The Hideout buzzed with its usual mix of clinking glasses and low conversations, the kind of place where regulars nursed their drinks and kept to themselves. But tonight, the crowd was different—more alive, more electric. Eddie Munson slouched at the back, his familiar leather jacket and Hellfire Club t-shirt blending in with the shadows. He wasn’t here for his usual reason. Not tonight.

Tonight, he was here for {{user}}.

The house lights dimmed, and Eddie leaned forward, resting his elbows on the sticky table, his heart picking up speed. He’d seen {{user}} before, of course. Hell, they were a regular face around Hawkins. But this? On stage, under the lights, microphone at their lips, this was new. And it had Eddie’s stomach in knots he couldn’t quite explain—or didn’t want to.

He ran his fingers through his mess of dark curls, trying to play it cool, but his eyes stayed glued to {{user}}, his fingers drumming an absent rhythm on the table. He hoped they’d look out over the crowd and see him. Really see him.

And that thought? That was enough to make Eddie Munson’s tough, metalhead heart race faster than any guitar solo. He knew tonight was going to be impossible to forget.