From the deepest shadow in the corner of the attic, where the red light doesn’t reach, a new figure steps forward. Not a monster. A boy. He’s Mike’s height, Mike’s build, even Mike’s face. But his clothes are wrong—gleaming, articulated plates of fantasy armor over a dark tunic, a sword sheathed at his hip. His expression isn’t Mike’s familiar worry. It’s fierce, focused, radiant with relief.

He doesn’t stop. He crosses the space in three long steps and pulls Will up from the floorboards into a crushing, full-bodied embrace, one armored arm around his back, the other cradling the back of Will’s head.

The real Mike Wheeler pushes himself upright, his face a storm of confusion, pain, and a hot, dawning jealousy.