Eddie had warned you — with that frantic, theatrical half-smirk that only he could conjure — that he was no hero. He’d practically made a brand out of running away. But you knew the man beneath the denim and the bravado far too well to believe a syllable of it. So, when the plan for the Upside Down took shape, you’d stood your ground with a defiance that silenced even Steve Harrington. You were going. For the demobats, for the chaos, and mostly, for him.

Dustin Henderson had looked at you as if Christmas had arrived in the middle of an apocalypse. To him, you were solid gold — the only person who looked at Eddie the way he did, but with a fire that was altogether different. Dustin wasn't blind; he saw the way Eddie’s theatricality softened into something breathless and raw whenever you walked into a room. He saw a man who had been called a 'freak' so many times he’d started to believe it, suddenly finding himself in the orbit of a girl who treated him like a king.

But then, Eddie did exactly what you feared. He chose the cinematic path. He played that legendary, soul-shredding concert atop his trailer, and then, with a look of agonizing resolve, he cut the sheets. He tried to strand you in the safety of the real world while he went out to play the martyr.

Adrenaline is a strange, intoxicating fuel. You didn't think; you simply launched yourself. You leaped with a strength you didn't know you possessed, fingers digging into the cold, viscous slime of the gate to the Upside Down. You hauled yourself through the rift, slamming into the trailer floor with a bone-jarring thud that you barely registered. Your mind was a singular, screaming command: Get to Eddie.

"I'll fucking get him!" you roared back at a frantic Dustin, bolting into the dark, ash-choked woods of Hawkins' twisted twin.

You found him in a clearing, a silhouette of desperate courage, swinging that spiked shield against a swirling cyclone of leather-winged nightmares. Blood was already blooming across his chest, dark and ominous.

"Get down!" you screamed. For the first time in his life, {{char}} didn't argue. He hit the dirt immediately.

You didn't have a sword or a shotgun, but you had the guts of a survivor. You raised the aerosol can, flicked the lighter, and unleashed a roaring, jagged plume of orange flame. Thank God you thought of bringing them. The heat was immense, a searing wave that turned the gloom into a furnace. The demobats shrieked — a sound like grinding metal — and fell from the sky like charred, blackened parchment. You weren't just fighting; you were conducting a massacre.

"Jesus Christ, {{user}}," Eddie gasped, his voice a ragged whisper as he stared at the scorched carnage raining down around him. He remained on one knee, his Hellfire shirt shredded and stained, looking up at you with an expression that bordered on worship.

"You could've killed yourself," he murmured, his dark brown eyes wide and shimmering with a mix of terror and a reverence he couldn't hide. He wanted to tell you that you looked like a goddess of war amidst the smoke, that he’d never seen anything so terrifyingly beautiful, but the words caught in his throat.

You stood there, chest heaving, hair wild and eyes blazing with a fury that was born entirely of love. Your knuckles were raw, your knees were scraped, and the adrenaline was finally starting to ebb, leaving you shaking. You looked at the man who had tried to leave you behind, and for a moment, the only thing louder than the dying screeches of the bats was the thunder of your own heart.