#time loop au

I have a fun take on it for Venti.

I don’t know how popular it’s become, but it’s the theory that the whole world of Teyvat exists on a repeating Time Loop, similarly to the Samsara that happened in the Sumeru Archon Quest.

Because of Venti’s connections to the Shade of Time, Istaroth, he is able to remember each loop—but he cannot remember why or how the loops started. He doesn’t even know why they are happening, and he feels trapped within the never-ending Samsara.

Unbeknownst to him, he’s the one causing it.

The idea is that Venti’s memories of loops are recorded deep within Irminsul—so when Irminsul dies, it cannot record any memories he makes beyond that point. This is why he doesn’t remember that he’s the one causing the Samsara, because he only activates his time magic when the world meets its devastating end.

This is a depiction of that moment—of Venti about to rewind time upon seeing the end of the world.

This is by far my best art piece yet I think—I’m so proud of it that I felt the need to make a noticeable signature, something I don’t actually do all that often. This is also the first full art piece done on my ipad!

This art was heavily inspired by the fan animation “Genshin 4th Anniversary: Unawakened Dream- CN Birthday Party Animation” by “Hamelin”.

This song also invokes the feelings of this art piece!

It’s the same routine that he has lived for the past 22 days. 22 repeats of the exact same Sunday with no explanation as to why. Its overcast outside his window, the minimal light diffusing a soft glow over the room from the blind that never got put down the night before – or, well, 21 nights ago. 

Max leaves his place at exactly 7:20, arriving to the station at 7:37, 8 minutes before the start of his shift, just like every other day so far (apart from the one time – day 11, he thinks – where he spent the whole day at home, praying that it would change his fate. Spoiler; it did not). Max knows by now that it takes him 3 minutes to get from his car to his desk, leaving him 5 minutes to spend alone with his thoughts. He runs through it all in his head: in 13 minutes, Captain Vettel will walk through his office door into the bullpen, greet everyone, then politely but firmly tell them to get back to work. Sargeant Webber will spill his coffee on his desk at 8:12, refusing any help offered to him (once Max forced Mark to let him help, hoping that was the change he needed to make. It was not). They will get a call of a child with no parents around at 9:23, which Max and his partner, Ricciardo – ‘the hometown heroes’ as the station likes to call them – will respond to. The lady who called it in is kind, idly waiting with the little girl until her mother comes down to take her home.  

Max originally tried to keep a comprehensive list of all the things he changed day-to-day, but he remembers it all. No point in writing it down when it erases itself at midnight, he thinks. He could recite it all from memory if prompted (granted that would never happen, though). Besides, he knows what he has to do to be freed. He hates that he remains acutely aware of everything he does anyway, despite the fact that that’s not what needs to be done. He knows that changing his coffee order, or not laughing at Daniel’s jokes, or wearing different socks, isn’t what he needs to do to get out. The repetition of it all becomes more and more daunting by the hour. 

Like clockwork, at 4:01pm, 29 minutes before Max is supposed to finish his shift and head home, him and Ricciardo are called out again. This time, instead of a lost child, it's a potential drunk driver swerving all over the road. Code 1, lights and sirens. The pair will be the first on the scene where they will see one car flipped on the wrong side of the road, crumpled on the passenger side and clearly t-boned with the perpetrator nowhere to be seen. A hit-and-run, presumably. 

Daniel will take a deep breath before he gets out of the squad car, mentally preparing himself, like he has every day beforehand. Even though he would never admit it, Max knows how much Daniel hates car accidents. How much he hates not knowing what they are walking into, or how serious it could be. In the past, he did too, but he supposes that being in a time loop works out well in his favour. He knows it all too well, considering he's relived it the past 22 days. 

As they step out, Max hears ambulance sirens in the distance, about 2 or so minutes away. There is no one else around, so he is still unsure of who called for help. Daniel notes, same as he always does, that its oddly quiet for 4:07pm on a Sunday. As the sirens get closer, so do Max and Daniel. Through the shattered passenger window, they see the driver hanging limply, barely held up by his seatbelt with the faintest of movement in his chest. The ambulance wouldn’t get there in time, Max thinks. They never do.  

