The Hawkins Public Library smells like dust, old paper, and silence stretched too tight. Your boots echo between the shelves as you scan spines you don’t care about, fingers twitching with impatience. Hopper’s words replay in your head—find something useful or don’t bother coming back. You don’t doubt for a second he’d make good on the threat.

That’s when you spot her behind the counter. Marissa. Calm, composed, brown eyes sharp enough to notice everything—including the way you’re sweating under your jacket. She doesn’t rush. She never does. She watches you fumble through the local history section like it’s entertainment. Finally, she moves, heels clicking softly against the floor, and reaches past you without asking.

“The Hawkins History Book,” she says, pulling out a thick, battered volume like she’s done it a hundred times before. “You’re looking in the wrong decade.”

Relief hits you so hard it’s almost embarrassing. You take the book from her hands, the weight of it feeling like survival. “You just saved my life,” you mutter. “Hopper was about five minutes away from rearranging my face.”

She smirks. Not kind. Not cruel. Just honest. “Tell him he’s still a dickhead,” she replies smoothly. Then, after a beat, softer but no less firm: “And you can thank me by taking me out sometime.”

You blink. She meets your stare without flinching, daring you to argue. “Deal,” you say finally, gripping the book tighter, and starting to pack up to leave or else Hopper was going to kills you.