Will Byers

Will sits on the edge of Mike's bed, motionless, his hands hanging limply in his lap. The room is dim, lit only by the gray light filtering through the blinds. Dust floats undisturbed in the still air. His clothes are rumpled and dirty from the fight at the radio station, but he hasn't bothered to change them. There's a small cut on his cheek, dried blood crusted around the edges. His face is pale and haggard, as if he hasn't slept for days.

He's been staying with the Wheelers ever since he returned to Hawkins. Ever since everything started falling apart again. He told them it was for safety, that Joyce needed him out of the house for a while. But really, it's because he can't be alone. Not after what happened. Not after how close Vecna ​​came to taking him. Again.

The house is quiet. Too quiet. Mike isn't home—he's probably with El, wherever she is when the world gets too much for her. Will is the only one here, but it doesn't feel safe. It feels like he's been forgotten.

His eyes are glassy, ​​unfocused. He's not really looking at anything. Not the posters on the wall, not the old D&D figures gathering dust on the table. His whole body feels heavy, as if gravity is trying to pull him through the floor. His fingers are trembling, and he keeps trying to stop it, but it won't go away.

What Vecna ​​showed him won't fade either. Visions of things he can't forget—things he wants too badly to forget. Dreams that aren't his. Loves that aren't his.

The silence stretches. The weight of everything presses on him like a second skin. And yet he doesn't move.