He had stopped counting days a long time ago.
Now, he only counted the lightning.
It cracked through the air once a day—at least, that's what he believed. The sky of this twisted world never changed, not truly. No sun, no moon, only clouds that pulsed like veins and the eerie glow of the red storm above. The lightning flashed once every cycle, slicing through the dense fog that clung to this place like rot. That was how he kept track.
Three hundred and sixty-five flashes. Again. And again. And again.
By now, he figured he'd been trapped here for three years.
Or something close to it.
He sat on a jagged rock near the husk of what used to be a car—now a rusted skeleton overrun with the black vines of the Upside Down. The air smelled of wet iron and decay. But he was used to it. You adapt, even to hell, if you're there long enough.
His name—if it still mattered—was Zero.
That's what they called him in the lab. Subject 000. The first one.
A failed one.
He exhaled slowly, watching the fog curl from his lips like smoke. It was quiet today. For now. That meant he could think. Dangerous, maybe, but he had nothing else left to do.
"Where was I born?"
He didn't know.
"Who were my parents?"
No faces came to mind. No voices, either. Just silence. He remembered being four, sitting on a cold floor in an orphanage with peeling walls and grey sheets. He remembered the silence of children who had already accepted that no one was coming for them.
Then came Dr. Brenner. Slick hair, soft smile, false kindness.
Zero had thought it might be a new beginning.
He was wrong.
The lab was cold. Not just in temperature—but in spirit. They called it the Hawkins National Laboratory, but to the children, it was a cage. One by one, he had watched them break the others—Two, Three, even Eleven, the little girl with sad eyes. Powers were measured, compared, used.
But not his.
He never showed them anything.
Not because he couldn't… but because he wouldn't.
Even then, he knew. Some abilities should not be seen.
So they called him a failure, a quiet mistake, the useless one. But that was fine. He didn't want to be a weapon. He didn't want to be like the others.
He wanted peace.
And instead, he got this.
Lightning flashed again—brief, blinding, jagged—and then came the noise. The one that sent a chill crawling down his spine.
A low, guttural growl, echoed from beyond the ruined trees.
"No," he whispered, already rising to his feet. "Not again."
He turned toward the sound, squinting through the fog. Shadows moved in the distance—fast, low to the ground. The way they always did.
Demodogs.
"Can't I get one day?" he muttered, frustrated but calm. His voice didn't tremble. Not anymore. "Just one day without you things hunting me down?"
Another growl answered him, louder this time.
He stepped into the clearing, vines cracking underfoot, arms relaxed at his sides. No fear. Just exhaustion.
"Alright," he said softly, staring into the darkness. "Come on then. Give me your worst."
From the trees, they emerged—three demodogs, their heads splitting open with a wet hiss, rows of teeth gleaming in the dark. One barked a twisted snarl. Another circled wide.
Zero just sighed.
Three years of this. Every single day. And they still hadn't learned.