Chapter Text
I tried to be good, am I no good?
Am I no good? Am I no good?
With my memory restricted to a Polaroid in evidence
- Strangers, Ethel Cain
Ever since returning to Hawkins, Will Byers hasn’t felt like himself.
No— off . Not just off. He’s been feeling him again.
It’s strange, finally knowing who it was all along. Finally having a name, a face behind the monster that has haunted him for what feels like his entire life. In a way, it almost makes it more real. Like this isn’t just some interdimensional, unknowable evil—it’s a person . A single man responsible for all this pain, all this destruction, all this… rage .
Will has never been an angry person. Not really. Sure, he’s had his moments, but who hasn’t?
But being back in Hawkins, feeling that familiar itch beneath his skin, that deep, crawling sensation he thought he’d left behind—it’s making it harder to hold back. He doesn’t want to be angry, doesn’t want to feel like this, but he does.
And it’s not just the anger. It’s everything. Sadness, fear, anxiety. He’s holding it all in, pressing it down, locking it away because there’s no time for it. There are bigger things at stake than whether or not Will Byers is doing okay.
And really—who’s ever given a fuck about that anyway?
Will doesn’t know when he started biting the inside of his cheek again, but the sharp sting of blood lingers on his tongue. The dull ache is grounding in a way, a small, physical reminder that he’s still here. That he’s still—himself. Still in control.
The house is quiet, save for the slow, steady breaths beside him. Mike. Because, of course, he was staying with the Wheelers. And of course, Mike had been adamant that Will sleep in a real bed—meaning they had to share one. Now, in the dead of night, Mike slept soundly, completely unaware of the war raging inside Will’s head.
Will should be sleeping too. He’s exhausted in that way that sinks deep into his bones, but his body won’t let him rest. His mind is running too fast for him to catch up, stuck in an endless loop of thoughts he can’t outrun.
His fingers twitch at his sides, restless. The lights are too dim, the air too thick. The walls feel too close.
He needs to get out.
Moving carefully, Will slipped out of bed, mindful not to disturb Mike. He moved like a ghost down the stairs, out the back door, and into the night. The cool air bit at his skin, sending a shiver down his spine—not unwelcome, but not exactly comfortable either.
He exhaled slowly, trying to steady himself. Tried to ignore the spores drifting in the air, the ones that weren’t supposed to be here, not in this world. Tried to push down the panic tightening in his chest.
It doesn’t work. Nothing does.
He paced aimlessly for a few moments before settling against the wall near the basement door. He hugged his knees to his chest, pressing his head back against the cold brick, eyes shut tight. Get it together, get it together, get it together.
It’s not working.
A voice cuts through the silence.
“What are you doing out here?”
Will flinches violently, his body jolting before he can stop himself. His eyes snap open, and there, standing above him, is Mike Wheeler—barefoot, hoodie hanging loose over his frame, brows furrowed in confusion. Or maybe concern.
Will swallows, his voice flat when he finally speaks. “I couldn’t sleep.”
Mike studied him for a long moment, eyes searching, like he knows there’s more to it. But if he does, he doesn’t push.
Instead, he sighs and sits down beside Will, knees pulling up to his chest, shoulders brushing lightly. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t press for an explanation. Just sits there, quiet and steady, like he’s prepared to wait as long as Will needs.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
Will glances at Mike, his presence both grounding and unnerving. He hadn’t expected him to follow. Hadn’t expected him to notice.
He exhales, barely above a whisper. “What are you doing out here?”
Mike shrugs, pulling his hoodie tighter around himself. “You weren’t in the bed.”
Will blinks, caught off guard by the simplicity of the statement. “So?”
Mike turns his head, giving him a look—one Will has seen a thousand times before. A mix of exasperation and something softer, something careful. “So, I woke up, and you were gone.” His voice dips, quieter now. “Figured I should check.”
Will looks away. His fingers tighten around the fabric of his pajama pants, knuckles white. He shouldn’t let it get to him, but it does. The fact that Mike noticed. That he cared enough to follow.
A beat of silence stretches between them. The night air is cool, but Will still feels feverish, like something is burning underneath his skin.
“I just needed some air,” Will mutters, voice taut.
Mike doesn’t respond right away. He leans back against the brick wall, tilting his head toward the sky, like he’s thinking. Then, finally—
“Is it the nightmares?”
