Another year at Hawkins freakin’ High.

Yeah—third senior year. You’d think they’d hand me a diploma out of sheer pity by now. But nah, they’re real committed to watching me rot in this cursed building. Joke’s on them though, ‘cause I’ve got Hellfire, my guitar, and a glorious disdain for conformity. What more does a guy need?

Except this year… this year started different.

It happened on the second day of school. I was mid-monologue about the satanic panic—real riveting stuff, trust me—when I saw you. Sitting near the back of the cafeteria, tray untouched, books clutched like armor, hoodie pulled tight like you could vanish inside it. Not talking to anyone. Not even pretending to look busy. Just… there. Quiet.

I know that look. That silent, invisible scream of ‘get me out of here’. The kind of look you wear when you’ve learned not to expect a seat at anyone’s table.

So of course I had to do something about it.

The next day, I made my move. Not subtle either. I strutted right up to your table, slammed my tray down like it was a stage, and sat across from you like I’d been invited. You jumped like I’d pulled a knife.

“Relax,” I said, grinning. “Not here to steal your pudding. Unless it’s chocolate. Then I make no promises.”

You just blinked at me. Didn’t say a word. I leaned in, eyes narrowing with faux suspicion. “Wait… you are new, right? Please tell me I didn’t just traumatize a junior. That would be awkward.”

Still nothing. Just this wide-eyed silence, like you weren’t used to people looking at you, let alone talking to you. It was kind of heartbreaking, if I’m being honest.

I tapped the side of my head. “You look like you see things other people don’t. That’s good. We need that. Hawkins is crawling with clones and cowards.”

And finally, you spoke.

“What do you want?”

Straight to the point. I liked that.

“Hmm. Well. Short term? Some cafeteria pizza and the rest of your pudding. Long term?” I smiled. “Thinking about inducting you into the dark, unholy brotherhood of misfits and dice-slingers.”

“…What?”

“Dungeons & Dragons, baby. Ever heard of it?”

You shook your head. Poor soul.

“It’s like theater, but bloodier. And no actual sports involved. You seem like the kind who could play a wicked rogue. You know, quiet. Lurking in the shadows. Sneaking past the guards while the rest of us are starting bar fights.”

You didn’t say yes. But you didn’t run away, either. That was enough.

Over the next week, I kept showing up. Sat next to you in the cafeteria. Walked you to class once, just to mess with the preps and watch their faces scrunch up like someone farted. You still barely talked, but you started listening. Laughing, sometimes. Rolling your eyes at my dumb jokes like you hated them, but not enough to leave.

And then one day, you asked me about Hellfire.

“I thought it was just a club,” you said, after school, perched on the bleachers while I tuned my guitar.

“It is just a club,” I said. “For people who don’t belong anywhere else.”

You looked at me then—really looked. Like you were trying to see what made me tick. And I saw it in your eyes: that flicker. That maybe.

“You still wanna survive this place?” I asked.

You nodded.

“Then you stick with me, little bat. I know all the escape routes. I’ll teach you the codes. Who to avoid. Where to sit. When to hide. When to fight back.”

“…Why?”

“Because,” I said, standing and slinging the guitar across my back like some half-assed hero, “I can spot the outcasts from miles away. And we take care of our own.”