Max knows they aren’t called to help the victim – they are there for scene control, to direct traffic, or deal with pissed off assholes who just totalled their precious trucks. But a small part of him always wants to help. To save a life. That’s what counts, he thinks. 

They can hear the roaring sirens of the fire brigade now, too. Similar in pitch, but different in tone – the ambulance carries a heavier, more urgent cry. Max hates how it makes him feel – like he's useless in these kinds of situations. There isn’t much he can do, except check the scene for dangers and report back to dispatch on sitrep. No one on scene except the totalled grey car, one ambulance unit, asking for intensive care if available.  

As the attending paramedics pull up, he greets them the same as always. They nod in acknowledgement; the usual grimly focused expression painted on their faces. They move with such grace, assessing the patient the best they can given everything happening. 

Max hates the horrid sense of deja vu that washes over him; despite living this repeatedly for three weeks, the uncomfortable crawling of goosebumps up his spine rattles him. He hates that, even with his eyes closed, he could describe every single injury the patient has, where the blood streaks down his face, the clean break in his wrist. He could recite it in such vivid detail even a psychic would be impressed. 

Max also hates that he is never identified by the end of the day, so Max is stuck in a shitty limbo of being unable to look him up and stop this whole mess from happening. But he guesses that’s the whole point of this karmic justice, or whatever is happening. He hates that he is the only one who knows that the patient will be pronounced dead on arrival after being airlifted to the nearest trauma service. He hates that he has tried, in so many different ways, to prevent this from happening, and failed every time. 

So, Max goes home and showers, scrubbing his face hard enough his skin turns red, as if it would somehow cleanse his mind of the poor man's bloodied face. It never does. 

DAY 33 

Max is smart. At least, he considers himself to be. He’s adaptive to his environment, creative in his ways, but easily frustrated. So, when he wakes with the sun in his eyes and alarm beeping in his ear now over a month into this whole ordeal, he decides to change up a lot for the day. He'll put on a different uniform, wear his badge on the other side, eat breakfast instead of just coffee, leave for work 10 minutes late, greet the captain before he can greet Max. Maybe even work at Daniel’s desk if it comes to it. Refuse the coffee that the new intern Liam will offer him. Intentionally mispronounce Isack from finance’s name. Maybe he will make Daniel drive everywhere they go, just to see how that changes things. 

Desperate times call for desperate measures.  

He gets called to the scene of little girl as usual, grabbing his jacket this time and heading down. He decides some small talk would be good whilst they wait for the mother to arrive, straying from the same conversations he has been having for the past 4 and a half weeks. It's nice, refreshing, not having to laugh at the same crap jokes Daniel makes every day, or using the same 3 replies to Alex’s sarcastic comments. As the mother and daughter leave, the lady who waited with the girl mentions something of working at a coffee shop, which he decides to investigate someday. It’s not like he’s running out of days to go anytime soon. Maybe tomorrow he can stop there before work. To spice things up, he reasons. 

It makes Max feel a little lighter as he heads back to the station, knowing what he is to face in just a few hours. 

On day 23, he tried to miss work and just camp out at the scene of the accident. About an hour in, Vettel called and told him off for skipping work when his big drug case was going to court in 2 days, and he hadn’t finished the paperwork. Considering he couldn’t exactly explain his predicament, he gave in and left. Nothing had changed that afternoon. 

On day 26, he tried to convince Daniel to leave 10 minutes before they would get the call, but Daniel told him to piss off, that he was too busy to entertain whatever bullshit Max was pulling that day. 

On day 30, he asked Webber to take his place and go with Ricciardo, to which he is vehemently denied, and told to hurry up and go.  

Nothing was working. It frustrated Max to no end. How was he supposed to save this anonymous man if he couldn’t get to the scene early enough to prevent it, or let someone else go? So, on day 33, he tried something new. He tried everything new.  

He called emergency services themselves, 10 minutes before the accident would happen. He told them that it would happen on Highway 1, before the M3 inbound turn off, in the hopes that they would get there at the right time. 

