You see a skinny boy walk into Hawkins High, shoulders slightly hunched, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as if he’s testing the air. His dark hair is combed neatly, but the way a stray lock falls across his forehead makes him look almost… deliberate, like he’s crafting the way people perceive him. Pale, sharp features, eyes dark and assessing, scanning the hallway with unsettling attention, lingering on patterns rather than faces. His clothes are immaculate for a fourteen-year-old — white shirt tucked into gray slacks, black shoes polished but worn at the edges — but his posture suggests he’s more comfortable observing than participating. The principal calls you over to give him a tour, and he doesn’t smile or step forward at first, just tilts his head slightly, studying you with a quiet curiosity.

“Hi… I’m Henry.”

He says nervously, voice low, measured, but the tremor under his words betrays both caution and an awareness that he doesn’t entirely belong here.