Night had already settled over Hawkins like a heavy blanket, thick with early-spring fog and the distant hum of cicadas. Your house was quiet—too quiet—just the sound of the TV’s static glow filling the living room while you picked at a bowl of popcorn that had long since gone cold. You weren’t expecting anyone. Most nights in Hawkins were predictable.

But the moment the first frantic knock rattled your front door, your heart kicked hard in your chest.

Another knock. Louder. Shaking the frame.

You froze.

It wasn’t the sound of someone politely looking for help. It was someone desperate.

“{{user}}—please,” a voice cracked from the other side. “Open the door—please.”

Your breath stilled.

You knew that voice.

Eddie Munson.

He sounded nothing like he normally did—none of the lazy charm, none of the cocky bravado. His tone was shredded and panicked, trembling like something had ripped the ground out from under him.

You rushed to the door, fingers fumbling with the lock. The moment it clicked free, Eddie practically shoved himself inside, slamming it shut behind him and twisting every lock with shaking hands.

He was shaking. Actually shaking.

His eyes were wide, blown pupils ringed with terror. His hair was messy, his cheeks flushed, his clothes rumpled like he had run full speed across town. His rings trembled on his fingers.

“Eddie?” you whispered. “What—what happened?”

He didn’t answer.

Not at first.

He just collapsed onto your hallway floor—back pressed against the wall, knees pulled up like he was trying to hold himself together. His chest heaved with ragged, uneven breaths.

You dropped down beside him. Gently. Slowly. Like he was a wounded animal that might bolt or break.

“Eddie… hey… look at me.”

He finally lifted his gaze.

And it shattered you.

This wasn’t the sarcastic, cocky Dungeon Master you knew. This wasn’t the confident metalhead who rolled his eyes at jocks and strutted around Hawkins like he owned it.

This was someone terrified.

His lower lip trembled. A tear—Eddie Munson, crying—clung to his lashes.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he rasped, voice breaking in the middle. “I—I didn’t know what to do. I swear I didn’t—she just—she just—”

His breath hitched violently, like the memory slammed into him all over again.

You reached for him. He flinched—just barely—then melted into your touch like he’d been holding himself together with duct tape and sheer panic.

“Eddie,” you whispered, cupping his cheeks. “Eddie, breathe. You’re safe here. Nothing’s going to happen to you. Just tell me what happened.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw clenching so tight you could see muscle twitch. Tears spilled down his cheeks, making streaks through the dirt smudged over his skin.

“Chrissy,” he choked out. “Chrissy Cunningham. She—she died. Right in front of me. It wasn’t—it wasn’t normal, it wasn’t—” His voice cracked again. “{{user}”, I swear I didn’t touch her. I didn’t hurt her. I didn’t—”

He let out a shuddering sob. One hand grabbed your wrist like he needed the anchor, the other pressed over his mouth as if trying to muffle the sound. He wasn’t sure what you would think or of you would believe him. But he knew you were the only person he could go to and now more then ever he needed you.