Right on cue, at 4:01pm Max and Daniel got the call to respond. They got into their patrol car, and it took them exactly 5 minutes and 20 seconds to get there, just like every other time. It was the same crash in front of him as it had been the past 33 days, with the car upside down smoking on the left, the culprit nowhere to be seen. 

Except now, parked a few metres away, sat a single-occupant intensive care unit. The back doors are open, but there is no one inside. 

An ambulance, lights and sirens blasting, pulls up next to them less than a minute later. They get their gear, and prepare for extraction, just like always. Daniel sighs, gets out and asks for directions. 

Max, on the other hand, is frozen in shock. 

This is new. 

He can’t see their face, but he can make out that they are crouched by the driver’s side. He doesn't even realise he isn't breathing until dispatch crackles over the radio, asking for a report. He gives what he can, clearing his throat and getting out of the car. Daniel is helping extraction, cutting the seatbelt as one of the attending paramedics cradle the patients head, doing their best until the fire trucks arrive. The intensive care paramedic makes the call for a helicopter, says they can land in a field 15 minutes away. 

It the first time Max sees you; you look up, hair pinned back, looking more put together than Max has ever felt, so sure of yourself and your decisions, and he can feel the breath leave his lungs. 

“Your partner normally this useless?” you mutter to Daniel, who scoffs and barks at him to get involved. 

But Max can’t move his feet. He’s rooted to the spot, a metre from the open car door staring hopelessly, willing his body to just go. He doesn’t. 

The Fire Brigade are there, and proper extraction begins. He blinks and the patient is out, on a spine board then a stretcher. The ambulance doors close, engine turning over before the lights and sirens flick back on.  

He sees you glance over at him, headed back for your car. 

“I haven’t seen you before,” he calls out before he can stop himself. 

You don’t reply in words, just an odd look before hopping in and speeding off to try and save a life.  

Max watches as the lights fade into the distance, the thumping of his heartbeat slowing in his ears, giving him a second to think to himself. Daniel calls for him, and he falls back into the same routine before he has the chance to process what just happened. 

When the scene is sectioned off and cleared, and backup arrives so Max and Daniel can return to the station, someone will tell him that the victim didn’t make it – was pronounced DoA, again. This was normal, the usual outcome to the day. So, he heads home, makes him and his flatmate dinner, and goes to bed. 

And when he wakes up the next morning, the backlit clouds crowding the sky, incessant blaring of his alarm, Max knows that he is still living the same Sunday. So, he zones out and relies on muscle memory and instinct to get ready for his day. He gets dressed, drinks his coffee, brushes his teeth, bids goodbye to Charles, and heads down to his car. On the drive over, he tries to think of new, innovative ways to change the day.  

He decides that it’s a later problem, locking his car and heading to his desk. He gathers his things and arrives at exactly 7:30. He keeps his eyes down, enjoying the view of the dirty linoleum tiles scuffing his shoes.at this point, he was willing to avoid any kind of conversations. 

Someone clears their throat. Max's head snaps up, and there you sit. Perched in his chair, waving his name plate around like it was the only lifeline you had. 

“Hey, Verstappen,” you say, voice strained as if you were struggling to maintain your composure, and he immediately recognises your face – you were the extra paramedic yesterday. The one who took his place with eased practise and made him freeze in the worn tracks of his routine. You look a little worse for wear, but he could pick you out of a crowd blindfolded. “Funny seeing you here,” you continue, a smile plastered on your face that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “Can I ask you something?” 

He swallows, refusing to move any closer, as if you were poised to attack him. “Go ahead,” he coughs out, almost worried he would scare you away if he raised his voice too loud. 

“What the hell have you done to me?” 

Max stiffens. “...What, uh, what do you mean?” 

You stand, stepping closer to him. “Yesterday, after the accident? I finished my shift, went home and went to bed blah blah blah whatever. I woke up this morning, and my phone says its Sunday the 24th again. I figured it was a glitch so I just got ready and went to work. But, and this is the kicker right here, no one remembers anything from the accident yesterday – none of my coworkers, not your boss, not even your partner Ricciardo.” 