Will stiffens. It should be an easy answer. He’s had them before—so many times, in so many ways. Visions of things he’s lived through, things that aren’t real but feel too much like they could be. But this— this —isn’t just nightmares. It’s not just restless sleep or old fears clawing their way back into his mind.
It’s something else.
And Mike knows it.
Will licks his lips, hesitant. “I don’t know,” he lies.
Mike doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push. He just sighs, nudging Will’s knee with his own. “I get it, you know.”
Will scoffs, barely a sound. “You don’t.”
Mike doesn’t argue. He just leans back further, letting the silence settle again.
And maybe it’s the way the streetlights flicker, or the way the town is too quiet, but Will suddenly feels the weight of everything pressing in on him again. The truth clawing at his throat. The things he wants to say but can’t.
He takes a breath.
“Mike.”
Mike turns to him immediately, eyes sharp, attentive.
Will grips his own wrist, fingers digging into his skin. He hesitates—just for a second—before finally, barely above a whisper, he asks:
“Can—” He swallows hard. “Can you promise me something?”
Mike’s brows pull together. “Yeah. Of course.”
Will exhales, the words burning in his throat. “If… if it comes down to it, I need you to promise me that if—” His voice falters, but he forces himself to keep going. “If he takes over, if he— controls me again… you have to stop him. No matter what .”
Mike’s expression twists, eyes widening. “No matter what? Will—”
“No.” Will shakes his head, voice tight. “He’s strong , Mike. You know that. Look at what he’s already done. If it happens, if I—if he —” Will clenches his jaw, inhaling sharply. “You have to put stopping him over everything else.”
Mike stares at him, mouth slightly open, like he can’t quite believe what Will is asking. Like he refuses to.
“Will, I—” His voice is strained, almost pleading. “That could mean you —”
“I don’t care, Mike!” The words rip out of him before he can stop them, sharp and raw. He sees the way Mike flinches, and some part of him regrets it, but the louder part— the terrified part —pushes him forward. “I don’t want to—of course I don’t—” His voice breaks, and he can’t finish the sentence. He can’t say it out loud.
Instead, he forces himself to swallow down the fear, to keep going. “But this is bigger than that. Bigger than me.” His fingers dig into his knees now, knuckles white. “I don’t know exactly what he’s going to do,” His voice drops lower, almost a whisper. “But I know he’ll use me to do it.”
Mike shakes his head, his expression desperate. “Will, you don’t know what you’re saying—”
“Don’t I?” Will snaps, his voice sharp enough to cut.
Mike hesitates, searching for something— anything —to say. “I’m not—I can’t promise that.”
Will’s breath comes out uneven, anger bubbling just beneath the surface. “You won’t promise that.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Fair?” Will lets out a humorless laugh. “Do you know what it’s like?” His voice rises, laced with something dark and bitter. “Do you know what it’s like to lose control? To have something else crawling under your skin, inside your head, twisting your thoughts until you don’t know what’s you and what’s him ?”
Mike says nothing.
Will huffs, shaking his head. “No. You don’t. Because why would you?” His voice drops, quieter now, but no less sharp. “You’ve never had to fight to stay yourself .”
Mike’s jaw tightens, his hands curling into fists against his knees. He looks like he wants to argue, to tell Will he does understand, but he doesn’t. He can’t.
And Will is so fucking tired of pretending otherwise.
“You don’t get it,” Will mutters, shaking his head. “You can’t get it.” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I feel him, Mike. I feel him like a shadow in the back of my mind. He’s there, even now.” His voice wavers, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. “And sometimes I don’t even know what’s real anymore. What’s me.”
Mike’s breath hitches, his whole body going rigid. “You—” His voice falters, but he forces himself to keep going. “You’re Will.” He looks at him, eyes wide and desperate. “You’re still you .”
Will lets out a short, bitter laugh. “For now.”
Mike shakes his head fiercely. “No. Not for now. You’re you , and I’m not going to let him take you.”
Something inside Will snaps. “It’s not up to you, Mike!” He turns sharply, eyes burning with something raw and breaking. “You don’t get to decide that! I don’t even get to decide that!” His breathing is uneven, too fast, his vision blurring at the edges. “You think I haven’t been trying? You think I don’t fight every fucking day just to hold onto something real?” He presses a shaking hand to his chest. “I feel like I don’t even know how much more of me there is left to hold on to.”
