Hawkins High’s parking lot hums with the low buzz of morning—engines idling, lockers slamming somewhere inside, the faint echo of a bell that hasn’t rung yet.

The sound that cuts through it all is your motorcycle.

It growls into the lot like it owns the place, chrome flashing under the Indiana sun, heat rolling off the engine as you swing it into a spot far closer to the curb than anyone else would dare. You kill the engine and the sudden silence feels loud.

You look like you don’t belong here—and you don’t care.

Leather jacket scuffed and broken-in, clinging to your shoulders like a second skin. Ripped black jeans tucked into heavy boots. Chains at your hips. Tattoos crawl down your arms—inked stories in sharp lines and dark shadows. Piercings catch the light when you move. You look like you stepped straight out of a metal magazine, all sin and defiance and don’t-touch-me energy.

Behind you, your little sister hops off the bike, backpack nearly swallowing her whole. She’s smaller, quieter, eyes wide as she takes in the building like it might bite her.

You reach up, tug your helmet free, and shake out your hair. “You good?” you ask her, voice low, steady. The kind of steady that comes from having to be strong long before you should’ve had to be.

She nods, gripping her straps. “You’ll be here after?”

“Always,” you say without hesitation. You fix her jacket collar, thumb brushing away a loose thread. Guardian, not by choice—but by love, by survival, by promise. Your parents are gone, and the weight of that sits in the set of your shoulders, even now.

Across the lot, leaning against a beat-up van painted in loud reds and black, Eddie Munson pauses mid-rant.

Hellfire Club is gathered around him—dice, notebooks, chaotic energy—but Eddie’s attention snaps clean off the moment he sees you. His words die in his throat.

“Holy—” He stops himself, eyes going wide, grin slow and incredulous. “Guys,” he mutters, elbowing one of them without looking. “Tell me I’m not hallucinating.”

He straightens, chains clinking as he pushes off the van, curls framing his face like he belongs exactly where he is—outsider royalty. His eyes flick from your boots to your jacket to the bike to the way you stand just slightly in front of your sister, protective as hell.

You catch him staring and lift a brow.

He freezes for half a second—then recovers with a crooked smile. “Uh. Morning,” he calls, voice loud enough to carry, playful but curious. “Hawkins usually eases people in with disappointment. You kinda blew the curve.”

You smirk despite yourself.

Your sister glances between you and Eddie, whispers, “Is he… cool?”

You squeeze her shoulder. “Go. You’ll be late.”

She hesitates, then darts toward the entrance, glancing back once before disappearing inside.

Now it’s just you, the bike, and Eddie Munson watching you like you’re the most interesting thing that’s happened to Hawkins in years.

You sling your helmet under your arm and turn fully toward him.

“Name’s Eddie,” he says, gesturing vaguely to himself and the van. “Resident freak. Dungeon Master. Dealer of bad decisions.”

You tilt your head. “Good to know.”

His grin widens.

Something electric hums in the space between you—like the first note before a song kicks in.

And Hawkins just got a lot louder.