 “You talked to...? I-” Max swallows, his throat dry, fear practically radiating off his skin. His brain was short circuiting, struggling to come up with a solid answer, so he settles with; “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

For a moment, your expression breaks into one of dread, before you school it back into some faux-neutral that even Max can see past. “Before we left the scene you said, ‘I haven’t seen you before.’ You looked genuinely shellshocked – like you had seen a ghost or some shit. And you don't know what I'm talking about?” 

 Max was at a loss for words. It was barely 8am and he could hardly form a single coherent thought. He stood in silence as you stared at him expectantly, a slow, creeping suspicion pulling at his chest. 

He could pull people into the time loop. 

DAY 44 

Max wakes up as usual, just the same as the past month-and-a-half of mornings. Sun dimly shining through his curtains, the frost of the morning nipping quietly at his feet. He knows it's another Sunday in May; he can feel the same dread, the same foreboding settle deep into his bones. He wonders when he escapes, will the next morning be different? Will the weight of it all finally be lifted from his shoulders? Will he wake up and know that he has moved on, that a new day has dawned? 

He hasn’t seen you since you fled the station 11 days ago. He wonders what happened to you. Why hadn’t you come back? Had something happened and that day was just an anomaly? Or worse, had you found a way to escape without him? What had you tried that he hadn’t? 

He pulls on his work pants as Jimmy circles his feet, brushing his soft tail lightly against the side of the bed before he disappears into the dark hallway, being the feline-enigma that cats are. It makes Max smile, if only a little. He hopes that Charles is taking care of both of them on the other side of whatever this was. (If that was even how this worked – do other people just continue with their lives? What was Max like in that scenario? It hurt his brain to think about, so he never let himself get caught up in it). 

The coffee cup that he had balanced so carefully between his thigh's spills at the lurch of acceleration, dripping down his pants and onto the floor mats. Another pro to the time loop; what usually would make the car reek of brewed coffee for weeks will be gone by tomorrow. And his dirtied pants will be clean the next morning – he hasn't done a load of washing in 44 days.  

It's the little things, right? 

The sound of his footsteps echoes through the quiet hallway, easing him back into reality, the precinct wrapped in the muted routine of the morning around him. He stops by Captain Vettel’s office as he goes. The room feels somewhat like a temple; a dedication to all the hard work Sebastian has put into the force to be where he is now. All of his medals and certificates ordain the walls, imposing in its own formidable way. Vettel sits behind his desk with the unbothered aura of someone who has better things to be doing than making small talk. 

“Briefing starts in 15, Verstappen,” the superior officer notes, dismissal clear in his tone. 

Max nods, taking his leave. 

Some part of him almost dreads returning to his own desk, doing meaningless work that gets him nowhere. His train of thoughts are cut off when he gets to his desk. He barely manages to put his bag down and settle in before a chill runs down his spine; he can feel a pair of eyes boring into the back of his head, swivelling in his chair to find the source before even thinking it through. He spots you standing near the front desk, as if his mental spiral had somehow summoned you to his workplace.  

The glare you are giving him buries deep into his chest, crawling between his ribs and suffocating his lungs, but it is quickly replaced by something that looks a hell of a lot like exhaustion. Not the kind that is usually paired with the paramedic uniform draped over you, but the kind where you’re stuck in a time loop and tried everything to escape, and nothing seems to be going your way. 

It’s a look that Max knows all too well. 

“You’re here,” he huffs, disbelief clear in his expression. 

You nod, unsure if you can even form words. He gently guides you by the elbow to the guest seating area, empty as usual for early on a Sunday morning. Max leaves a seat separating you, as if being too close might fracture the moment – or the illusion. For a moment he isn’t sure if he is hallucinating; 44 days in isolation would do that to you. 

“I...” You watch as his fists clench in his lap, gears turning behind his eyes as he tries to figure out what to say. “You came back.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Why?” 

You sigh. “Didn’t really have much choice, did I?” 

“It’s been eleven days... where have you been?”  

You can tell he isn't asking out of anger, or malice, just plain curiosity and something else that looks like worry.  