Mike looks stricken, like Will just slapped him across the face. He opens his mouth, but no words come out.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating.
Will exhales shakily, dragging his hands over his face. His voice is quieter when he speaks again, hoarse and exhausted. “I need you to promise me, Mike.” He looks at him, really looks at him. “If it happens, if I—if he—” His throat tightens, but he forces the words out. “You have to stop me.”
Mike’s eyes are shining now, his breath shaky. “I can’t.”
“You have to.”
“I can’t , Will!” Mike snaps, voice breaking. “You’re asking me to—” He swallows hard, looking away, shaking his head like he can’t even say it out loud.
Will clenches his fists. “I’m asking you to save people.”
Mike’s hands are shaking now. “I won’t lose you again.”
Something in Will's chest twists painfully. He doesn’t know what to say to that.
The silence between them stretches, heavy and suffocating.
Finally, Will exhales, voice hollow. “Just… forget it, Mike.” His body feels leaden, exhaustion settling deep in his bones as he pushes himself to stand. “Forget I said anything.”
But before he can walk away, Mike’s hand shoots out, gripping his arm.
“No, Will.” His voice is firm, unwavering. “I won’t forget it.”
Will looks down at him, weary and fraying at the edges. “Mike—”
“No.” Mike shakes his head, his grip tightening. His voice is softer now, but just as steady. “I can’t promise that. I can’t promise I’ll do what you’re asking.” His throat bobs as he swallows, his eyes pleading. “But I can promise that I’ll be here. That I won’t let you go through this alone.” His voice wavers, but he keeps going. “I’ll make sure you remember yourself. I’ll keep you here —with me.”
Will’s breath catches as Mike keeps talking, words tumbling out in a desperate rush.
“I’ll—I’ll carry a Walkman with me everywhere. With your favorite music. And if it ever—if you ever start slipping, I’ll pull you back. I’ll remind you of everything real .” He chokes on the last part, voice breaking. “I won’t lose you, Will.”
Will stares at him, heart pounding.
Because Mike says it like a vow . Like something unshakable.
And Will wants to believe it. He really, really does.
But he knows the truth.
He knows that Mike hardly even knows him anymore, that he will probably forget that this conversation even happened by morning. That his attention will be drawn somewhere else, and he just wants to help whoever he can. Because that’s who Mike is.
He knows that sometimes, things are too far gone. That sometimes, people don’t get to come back.
He also knows there’s no arguing with Mike Wheeler when he’s made up his mind.
And maybe— maybe —because some part of him still wants to believe it too, because he can’t bring himself to break the fragile, desperate hope in Mike’s eyes, he exhales softly and whispers,
“Okay.”
____________________
Too tired to move, too tired to leave (I just wanna sleep)
I'm tired of you, still tied to me (please, can I sleep, can I sleep?)
- Hard Times, Ethel Cain
Mike, begrudgingly, stayed true to his word. Will hadn’t expected it. He wasn’t used to people keeping their promises—especially not ones as heavy as Mike’s. He had learned long ago that hope was a dangerous thing, that promises were just words. He had gotten used to disappointment, to wanting something only to watch it slip through his fingers.
But Mike? Mike was different now.
Will had to admit it felt strange, almost foreign, to see Mike try to follow through. It wasn’t perfect, and it definitely wasn’t enough, but it was still there.
Even so, that didn’t stop the itching under his skin, the gnawing feeling that something wasn’t quite right. It was there every morning when he woke up, every time he glanced over his shoulder, every moment he felt like he was being watched. The unease never really left, and the more Mike tried to keep his promises, the more it felt like a weight Will couldn’t shake.
And it certainly didn’t help his unrequited love.
If anything, it made it worse. It felt like rubbing salt in the wound—like he was so close to the thing he’d always wanted, the thing he’d always dreamed about, but it was just beyond his reach. Always so close, but never close enough. Mike was always there, but it just wasn’t in the way Will needed him to be. The way Will wanted him to be.
Mike cared, of course. He always had. But that didn’t make it easier. It didn’t make the space between them any smaller.
The worst part was that Mike didn’t even realize.
He didn’t realize what it did to Will every time he reached out—grabbing his wrist, nudging his knee against Will’s under the table, looking at him with that steady, unwavering determination. He didn’t realize how much it hurt when he said things like I won’t lose you or I’ll be here —as if those words didn’t mean something completely different to Will.
