͏b͏r͏o͏k͏e͏n || ͏b͏i͏l͏l͏y ͏h͏a͏r͏g͏r͏o͏v͏e

F O U R T E E N

There was a pause. A dangerous, simmering silence. The kind right before a tornado decides which house to rip off the foundation.

"Oh, so now you wanna talk," he drawled.

I shut my eyes, pacing the porch in a tight circle. "I have been talking! You just don't listen!"

"Then start saying something worth hearing."

God, I wanted to scream. Or cry. Or throw him off a cliff. Or maybe all three at once.

"You need to calm down," I said, voice trembling despite my best attempt to sound firm.

"I'll calm down," he said, "when I know Max isn't dead in a ditch. Because if she is—I'll be next."

I froze. The rawness in his voice hit me like a punch. He covered it with anger instantly, but I'd heard it. And it made my chest tighten.

"Billy... she's fine," I whispered.

"If she's fine," he snapped, "then why are you lying to me?"

I sucked in a sharp breath.

"I'm not..."

"Princess," he said, voice dropping into that low, terrifying register, "I just walked into Wheeler's house and had a nice little chat with Mommy Dearest. You really think I won't go door by door until I find Max?"

I swallowed hard.

"You need to go home before you get hurt," I said, my voice cracking despite my effort to sound steady.

"Hurt?" He scoffed. "By who? You?"

"No—" I whispered, glancing back at the Byers' living room full of terrified faces. "Billy... it's not safe."

"No kidding. That's why I'm coming."

The crunch of gravel came through the speaker—his boots moving, the Camaro door slamming shut.

"Billy. Please—just wait." I didn't even recognize my own voice. It was shaky, desperate. Too honest.

Another silence. Short. Sharp.

Then: "If you want me to stop... come stop me."

The walkie crackled and went dead.

My breath hitched.

"Oh, crap," I whispered.

Behind me, Steve's confused voice broke through the doorway.

"Ana—what did he say?"

I stared at the walkie, heart hammering, throat tight.

"He's coming," I whispered. "And he's pissed."

Every head in the living room snapped toward me.
Steve's eyes widened. Max went pale. Dustin mouthed, Oh no.

But before anyone could panic out loud, Hopper and Joyce emerged from the hallway with El, and the house erupted into frantic planning.

I stood off to the side, clutching my walkie so tightly my fingers ached, trying to steady my breathing as everyone argued their next steps.

They talked fast—too fast for my adrenaline-soaked brain to fully keep up.

Joyce whispering, "He likes it cold." Nancy saying something about the Mind Flayer's connection to Will. Jonathan insisting they needed to drive far away. Mike trying to keep his voice from breaking as he held El's hand. Hopper shouting directions about oak trees and channel ten.

It all blurred together like a radio tuned between stations—fear, urgency, and grief blending into one long, shaky buzz.

I forced myself to listen, nodding along where I needed to, but my mind kept drifting back to the walkie... and the boy who'd all but promised violence on the other end of it.

One by one, they piled into cars—Joyce clutching Will, Jonathan pale and determined, El climbing in beside Hopper with that quiet bravery she always carried.

Engines revved. Headlights cut through the dark. And in a matter of seconds, they were gone. The house fell silent.

Just me.
Steve.
Dustin.
Lucas.
Max.

Sitting in a dim, half-destroyed living room while the world outside closed in on us.

I stared down at my walkie, pulse thundering in my ears.

Billy was on his way.

And the chapter—a whole chapter of chaos, pain, secrets, and near death—wasn't ending with victory.

It was ending with headlights in the distance
and the unmistakable growl of a Camaro coming closer.