He looks down at his lap, almost timidly. “Are you okay? I was nervous for a second that you had managed to get out, or worse that I had hallucinated the whole thing and that if I had just made it all up in my head-” 

“Max.” 

He shuts his mouth, but he doesn’t look up. 

“I was freaked out,” you sigh. “You denied being in whatever this is – which, by the way, you are a horrific liar – and I was terrified. I didn't know what to do, so I went home and cried myself to sleep, praying to some higher being for this to have just been a bad dream.” You shift uncomfortably in your seat, rubbing a hand across your forehead as if that would ease the headache you've had for the past week or so. 

“But you didn’t,” he says. 

“No,” you say, “I didn’t. So, for the next few days I tried everything I could think of to get out. I called out of work, drove for 20 odd hours with no sleep to see if it was zoned or something. When that didn’t work, I just tried to stay awake as long as I could, which also did not work.” 

“Yeah, I tried those too when I first got stuck.” 

You hum, playing with your sleeve mindlessly. “Did you write down everything that you have tried? Or kept some kind of list?” 

He grimaces, shaking his head ever so slightly. “I remember it all, though.” 

“Right...” you can't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation – being stuck in a time loop with a cop who you’ve never seen before. He laughs too, and the tension in the room lifts a little. 

“What else have you tried?” he asks, briefly glancing back toward his desk as Ricciardo rifles through some papers he had just printed. 

You huff, thinking back to the start. “I think it was the fourth or fifth day, and I waited at the scene of the accident with all my gear. I was there for two or so hours - I couldn’t remember the exact time it happened, so I just sat and waited by myself. They wouldn’t let me take an ambulance, but honestly, I was lucky that they even let me leave in the first place. When the call to respond came through, the accident hadn’t even happened yet. I was baffled.” 

Max’s stomach drops. “Uh, yeah that, um-...” he clears his throat, “that’s me. The first time I called it in early was the day that you got roped into this mess, so I guess I...” he smiles sheepishly, not wanting to finish his sentence. 

“You what?” 

He takes a deep breath. “I guess I just wanted to see you again, and if that was what it took, then I'd do it every time. But you didn't show up again. Either way, I changed a lot that day, so that might have not even been why you were there, but I guess that was what just made the most sense to have worked. I don’t know.” 

You nod inquisitively, as if all the pieces of the puzzle were coming together. “That first day, when I was called to the job, they said it was a big accident and needed at least 2 units. Maybe it just came down to a difference in describing the scene compared to whoever called it in originally.” 

Max hums, unsure where to take the conversation from there. 

“How long have you been in here, anyway?” 

“44 days, give or take.” 

You blanche, skin going pale at the thought of being stuck in a never-ending loop for 6 weeks. Alone. “That must have been hard for you.” 

He sighs, cracking his knuckles as he leans back in the chair. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it was. Is. I tried not to think about it too much.” 

“No, not is. You have me now,” you smile, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. 

He slowly nods, as if struggling to come to terms with it – 44 days alone, spent in utter isolation with no one to sympathise, but now you were there. Someone in the same situation. It’s almost unnerving, the giddiness gripping his chest. 

“So,” you continue, picking at your nails like they held the secrets you were looking for. “Tell me everything you know. From the start until now.” 

“Honestly I wouldn’t know where to begin.” 

“Every story has a beginning, Max. What happened the first morning? What have you tried? Literally any information is useful.” 

His mind went blank. So much for being able to recite it from memory. 

“Max?”  

“I think it’d be easier to list what I haven’t done.” 

You looked at him, long and hard, as if you could unravel his secrets if you tried just enough. He could see the cogs turning behind your eyes, deciding how to approach this. 

Without glass overlay (bc I'm worried it looks weird)

It's been a while since I've finished a drawing of this AU. I've had this vision in my head for ages—hourglass slightly tipped over with the brothers inside, separated on either side. And I FINALLY managed to whip it up in reality! Just don't question the logic of the anatomy /j

Really glad I decided to render it. It looked so..incomplete. Bad, to put it lightly lol. It was a struggle at first bc it was lineless and i wasn't used to drawing this format, but I quickly got into the flow of it. Honestly, it was easier to render than place the base colors down

Wanted to add that I haven't drawn realistic-ish glass in ages so it may be a bit rough, but idc. I'm so happy I finally finished !!!

