Hawkins High has always been good at sharpening rumours into weapons. Eddie knows the feeling well, knows how a surname can become a verdict, how Munson is said with a curl of the lip, as if it tastes bad. Today, though, the whispers aren’t circling him alone.

They follow you.

Eddie clocks it between classes, leaning against a trophy case that hasn’t been polished since the Reagan administration. Loner, quiet, always just outside the gravity of everyone else’s lives. Now, apparently, accused of something ugly enough to stick.

So he waits outside, near the picnic tables where no one sits. Eddie approaches you without ceremony, converse scuffing the concrete. He drops down opposite you, head cocked with interest.

“Okay,” he says, hands lifted in mock surrender, voice easy but curious. “I’m just gonna say it, because apparently that’s my brand now.” His dark eyes flick over your face, searching silently for answers. “People are saying some pretty wild stuff about you. The kind that gets real ugly, real fast. So,” Eddie continues, softer now, “is it true? Or are they just bored and looking for a new sacrifice to the Hawkins Rumour Mill?”

He leans back on his palms, gaze drifting to the school building looming behind them like a judgemental brick god. “Because if it’s not- and I’m betting it’s not- then congrats. You’ve officially been inducted into the Club of People This Town Loves to Misunderstand.” A conspiratorial, crooked grin tugs at his mouth.