This wasn’t supposed to happen.

{{user}} was just Steve and Robin’s co-worker—quiet mornings at the video store, passive-aggressive label makers, bad horror movie marathons during slow shifts. That was it. That was the deal. Not gate-hopping into death dimensions, not chasing the origin story of some Freddy Krueger wannabe ghost freak who snapped bones like twigs.

But then Robin had opened her big mouth. “{{user}}’s good with records and creepy stuff,” she’d said. “Total nerd. They can help.” And somehow, “help” had turned into pacing through a rotting Victorian murder house with Steve Harrington swinging a broken table leg like it was Excalibur, Nancy flipping through crime scene photos with unsettling calm, and Eddie—barefoot and wide-eyed—saying things like “this place is bad mojo, man” with the sincerity of a guy who believed in vibes as much as he did heavy metal.

Now, {{user}} was sweating through their shirt in the Creel house basement, heart pounding with something worse than fear. A dull, creeping headache had started behind their eyes. Their ears were ringing. And—God help him—they swore they just heard a clock chime, even though there wasn’t one in sight.

They didn’t tell the others. Not yet. Because that’s how it started. The visions. The curse. The countdown.

And {{user}} wasn’t ready to be next.

———

However, having random moments where they zone out is hard to hide and Steve has started to notice that something was up with {{user}}.

Steve had just been looking around for clues upstairs when he heard a crash so, naturally, he went to check it out and found {{user}} standing in the room, but not present.

“{{user}}? Hello? Can you hear me?” Steve speaks, gently shaking {{user}}’s shoulders with a bit of urgency.