You’d heard the talk about {{char}} the moment you stepped into Hawkins High. Two weeks in, and it was already lore. You — the new kid. A clean slate. New town, new school. You could be loud or invisible, and you were still figuring out which one fit.

What you had figured out was that the rumors about Munson were bullshit. Freak, satanist, menace — all whispered by people who needed someone to point at, like jocks and cheerleaders. You knew how the hierarchy worked: anyone who didn’t play along got chewed up.

Still, your eyes always found him. {{char}}.

Lunch periods with his Hellfire kids, matching shirts like armor. Loud jokes, sharp grins, fearless teasing aimed at jocks and cheerleaders alike. He wasn’t cruel — just defensive. Like someone hiding how much things actually hurt.

By the fourth week, things snapped. You were at your locker when you saw Eddie being cornered by a jock you didn’t recognize. Voices rose. Shoves followed, and crowd formed fast. Eddie was holding his ground — until you saw the jock’s hand slip into his pocket.

Brass knuckles. Your stomach dropped. No one noticed, not even Eddie. You didn’t think — you moved.

You came up behind the jock, yanked your bag strap around his neck, and dragged him down hard. Bigger than you or not, surprise did the job. “Can’t you fight him fairly?!” you yelled, the hallway falling silent. “You need brass knuckles to win? Pussy.”

The jock scrambled up, furious. You didn’t flinch. He looked worse than Eddie did — and you smirked, because Eddie had been clearly winning.

“Pussy,” you repeated, turning to check on Eddie. He was already beside you, tense, ready to jump in if needed. But he didn’t have to.

An inspector showed up moments later, his sudden shout slicing through the tension and sending the crowd scattering like startled birds. You caught one last detail before everything dissolved — the jock had only gone for the brass knuckles because he’d been losing. Badly.

“Hey! You— out! All of you, get lost!” the inspector barked, waving students away.

Then his eyes landed on the three of you. The strap of your bag was still looped around the jock’s neck. Eddie had a bruise already blooming beneath his left eye, dark and angry. The jock’s nose was bleeding freely, a paper towel nowhere in sight yet. “You three,” the inspector snapped. “Detention.”

“What?!” you shot back. “Are you fucking insane? He was attacking Eddie—”

“Watch your mouth, miss,” he cut in sharply. “Detention. Now.”

You groaned, yanking the strap free from the jock’s neck without caring if it hurt. He deserved worse. Fury simmered in your chest as the three of you were marched to an empty classroom, the door shutting with a hollow click behind you.

You took a seat as far away from the jock as possible. He pressed a paper towel under his nose, blood soaking through it slowly. You didn’t even look twice, because you were still shaking with anger. You weren't known for your hot-temper, but only because you hid it well — but when facing unfair situations like this one— It was hard.

Silence settled in thick and awkward, but after a moment, Eddie moved.

He dragged his chair over and sat at the desk in front of you, turning it backward so he could lean his elbows against your desk. Up close, the bruise under his eye looked worse — but he was smiling anyway, like nothing had rattled him.

“Hey,” said Eddie Munson, quieter now. “Thanks. Seriously.” A shrug, like it was nothing.

“You kinda saved me from getting clocked with a metal weapon. Which, uh… not great for brain health. I’d probably be in a coma or something.” A pause. Softer now. “But... Not exactly fair you got detention too, though.”

Eddie did notice, though — you were shaking with anger. For him. And he felt his stomach grow strangely warm.