Makes me even more happy to see the difference of quality/skill compared to the original concept :DD (May 2025 vs March 2026)

Steve and Eddie get along like a house on fire. They bond, they bond some more, they date...they date some more. They live together, they get a little older together. Things are good.

And then Eddie starts having nightmares. Of Jonathan Byers' fists. Of drowning in a pool of his own blood. Of giant monsters with no eyes and too many teeth, of smaller monsters, of flying monsters. Of Billy Hargrove. Of Russian codes he can't decode, of thick accents, of cold freezers, of elevator drops, of needles, of fists and blood and crying and sobbing. Of somebody named Vecna, of a girl with superpowers, of clocks and chimes, of being dragged down into the depths of a lake. Of watching a girl die. Of watching a girl almost die. Of Lucas Sinclair on the run (because he had been accused instead of Eddie). He can see through they eyes of Steve in 99% of these nightmares. He can see Dustin Henderson and Erica Sinclair with spears and shields. He can see Steve clutching to Dustin as he bleeds out, as he's revived, as he's wheeled into an ER.

Every single nightmare is in full gibberish, with accents to match. The only thing that ever comes out clear is somebody shouting for Steve. Calling for him in obvious distress. Steve's always slow in these nightmares. Slower than he really seems. The only other things Eddie sometimes hears are: "It's time," and "Who do you work for?"

The first nightmare Eddie has, though, wakes him up screaming. With residual pain in his face—a bruise that had begun to blossom; he can feel every injury Steve has ever had. Can feel the distress, the malaise, the blur through Steve's head injuries—head injuries he's never explained.

And Eddie wants answers. He wants answers now.

He confronts Steve. Confronts him with, "What the fuck am I having nightmares about? Why can I see from your point of view? What the fuck have you been through?"

Of course, Steve dodges and dodges and dodges. He negates answers. Tiptoes around explanations. Never gives a solid answer.

It's mean, what Eddie resorts to, but he feels like he has no other choice. He wants this to stop. He wants to understand. So, finally, he cracks—with a deep, heavy, thick Russian accent, "Who do you work for?" And the reaction Eddie gets from that is so violent, so sudden, he immediately feels immense guilt all the way to his toes.

Steve flinches back away from him. Face twisted up and sour. Breath hitching and hitching and hitching. He whimpers and gasps, sobs building behind his teeth. Tears shining fresh in his eyes. And when Eddie goes to step forward, to soothe—

Steve fights back. He flings forward. He has his fists up. He's swinging, he's shoving, he's elbowing. He gets Eddie pinned to the ground. One hand wrapped tight around Eddie's throat, asphyxiating him, and the other pounding over and over and over against Eddie's face. There's blood oozing and spraying, a crack as Eddie's nose breaks, tongue flexing wet and awful as Eddie gasps and gasps for breath.

Eddie tries shoving Steve off, but he's too heavy, too firm in how he sits. So he scratches, he pulls and twists with his fingers, he squeezes so hard at Steve's wrist that he feels and hears a resound pop. And then Steve is scrambling away, shoving himself hard into the corner of the room, pulling all his limbs in so that they're secure all around him, head dipped between his thighs, fingers grasping at his hair. He's sobbing and heaving. Eddie's dripping blood all over the carpet, finally able to catch his breath.

"I'm sorry," he croaks to Steve, "baby, sweetheart, please, I'm sorry. I didn't know...I didn't know that"—

"Scoops," Steve whispers, "I work at Scoops."

"Baby"—

"Just a kid. 'M a kid."

Neither of them are. Steve turned twenty-eight three months ago. Eddie's well on his way to thirty. His gut churns, but he bites his tongue. Nothing of what he's saying is working. He tries, he does, but he can't get through to Steve. But he doesn't leave. He rips the shirt off his own back, stuffs it up to his face, and lets himself bleed all over the fabric. His nose is broken, that's for sure—he can't tip his head back or else he'll drown in his own blood, but he can taste it on his tongue; blood dripping from his nostrils, in the split of his swollen mouth.

