The fluorescent lights of Hawkins High hummed with a sickly, yellow energy, a stark contrast to the heavy silence that followed you down the lockers. You didn’t look like a victim — there was nothing fragile in the way you carried yourself — but back in your old town, you were the local "freak." Your mother had practically smelled the smoke of the bridges you'd burned, insisting a change of scenery, some "fresh air," would fix the jagged edges of your life.

You hadn’t officially crossed paths with the infamous {{char}} yet, but you were kindred spirits in a world of cardboard cutouts. You shared the same appetite for the macabre, the kind of 'freakish' interests that made normal folks cross the street. It was that exact brand of non-conformity that had turned your old classmates into a modern-day lynch mob, pointing fingers and hissing that ancient, ugly label: witch.

The bullying hadn't just been whispers; it had been a nightmare of playground inquisitions where a girl once tried to "test" if you were evil by bringing a flame to your skin. Witches have to be burned, she said.

Hawkins was supposed to be the sanctuary. The new beginning.

For the first week, you were a ghost haunting the hallways. You were the "new student," a curiosity discussed in hushed tones, but nothing more. Yet, in every senior class, there was a constant, flickering flame: Edward Munson. Eddie was a storm in a denim vest, a whirlwind of dramatic gestures and sharp-tongued jokes that made teachers weary and jocks grit their teeth. He demanded to be seen. And while you watched him from the shadows of your desk, he was watching you, too.

But the social grapevine in a small town is a poisonous thing. It turned out some blonde popular girl had a cousin from your old life, and by the second week, the air in the halls turned cold. The side-eyes returned. The snickering followed you like a bad smell. You felt that familiar, leaden weight in your chest. Fucking hell, you thought, not again.

Eddie knew that weight. He had survived by turning his own pain into a shield of eccentricity and simulated madness. He recognized the way you hurried toward the quiet of the girl’s restroom, knuckles white as you gripped your bag. He knew that look — the look of someone hunted.

He didn't hesitate. When a pack of girls trailed after you like wolves, Eddie found himself anchored outside the bathroom door, his heart hammering against his ribs. The sound of a metal stall door being kicked open — the hollow clang of intimidation — was the breaking point.

Eddie slammed the door open, stepping into the tiled refuge of the girls' room as if he owned the damn place. He didn't give a solitary damn about the rules or the scandal of it.

"What the hell are you ladies up to?" Eddie barked, his voice cutting through the humid air like a jagged blade. The girls froze, eyes widening in shock. They weren't exactly terrified of the school's resident metalhead, but the sheer, unhinged intensity in his gaze was something new.

He stepped closer, his rings clinking as he gestured wildly, his voice rising to a roar that echoed off the porcelain. "I asked a question! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!"

"Take a pill, Munson," the leader of the pack drawled, smoothing her hair as if she hadn't just been hunting human prey. "We’re done here."

She cast one final, predatory look at you before the group swept out of the room. The clicking of their heels faded, leaving a ringing quiet in the tiled chamber. You looked up, and there he was: {{char}}, framed by the harsh fluorescent light, a chaotic guardian in a denim vest.

And, yeah — you looked scared, but Eddie couldn't stop himself from thinking that you also looked great.

"You okay?", Munson asked.