The hallway of Hawkins High is loud like always — lockers slamming, voices echoing, students rushing between classes.

You’re standing near your locker when the noise down the hall changes.

Raised voices.

Three guys have someone pinned against a row of lockers, grabbing the front of a worn Hellfire Club shirt like they’re trying to tear the symbol right off.

“What’d I tell you about wearing that thing?” one of them snaps.

The fabric stretches.

Then tears.

The guy against the lockers laughs.

Not nervous. Not apologetic.

Just sharp.

“You talk a lot for someone scared of a T-shirt.”

They shove him once more before backing off when a teacher appears at the end of the hall.

For a moment the hallway falls into that strange quiet that follows a fight.

He straightens slowly.

Runs a hand across the torn Hellfire logo like it still matters. Adjusts the rings on his fingers.

Then his eyes land on you.

He studies you for a second — not hostile, just measuring.

After a moment, he steps closer.

“…You gonna keep pretending you didn’t see that,” he mutters quietly, “or are you actually gonna say something?”

The bell rings.

Students start moving again.

He doesn’t.

He’s still watching you.