression ran? He wasn't going to claw his way out of that, no matter how much you all hoped he would. I did him a mercy."

Eleven's hands curled into fists. "That wasn't your decision to make."

Mary's gaze darkened slightly, but she let the comment slide, moving on. "As for Owens…" she gave a slow shrug. "You might have seen a kind face, dearie, but to me? All he ever offered was a two-faced attempt at friendship while keeping me locked up in Pennhurst. I have a long memory, Eleven. I do not forgive or forget."

"And what about my father?" Eleven asked. "He told me your obsessed with him."

For the first time, Mary actually laughed, a short, amused chuckle. "Now, now," she said, waving a dismissive hand. "I don't have any intention of killing dear Jim Hopper. Joyce, on the other hand..."

The world dropped out from under Eleven, and suddenly every cell in her body went cold. So cold.

"You wouldn't," she whispered.

A poisonous snake might have smiled much like this. "Don't test me, dearie," Mary warned him.

"I will protect my family," Eleven snarled, looking her sister right in the eye.

Mary only laughed. "You'll come around to my side soon enough." She took a slow step forward, studying Eleven with something between curiosity and certainty. "But I suppose," she continued, "you do deserve some answers. After all, you're standing at the edge of something far greater than you realise."

Her smile widened, eyes gleaming with an unsettling kind of excitement. "By the end of this week, history will be made. To build a better world sometimes means tearing the old one down.

She gestured vaguely, as if addressing an invisible audience. "Look at the past—Hannibal and Attila shattering the might of Rome. Robespierre cutting the throat of the old French order. Lenin sweeping away Tsarist Russia. Hitler cracking the foundation of the British Empire. And, in more recent history, Bin Laden shaking the very core of America.

She leaned in slightly, her gaze locking onto Eleven's. "I will do the same to this current Wizarding World. Oh, don't look so alarmed—I won't be nearly as violent. No massacres, no wars. But make no mistake, dearie, the world as you know it is going to change. And for the better."

With a final, knowing smile, Mary took a step back, her attention shifting to Alice, who still lay sprawled on the cavern floor.

"On your feet." The command was effortless, a flick of her wand reinforcing the order.

Alice hesitated, glaring up at her, but the invisible force compelling her to obey was undeniable. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself upright.

Mary flicked her wand with a casual grace, her voice steady as she cast, "Immobulus."

In an instant, Alice froze mid-motion, her body locked in place as if she had been turned to stone. Only her eyes remained mobile, darting wildly with panic and fury.

Mary's lips curled into a knowing smirk as she tightened her grip on Alice's rigid arm. "Goodbye, Eleven. We'll meet again soon," she promised.

With a sharp crack, the air around them twisted, and in the blink of an eye, both Mary and Alice vanished, leaving only the echo of their departure behind.

The moment Mary and Alice vanished, the spell holding Mike, Karen, Danny, and the children broke, releasing them from their frozen state. They staggered slightly, gasping as movement returned to their limbs.

But Eleven remained still, her eyes fixed on the empty space where Mary had stood just moments ago. The threat Mary had made echoed in her mind.

Mike, Sara, James, and Eleanor rushed forward the moment they could move again, colliding into Eleven in a fierce, desperate embrace. Their arms wrapped tightly around her, pulling her close as if afraid she might disappear just as suddenly as Mary had.

"Oh my God, El!" Mike breathed, his grip tightening. "Are you okay? Did she hurt you?" His hands instinctively roamed over her arms and shoulders, searching for any sign of injury.

James and Eleanor, overwhelmed with relief, spoke over each other in a frantic rush, their words tumbling out in a chaotic blur.

"I was so scared—" James blurted, his hands gripping Eleven's sleeve tightly.

"You just disappeared, and then—" Eleanor cut in, her voice trembling.

"—That woman had a gun! She was going to—"

"—Then she was screaming, and you—"

"—You stopped the bullets! That was so cool—"

"Hey, hey," Eleven interrupted gently, squeezing them both. "I'm fine. I promise." She wasn't sure if she was trying to convince them or herself.

"I'm so glad you're okay, Mom," Sara said, wrapping her arms tightly around Eleven.

Eleven froze for half a second. Mom. It wasn't the first time Sara had called her that, but in this moment, it carried a weight that settled deep inside her. She blinked rapidly, then held her even tighter. "I'm not going anywhere," she whispered.

Danny cleared his throat behind them, trying to shake off the raw tension in the air. "Alright, we can have the heartfelt reunion later, but we still have a job to do." His voice was gruff, but not unkind. He turned to Karen, who was watching the scene with misty eyes, one hand pressed to her chest. "You good?"

