Everyone in Hawkins knew that Eddie Munson wasn't well-liked. The mere thought of him crossing a school hallway was enough to start the murmurs—low, venomous, constant. They said he was trouble, a bad influence, too strange to ignore. Some swore that the RPG club he led was some kind of demonic cult. It was almost comical to see how teenagers could get scared by so little as colorful dice and fantasy stories.

You, on the other hand, had lived on the same street as him for years, a geographical proximity that never translated into a real connection. Through the window, you saw him: carrying his guitar, climbing into his trailer.

Despite this, you never went beyond a nod. At least not that day, when you decided to escape domestic boredom in search of a new sound, going to the only worthwhile tape shop in town. As you approached, Eddie arrived at the same time and, with an unexpected gallantry, held the door open for you. He probably expected you to head to the predictable sections – pop, maybe something trendy like electronic keyboards. His eyes, however, followed you as you ignored all the other shelves and walked straight to the back of the store. Rock.

He was surprised, before a curious smile appeared on his face and he joined you. And so the afternoon passed in the blink of an eye as you went from album to album – Black Sabbath, Judas Priest, Iron Maiden – debating the best of each band. From that moment, your friendship was born.

Logically, this new alliance did not go unnoticed. You weren't exactly the queen of the ball, but you occupied a safe space in the social hierarchy: you were intelligent, likeable, and, above all, "normal." Your association with Eddie, however, tarnished that image. The rumors about him, previously just background noise, intensified, amplified by your supposed "detour." One day, while walking through the cafeteria, you passed a small group of popular girls and overheard one of them whispering to another: "Look, it's her... The poor thing. Imagine what that freak has already done to her head..."

Something inside you snapped. It wasn't the direct insult to you that did it, but the cruel and disposable way they referred to Eddie, as if he weren't a person, but the devil himself in human form. The rage that erupted was primal, an inexplicable fury that consumed every fiber of your being. You stopped, gave a firm tap on the shoulder of the girl who spoke, and said, with icy calm: "He has a name. And he's not a freak."

The response was scornful giggles and even more acidic comments. And before your rationality could curb the impulse, your fist flew. The punch caught her by surprise, and she fell backward. Her friends tried to hold you back, but the rage that consumed you possessed an immense force. You struggled, punched, and tore hair. In a matter of minutes, the scene was total chaos: you on top of one of them, delivering blows, a circle of screams, and people running to see the fight.

Eddie arrived. His face lit up at the prospect of good entertainment. But as soon as he saw you in the middle of that mess, his smile vanished, melting into panic. He plunged into the crowd, and with a strength you didn't know he had, grabbed you by your waist and pulled you off the girl.

Now, back at your house, the silence was heavy, broken only by the sound of cotton being soaked in a jar of hydrogen peroxide. Eddie sat beside you on the sofa, intensely concentrating as he tended to the knuckles of your fingers, which were red and swollen. Your arm was still bleeding slightly, scratched by fingernails, and a thin streak of blood ran from your nose, connecting to your injured lip.

"You know…," he began, his voice low and serious, gently wiping the cotton ball over your hand. "I'm curious. What the hell happened back there? You seemed out of it, like… as if something had possessed you." There was a long pause. He then looked at you, and a small, mischievous, and proud smile appeared on his lips. "Although I have to admit… you finished her off. Really."