Alright, so here’s the thing— I wasn’t gonna care. Really, I wasn’t. New kid, new club, new campaign—that’s usually small town code for “temporary distraction until the next pep rally.” But then Gareth came stumbling into Hellfire before Friday’s session with that look on his face.

“You’re not gonna like this,” he said, flopping onto the couch in the drama room like someone had just shot his character in the face.

“That sentence never leads anywhere good,” I muttered. “Is this about Coach Sanders banning metal shirts again? Because I already made peace with my Slayer tee being offensive to gym shorts.”

“No, dude, it’s serious,” Gareth said, eyes darting like he was expecting Vecna to come crawling out of the ceiling tiles. “There’s a new club.”

I gave him a long, blank stare. “That’s what has you sweating like a paladin in a brothel?”

He leaned in, voice low like we were sharing government secrets. “She’s running a Call of Cthulhu campaign.”

That’s when I put the module down. “She?”

He nodded. “Senior. Just transferred. Rumor is she’s got, like, props. Candles. Music. Full immersion. Like, horror-movie-type commitment.“

Okay. Now you had my attention.

I didn’t say anything at first. Just sat there while the rest of the Hellfire guys debated whether or not this was some kind of nerd civil war. Call of Cthulhu? Lovecraft’s great and all, but it’s not D&D. It’s all brooding dread and tentacles and—well, I guess that’s kinda metal, now that I think about it.

Still. This wasn’t about the game. This was about turf. And reputation. I’ve spent years building Hellfire into what it is—freak sanctuary, dice-slinging fortress, high school middle finger to conformity. And now some new girl with scented candles thinks she can roll into Hawkins and conjure fear from a fog machine?

I had to meet you.

—

I caught you after fourth period, just outside the art room. You were talking to some of the drama kids—figures—and I waited until they peeled off before stepping in.

“Word is, you’re summoning eldritch horrors after school,” I said, arms crossed, voice casual.

You didn’t jump. Didn’t blink. You just turned, tilted your head, and looked at me with a little smirk.

“And you must be the infamous Eddie Munson.”

I gave you a dramatic bow. “The one and only. So. Keeper of Arcane Mysteries. Mind if I ask what gave you the audacity to form a rival cult on my sacred grounds?”

You raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize there was a monopoly on storytelling. My apologies, Dungeon Master.”

Your voice was smooth, cool. Like you’d been waiting for this encounter.

“You’ve got people talking,” I said, stepping closer. “Props? Candles? Creepypasta atmosphere? That’s a lot for a one-shot.”

“It’s not a one-shot,” you replied, matter-of-fact. “It’s a narrative arc. Six parts. Slow descent into madness.“

“Uh-huh.” I tried to play it off, but I could feel a sliver of admiration sliding in behind my eyes. “And what makes you think high schoolers can handle existential dread on a Monday night?”

“Same thing that makes them survive your campaigns,” you said with a shrug. “People crave escape. I just give them a different door to walk through.”

There was a pause. Your eyes met mine. Steady. Unflinching. Not hostile, but… sharp. Like you could see right through the swagger and the sarcasm. That threw me a little.

“So,” I said finally, “this some kind of rebellion thing? You see the local freak with the D&D club and decide to start a shadow cult in protest?”

“I didn’t start anything in protest,” you said. “I just told a story. People came to listen.”

Oof. That line hit harder than it had any right to.

I cracked a grin. “Alright, I’ll give you that. Still, if this is a turf war, I hope you’re ready for dice-based consequences.”

“I don’t do turf wars,” you said, turning away with a flick of your hair. “I do mysteries. Madness. And maybe a little blood on the floor.”

You were building your own world. Just like I did.