And Will could never say anything, because what could he say? That Mike was too close but never close enough? That every promise Mike made felt like a blade pressed against his ribs, because it was something Will had wanted to hear for so long—but not like this?
No. He couldn’t say any of that.
So instead, he swallowed it down. Let it sit, heavy and unspoken, just like everything else.
Mike kept his word. Kept the Walkman on him, always, just like he promised. Kept checking in, kept looking at Will like he was something worth saving. And Will let him. He let himself want it, just for a little while.
It went on like that for months.
Some days were better than others. Some days, the weight wasn’t as crushing. Some days, he couldn’t feel him —or at least, not as strongly. Those days, he could almost pretend. He could eat, talk, be something close to normal.
But then there were the other days. The bad ones. The ones where he felt him like a second skin, an itch beneath his ribs that wouldn’t go away. And then came the anger—hot and sharp and impossible to swallow.
Because it wasn’t fair. Because it should have been over. Because he was still fighting a war that no one else could see. Could even understand.
And those days? Those were the days he hid. The days he let the world slip away and isolated himself from everyone and everything.
And he hated it.
Hated how no matter how hard he fought, no matter how much distance he tried to put between himself and that thing, it was never enough.
Hated how he could be sitting at the Wheeler’s kitchen table, or walking down the hall at school, or lying in bed in the middle of the night—and still, out of nowhere, he’d feel it again. The pull. The wrongness. The feeling of something slipping.
And the worst part? He never knew when it was coming.
He could go days—weeks, even—without feeling it. Without the weight of it pressing into his chest, without the whispers scratching at the inside of his skull.
But then, just when he thought maybe— maybe —it was getting better, it would come back. Stronger than before.
So on the bad days, Will stayed away. From his mom. From Jonathan. From El. From Mike.
Especially from Mike.
Because Mike noticed. He always did. And when Will locked himself in the Wheeler’s basement, when he skipped plans and ignored his calls, Mike showed up anyway. Knocking at the door, calling his name, waiting outside until Will finally gave in and let him inside.
And he did. Every single time.
Will never had the energy to talk much—never had the words for what was really happening—but Mike stayed anyway. He never pushed, never demanded answers. He’d just sit with him, filling the silence with whatever came to mind—some stupid thing Dustin said, a rant about something dumb he overheard someone say, a memory from when they were kids. Sometimes he’d bring a deck of cards, or an old cassette to add to Will’s small collection.
And Will held onto those moments as much as he could.
But the thing about moments is that they don’t last.
No matter how tightly Will tried to hold onto them, they always slipped through his fingers—like water escaping from his hands.
Because he was getting stronger.
It started small—fleeting whispers at the edges of his mind, a sick feeling in his stomach that he could ignore if he tried hard enough. But then the whispers became voices. The nausea became a weight pressing down on his chest. And some nights, when he closed his eyes, he wasn’t in Mike’s room anymore. He was there —in the dark, in the in-between, where cold tendrils wrapped around his limbs, where his own thoughts weren’t entirely his own.
And when he woke up, he didn’t always remember how he got back.
Will stopped telling Mike when it got worse.
He didn’t know how to. Because Mike would look at him with that same desperate, unshakable determination, that same belief that they could fix this. And Will wasn’t sure if he could handle that. Because what if— what if —this wasn’t something that could be fixed?
So he stayed quiet.
Sometimes, not even by choice.
There were moments when he wanted to say something, when he tried —but then, suddenly, it was like something wrapped around his vocal cords, tightening, squeezing. The words would die in his throat before they even had the chance to form. His mind would go blank, his body would feel distant, and he’d sit there, unmoving, expression unreadable.
And no one would notice.
And then the memories started coming back. His memories. The now memories.
That’s how he knew Vecna was back. For real.
Not just whispers in his head. Not just an empty threat lurking beneath the surface.
But something real. Something happening.
Because it wasn’t just the voices anymore.
Henry was on the move.
And sometimes—when Will found himself in places he didn’t remember going to, when he found chunks of conversation missing from his memory, when he felt his body move before his mind caught up—he started to wonder if he was, too.
So he told the others about Henry.
He told Hopper, El— everyone —everything he knew. Every gut feeling, every shift in the air, every detail that might be useful. If he couldn’t stop this—if he couldn’t stop him from reaching into his mind—then the least he could do was be useful .
