The whine of bike chains and rattling wheels cut through the morning quiet as four figures pedaled hard down the street toward Hawkins High.

Mike rode in front, hunched over his handlebars, jaw tight. Dustin followed close behind, already talking, voice bouncing with nervous energy. Lucas kept pace on the side, eyes scanning everything like he expected the world to jump out at them. Eleven rode last—careful, stiff, blond wig perched just a little too perfectly on her head, pale blue dress fluttering awkwardly in the wind.

She hated the wig.

She hated the dress more.

But she stayed on the bike anyway.

“Okay,” Dustin said, puffing as they slowed near the school. “Rule number one: act normal. Rule number two: don’t bleed from your nose. Rule number three—”

“I know,” Eleven muttered quietly, hands tightening on the handlebars.

Mike glanced back at her, concern flickering across his face. “You’re doing great,” he said quickly, like the words might hold her together. “Just… stick with us.”

Lucas nodded. “No powers. No weird stuff.”

Eleven swallowed and nodded once.

Across the street, Sheriff Hopper stood in the middle of the road, coffee in one hand, whistle hanging uselessly from his neck as he waved cars through. His eyes looked heavy, like he hadn’t slept—like every missing-person poster taped around town was carved into his skull.

“Move it, people,” Hopper muttered, raising his hand at a honking sedan. “School zone. You hit a kid, I’m not doing the paperwork.”

The boys rolled their bikes toward the rack just as a battered car screeched into the lot.

Jonathan Byers stepped out slowly, camera strap slung over his shoulder, shoulders already tense like he’d braced himself for impact.

And right on cue—

“Nice ride, Byers!”

Steve Harrington leaned against his shiny BMW with a lazy grin, friends laughing behind him. He flicked his hair back, eyes sharp and cruel. “What is that thing, man? Did it come with a free box of tissues for crying in?”

Jonathan didn’t respond. He kept walking.

Steve scoffed louder. “Figures. Guy’s probably still living in his mom’s house, listening to funeral music.”

Jonathan’s jaw clenched, but he kept moving—until Hopper’s voice cut across the lot.

“Harrington,” Hopper called flatly, not even looking at him. “You wanna keep running your mouth, do it somewhere I don’t have to hear it.”

Steve rolled his eyes but backed off, muttering something under his breath.