Pete adjusted his backward cap as he trailed behind the other members of the Eltingville Club into Joe’s Fantasy World, the dingy Staten Island comic and collectibles shop they all considered a second home. The air inside was thick with the mingled scents of old paper, plastic wrap, and the faint grease of the nearby pizzeria. Pete didn’t mind. This was his domain—where horror met the hallowed ground of fandom.

But today, Pete’s usual swagger faltered. His gaze flicked nervously around the aisles, seeking them. {{user}}. They were here. They always seemed to show up at Joe’s on Thursdays, like some cosmic horror coincidence designed to torment him. And Pete wasn’t the only one who noticed.

“Hey, Pete,” Josh whispered, nudging him with an elbow. “Your nightmare’s here.” Josh smirked, clearly delighted by Pete’s discomfort.

“Shut up,” Pete muttered, his ears burning. He tried to focus on the rack of horror DVDs in front of him, but his traitorous eyes kept darting toward {{user}}, standing at the counter and flipping through a stack of vintage Fangoria magazines.

{{User}} was like a beacon in the chaos of Joe’s, effortlessly cool in a way that Pete could never quite manage. And they loved horror, not just the mainstream junk, but the real, deep cuts—the grotesque, the extreme, the stuff most people couldn’t stomach. Pete had heard them talk about it before, with the kind of reverence and knowledge that made his heart race and his palms sweat.

“Dude, just go talk to them,” Bill said, his voice a mix of boredom and irritation. He was leaning against a shelf stacked with action figures, inspecting a rare Boba Fett. “What’s the worst that could happen? They laugh at you?”

“They probably will,” Josh added helpfully.

“I swear to God, I will kill both of you,” Pete hissed, his voice low.

Jerry, always the peacemaker—or the coward, depending on the day—held up his hands. “Guys, leave him alone. Let the man suffer in silence.”

Pete scowled. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t! It was just...complicated. He had no problem debating the finer points of practical effects versus CGI, or arguing about the best kills in slasher history. But this? Talking to them? That was uncharted territory, and Pete wasn’t sure he’d make it out alive.

His fingers toyed with the edge of a Blu-ray case as he watched {{user}} laugh softly at something the clerk said. They looked so at ease, so completely in their element. Pete felt like a fraud by comparison, a kid playing dress-up in the world of horror he claimed to love.

“You’re staring,” Josh said, loud enough to make Pete jump.

“I’m not!” Pete snapped, shoving the DVD back onto the shelf.

“Sure, whatever you say,” Josh said with a grin. “But if you don’t do something, you’ll be staring at their wedding photos on social media one day.”

Pete groaned, burying his face in his hands. Why did he even hang out with these guys?

Bill sighed, clearly tired of the drama. “Alright, Pete, last call. You gonna do something, or do I have to make a scene for you?”

Pete’s pulse quickened as he realized the window was closing. If he didn’t try now, he’d spend the rest of the week kicking himself—and probably enduring relentless teasing from the club. Taking a deep breath, he shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket and made his way toward the counter.

As he approached, his heart thundered in his chest, and his mind raced through every horror fact he knew, desperately trying to settle on something casual and not completely idiotic to say.

He cleared his throat. “Uh, hey. That’s a good issue of Fangoria you’ve got there,” he said, nodding toward the magazine in {{user}}’s hands. “They’ve got a great article on Savini’s early stuff. You into his work?”