He could feel the distrust forming. Not exactly from his family, or from his friends. But from the ones who didn’t really know him.
And, honestly? He didn’t blame them.
Because sometimes, when he looked in the mirror—when his reflection felt just a little off, when his own eyes didn’t look entirely like his own—he wasn’t sure if he trusted himself either.
(Or maybe there was no distrust at all. Maybe it was all in his head. Maybe he really was just going crazy. He wasn’t exactly an expert on what was real anymore.)
Mike stuck to his side like glue. No matter how much Will tried to push him away, he was there—unshakable, stubborn as ever. It was funny, in a twisted kind of way.
Before this, before he came back to Hawkins—his time in California, even before he moved—he would have given anything to have Mike by his side.
But something was wrong . Something Will couldn’t quite grasp, something Henry was keeping from him. Because, reluctantly, Will had started trying to understand him. Trying to understand what he wanted.
Most of it was still unclear, but one thing wasn’t.
Henry wanted him.
Not as a vessel. Not like Billy. Not as a pawn to be moved across the board.
Something else. Something more.
And Will didn’t know what scared him more—the fact that he didn’t understand it yet. Or the fact that, deep down, some part of him already did.
He tried not to think about it.
Tried to shove it down, ignore it, pretend it wasn’t clawing at the edges of his mind every second of the day.
But it was getting harder.
Because the more time passed, the more Henry’s presence settled into him, the more Will could feel it—like something twisting inside his ribcage, coiling around his lungs, pressing against his thoughts.
And the worst part? The absolute worst part—it didn’t always feel bad.
Sometimes, it was nothing but static. A distant hum, barely noticeable.
But other times—other times, it was warmth. A sick, suffocating kind of comfort. Like fingers running through his hair, whispering I know you. I see you. I understand.
Like an embrace he could sink into if he just stopped fighting—
Will squeezed his eyes shut, breath shaking.
No.
He wouldn’t let this happen. Wouldn’t let him win.
So he swallowed it down. Buried it deep.
And when Mike looked at him, worried and searching, Will forced a smile.
Because this wasn’t Mike’s problem to fix. This was his.
____________________
Please, don't look at me
I can see it in your eyes, he keeps looking at me
Tell me, what have you done?
Stop, stop, stop, make it stop
Stop, make it stop, make it stop
- Ptolemaea, Ethel Cain
Will didn’t want to go.
Every part of him screamed against it, every instinct told him to say no, refuse, run .
But he didn’t. He opened his mouth, and the word that came out was—
"Yes."
Of course it was.
He and Mike were tasked with going to the church—because, of course, Will of all people had to be the one to go. Hell, he’d never even been inside until today.
They were looking for answers. More information on Henry, on his past, before the Upside Down. Apparently, they’d tried to exorcise him–or his house at lease–at one point, his father convinced that a demon was haunting them. But it had failed, and they were still digging for anything they could find. Anything that might help them understand who Henry really was—and what he had become.
So, that’s how Will found himself walking alongside Mike, because, of course, they were sent together. At this point, it felt like everyone had just given up and accepted it. They were a pair. No escaping it.
Will tried to tell himself it wasn’t so bad. It was Mike, after all. He was used to this. They were used to each other. They had been for years.
But there was something different about today. A heaviness in the air, a feeling that something was about to happen. Something important. And Will suddenly felt like he shouldn’t be anywhere near Mike.
As they approached the church, he felt the familiar itch under his skin, the way the air seemed to grow thicker.
And then they stopped.
Mike didn’t say anything at first, just watching Will as he stood frozen in place.
Will’s eyes were locked on the sign in front of the church. It was worn down, the paint chipped, covered in vines, but the words were still clear— “This kind cannot be driven out by anything but prayer.”
Ha. Typical.
Will had never been religious. It wasn’t how he was raised, and honestly, he wasn’t sure he’d believe it even if he had been. After everything he’d been through, after everything he’d seen and felt, how could he? It just didn’t make sense. If prayer could fix any of this, then... well, they'd all be in a very different situation right now.
“Will? Are you okay?” Mike’s voice broke through his trance, snapping him back to reality. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been standing there, staring at the sign.
Will shook his head, pushing the unease back down. “Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s keep going.”
Mike still didn’t look entirely convinced, but he nodded, his expression hesitant.