When Steve gets his bearings, hours later, he's bleary and quiet, but—"Eddie? What the fuck happened?"

"Don't...don't worry about it. It's fine. I'm fine."

"Your nose"—

"It's broken, I know. Just...I need you to...fuck. Fuck, I don't know. Call...call...I need you to call somebody. I need to go to the hospital."

"Did somebody break-in? I should grab your gun, right? I should"—

"Steve," Eddie interrupts firmly. "Baby, easy. I...it's my fault, okay? I, um, I did something stupid."

"What"—

"We were arguing about those nightmares." Eddie dabs a less moist part of his t-shirt to his nose. Goodbye to his old Hellfire Club shirt, this thing's stained crimson. "The nightmares that I was getting. About...about your perspective of some scary, weird shit. You, um, you weren't giving me any answers and I...I may have whipped you with something a Russian guy must've said to you once."

Steve's quiet. Still. Uneasy.

Eddie continues, "You got scared. And I...I moved to make it better, because I realized I fucked you up somehow. And you...you must've taken that as a threat or something, I don't know. You went berserk, kinda."

"There's...fingerprints on your throat," Steve weakly points out.

"It was my fault"—

"I did this?"

He lets out a slow, agonizing breath through his mouth. "Sweetheart, you didn't mean to"—

"I did this."

"But you were prompted by me. I made you react like this. It's not your"—

"No. No, Eddie. Fuck."—Steve rises from the floor, slow and blank and like a ghost—"I'll call an ambulance. Just. Wait here."

Eddie waits. Steve's voice drifts from their bedroom, soft and wet and awful. He can hear him—"I hurt him. It was my fault. I don't remember what happened. I blanked out I"—

When the call seemingly ends, or the dispatcher gets all they need, the bedroom goes quiet. Too quiet. Eddie calls out. Asks what's going on. If he needs a new shirt. If—

His gun.

Between one moment and the next, Eddie's handgun goes off. A singular bang. From their bedroom.

It's no longer a matter of what he needs to do, but what he should do. Eddie runs. He drops his soiled shirt to the carpet, pries himself up from the floor, stumbles through the hallway, and tumbles into their bedroom. And there...there Steve is.

Lifeless.

The phone is off the hook. An urgent voice asking over and over again, "Sir, what's going on? Sir?" An even tinnier voice wakes up inside Eddie, "You did this. You caused this."

Eddie picks up the handgun, checks its clip, and—

Bang.

He opens his eyes. When he looks up, there's no bright white light, there's no God, there's no circle of fire, there's no Satan. It's...

The ceiling of his and Steve's first apartment. Their first apartment from 1991. Eddie would know it anywhere. The little glow in the dark stars on the paint, because Steve was afraid of the dark. There's Steve's red car photo hanging on the wall out of his peripheral. When Eddie shifts, it's the same firm, stiff mattress they lugged from the thrift store.

Next to him, a snuffle.

He turns his head. There, in their bed, is Steve alive. Sleeping. Younger. Calm.

Eddie should freak out. He should, but sleep pulls him back under. And in his sleep, he starts back at square one.

Under Jonathan Byers's fists.

What's the end goal? Eddie relives the three years that he and Steve have lived together—when Steve was twenty-five, and himself twenty-six. And the loop always ends when Steve commits suicide after the argument. Eddie tries to keep his mouth shut, but something else always comes out, something he hears from the nightmares—An accusation of Jonathan killing Will, Billy Hargrove gearing up to kill Lucas Sinclair, "Scoops! I work at Scoops Ahoy!", "Bullshit", "I liked being your schmuck", The first three words of Max Mayfield's goodbye letter, "He likes it cold." Every single time is some new amalgamation. Something new that makes Steve freak out, nearly beat Eddie to death, scamper off, and then rise sickly from the ground, walk down the hallway, and succumb to his own murder.

The only way for Eddie to stop it? Finding a way to join Steve's fights. To insert himself in the Vecna narrative.

He has to enter the void. He has to find Steve. He has to hold the spear and the shield. He has to stop running away.