Karen nodded, inhaling deeply before straightening her shoulders. "I'm good." She gave Eleven one last searching look, then squared her jaw. "Let's keep moving."

With that, they finally stepped out of the smaller chamber and into the main cavern.

"Dad, look at this," James said with excitement in his voice. Danny looked over with the others at the alcove that James was peering into. There was a little bowl there with a rune carved in the middle of it and a small depression at the bottom. "That's the same rune as on the Hearthstone. As if it belongs in there."

Danny took out the little box from his bag. He opened it, before taking a deep breath and pulling out a small worn stone. He weighed it in his hand for a long moment and then relaxed a little, before placing it into the little bowl. "A perfect fit," he said. "I wonder what it does?"

And then the bowl flared with light, as if the Sun had briefly been within it, and Danny heard a great voice in his head that drove him to his knees.

"The Fourth Age of Heroes has begun. The forces of light must gather and fight. The Viltrumites are coming. You are needed."


Hooooooooooo BOY was this a fucking long one.

If this was to be the first chapter of 2025 for Tales of the Wheeler Family, I thought it might as well open with a long one.

I wanted this chapter to allow me to check in on specific characters, and how they're feeling as I progressed the story forward.

In particular, I wanted to focus on Nancy, Jonathan, and Steve, as they hadn't received as much attention compared to other characters. This chapter gave me the opportunity to explore Hawkins Lab one final time before I destroyed it.

Additionally, writing the nightmares and fears for Nancy, Jonathan, and Steve was especially fun. Each of them carries different burdens, and through these visions, I was able to tap into their guilt, their regrets, and the things they can't outrun.

Plus, it gave me an opportunity to show off Mary's fear powers in full force. I wanted to highlight just how deeply she can manipulate and exploit the vulnerabilities of others, turning their worst nightmares into something tangible and inescapable. Her abilities aren't just about inducing fear for the sake of it—they're strategic, calculated, and deeply personal.

The moment where Sara confides in Mike and Eleven about the attempted assault she endured was one of the most difficult scenes I've ever written. It wasn't just about choosing the right words for Sara—it was about capturing the depth of her emotions. Just as important was shaping Mike and Eleven's reactions in a way that felt authentic.

The scene itself went through countless rewrites as I struggled to strike the right balance. I didn't want it to feel overly dramatized, but I also didn't want to downplay the significance of this trauma.

Ultimately, I hope I did justice to Sara's story and to the reality of how survivors process and share their pain.

The moment between Danny and Karen is not necessarily a reconciliation but a beginning of attempting to bridge the differences. Also, keen-eyed readers may notice that Danny deliberately refrains from telling Karen she might have magic. That revelation is something I'm saving for the future, and when it comes, it will have significant implications for both of them.

I hope you enjoyed the dinner scene of the Wheeler family and the history of the Hearthstone and the little reference to Lord of the Rings e.g. the palantír. I also hope you enjoyed how I connected it to World War 2 as well as to Grindelwald and Dumbledore.

Now, Alice/Mrs. Kersch. I always planned from the moment I introduced her that she would have a connection with Mary going back to Hawkins Lab. Alice regularly molested Mary as a child and was into some really nasty stuff which I made sure to reference in a non-graphic way. My goal was to establish Alice as an utterly vile and irredeemable character and I hope I succeed.

Originally, I had a very different fate in mind for Alice. She was supposed to take both Nancy and Eleven hostage, holding them at gunpoint in Mikewood Forest. The scene would have culminated in Mary sneaking up behind Alice and stabbing her in the back. However, once I introduced the mystery of the Hearthstone earlier than originally planned (it was initially meant to be revealed much later in the story), I decided to shift the confrontation. Removing Nancy from the equation allowed me to sharpen the focus on the conflict between Alice and Eleven, making it a more personal and emotionally charged moment. Bringing Mary into the confrontation added another layer of complexity—not only did it make the encounter more intense, but it also allowed me to explore the dynamic between Mary and Alice in a way that felt more fitting for the story.

This chapter also allowed me to write two insistences where Mary's mask cracks and you see her showing vulnerability that she overwise would not. The first occurs when she watches the old recorded footage of Brenner training her—a moment that forces her to confront the past in a way she rarely allows herself to.

The second moment was when, after finally revealing the horrific abuse she suffered at Alice's hands, she allows Eleven to hug her.

Exploring these cracks in her armour, these brief instances where she lets her guard down, is always fun to write.

Rest assured, Alice will get her comeuppance for her actions.

Also shout out to Gap80 my great friend, beta reader, and muse, he knows I have been rewriting the storylines and main plot details and I want to thank him for supporting me.

Until next time, my fellow readers.

Anyway, as always please, follow, favourite, and review as you desire! Thank you for your continued support and as always have a nice day.