Will followed him inside, and the air immediately felt heavier. The church was no better on the inside than it was on the outside—walls cracked and overtaken by creeping vines, dust settling over abandoned pews, the stale scent of decay lingering in the air. Tiny spores floated lazily through the dim light filtering in from broken stained glass windows, and with every step, the wooden floor groaned beneath them, like the whole building was exhaling in protest.
“So… what exactly are we supposed to be looking for?” Mike asked, his flashlight beam sweeping across the ruined altar, the remnants of a pulpit covered in dust. His voice was light, almost casual, but Will caught the tension in it. The way he held himself just a little too stiffly.
Will shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I guess… anything out of the ordinary? Any records, files. That sort of thing.”
Mike hummed in acknowledgment and moved deeper into the church, his flashlight flickering as he searched through overturned chairs and scattered books.
Will followed, but unease curled in his stomach. The silence in here was wrong—not empty, but full. As if something else was listening.
Then, the air shifted. A slow, creeping chill ran down his spine.
And then—
"What are you doing here, Will?"
The voice wasn’t loud, but it filled the space, deep and grainy, like static crackling through a broken radio.
Will’s stomach plummeted. His breathing hitched, his pulse hammering in his ears. He didn’t need to turn around to know no one was there.
Leave me alone, his mind screamed. But the voice didn’t listen.
Will’s hands clenched into fists. His nails dug into his palms, grounding him—or trying to.
“Why do you keep pushing me away?”
The voice slithered through his mind, slow and deliberate, curling around his thoughts like smoke. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real—
His breath hitched, his chest tightening like something was pressing down on him, curling its fingers around his ribs. The air felt too thick, the church too small.
“Will?”
Mike’s voice cut through the haze, sharp with concern. Will blinked, his vision snapping back into focus. Mike was looking at him, brow furrowed, the flashlight beam shaking slightly in his grip.
"You okay?"
Will forced himself to nod. "Yeah," he said, voice rough. "Just—just dust in my throat."
Mike didn’t look convinced. His eyes flickered over Will's face, searching for something—some crack in the lie. But if he found it, he didn’t say.
And then—
"He’s only here because he has to be."
Will’s breath caught.
"You know he’ll leave the second he finds out."
The words scraped through his mind, slow and taunting.
Will flinched.
He wanted to ignore it. Wanted to fight it. But somewhere deep down—somewhere ugly, somewhere raw—a part of him feared it was true.
Will clenched his jaw, forcing himself to breathe.
It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. Mike was here. Mike had stayed . Mike wouldn’t—
But Vecna’s voice coiled tighter around his thoughts, pressing into the soft, vulnerable places Will had spent years trying to protect.
"He feels guilty, that’s all. It’s obligation, nothing more. The moment you become too much, the moment he realizes what you really are—”
"He'll leave."
Will squeezed his eyes shut. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.
He dug his nails deeper into his palms, grounding himself in the pain, in the feeling of his own body—his own mind.
But then Mike touched his arm.
“Will,” he said, softer this time. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Will’s eyes snapped open.
Mike was close, his face open, real concern written all over him. But Will felt—
Distant.
Like he was floating somewhere just outside himself, watching from a step too far back.
He blinked, and his body responded—his lips twitching into something meant to resemble a smile, his shoulders relaxing just slightly, his voice coming out smooth and even when he said, “Yeah, I’m fine. Just spaced out for a moment.”
Mike didn’t look convinced, but he nodded anyway, his hand slipping away from Will’s arm.
Will wanted to reach out, to grab Mike’s wrist, to do something— anything —to prove that he was still here, that he hadn’t just become some empty shell.
But his body didn’t listen.
This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.
He tried to move his fingers, to shift his stance—something to prove to himself that he was still in control. But his body stood still. Perfectly calm. Perfectly normal.
Like nothing was wrong at all.
"See?"
The voice slithered back in, curling around his thoughts with something almost amused.
"You’re learning."
Will’s breath caught in his throat.
No.
No, no, no.
This wasn’t him. This wasn’t him.
"Calm down."
The words came like a whisper, something soft and patient, like hands guiding a puppet by invisible strings.
"We are going to do beautiful things together, Will."
____________________
I am no good nor evil, simply I am
And I have come to take what is mine
I was there in the dark when you spilled your first blood
I am here now, as you run from me still
Run then, child
You can't hide from me forever
- Ptolemaea, Ethel Cain