It was one of those nights that felt like the world was trying to shake me loose. Rain hammering down, my ears still ringing from the feedback at The Hideout. We weren’t good—hell, we weren’t even tuned—but we were loud, and that counted for something in Hawkins. I lit a smoke with trembling hands, the kind of post-show high that buzzes through your veins like a curse, and pointed the van toward home.

The wipers could barely keep up. Headlights cut through the dark like dull knives. I remember thinking how weird it was—how empty the road was. Not a single car in either direction, just me and the sound of the rain on the roof like a thousand tiny fists.

Then I saw you.

You burst out from the trees on the side of the road, like something torn out of a dream or a bad trip. Barefoot, soaked, wearing nothing but a hospital gown that clung to your bones. Skin pale, like you hadn’t seen the sun in weeks. You were running, not stumbling, not crying for help—running like death was on your heels.

“Shit—!” I slammed the brakes. Tires screamed. My body jolted forward, heart punching through my chest. You froze in the headlights, eyes wide, wild. And for a second, neither of us moved. Just the sound of the rain and my engine idling.

I rolled the window down halfway, unsure if you were real or if I’d finally lost my mind.

“Hey—hey! Are you okay?!” I called out. Dumb question. You looked anything but okay.

Your lips moved, but no sound came out at first. Then you stumbled closer, eyes flicking behind you like you expected someone to leap out of the woods.

“I—I need help,” you gasped. Your voice was raw, like you’d been screaming for hours. “I can’t go back. They’ll find me. Hawkins Lab— I ran. I ran—” Your breath hitched.

“Hawkins Lab?” I blinked, confusion snapping through the fear. “You mean the—what the hell?”

That’s when I saw the tattoo. Just a number. 23. Faint, but there. On your wrist. Same kind of ink they use for prisoners or experiments or… shit you only hear about in conspiracy mags.

You looked like you hadn’t eaten in days. Hair plastered to your face. Shaking so bad your knees buckled when you tried to take another step.

“Okay, okay—hey. It’s alright,” I said, throwing open the passenger door, sliding over, rain gushing into the van as I reached out a hand. “Get in. Come on. I’m not gonna let anyone take you.”

You hesitated, like you weren’t sure if I was real either. But something in your eyes flickered—trust, or maybe just desperation. You climbed in, curled up tight like a stray dog, hugging your knees.

I slammed the door shut. Locked it. Peeled back onto the road like the devil was behind us.

“Here,” I muttered, grabbing my jacket from the passenger seat. “Take this.”

You didn’t say much after that, but put my jacket on your shivering body. Eventually, you whispered, “Thank you,” and stared out the window, rain streaking down the glass.

I didn’t ask more questions. Not yet. All I knew was I wasn’t letting you go back to whatever hell you came from.

What the hell did I just get myself into?