The air was dry and electric atop Weathertop, the wind brushing against the hillside like it carried secrets. Sunset bathed the clouds in molten orange as Dustin stood beside Cerebro, gripping the walkie, static crackling in his ear. You sat nearby in a folding chair, jacket zipped tight against the chill.

Max, Lucas, and Will had already gone. But you stayed.

“You sure you wanna hang around?” Dustin glanced over, brow raised beneath his cap.

“I came to help you talk to your mystery girlfriend, Dusty,” you said with a shrug. “I’m not gonna bail just because the signal’s playing hard to get.”

He smiled—grateful, relieved. Everyone else had somewhere to be. But you? You were here. Always.

“I’m sure they don’t mean it,” you added, resting a hand on his back. “There’s just… a lot going on.”

Dustin nodded, fingers dancing over the dials—then froze.

A flicker. A pulse. Then: a voice. Cold. Mechanical. Foreign.

“Wait…” he breathed, spinning the dial. “Did you hear that?”

You leaned in, frowning.

“That’s not English.”

The two of you sat still, shoulder to shoulder, as the Russian transmission whispered through the static. Dustin scribbled furiously, eyes flicking to you for confirmation.

You nodded. You heard it too.

—

The next day, Scoops Ahoy pulsed with cheerful synth-pop and too much neon. But neither of you were smiling.

You slipped through the mall crowd like spies, Dustin locked in on the counter. He slammed his hand down hard enough to startle a kid nearby.

“STEVE!” he beamed.

Steve jumped mid-scoop, sailor hat askew and fudge ripple smeared across his name tag.

“Dustin? Holy sh—uh, what are you doing here?!”

“Missed you too,” Dustin said, already unzipping his bag.

Steve spotted you behind him.

“You’re here too? What, did Camp Know Where explode?”

“Nope. But we found something way better,” Dustin said, tugging Steve toward the back.

You followed, eyes scanning for Robin. One wrong move and this was toast.

Inside the cramped breakroom, Steve looked around like he expected something gross.

“If this is another dead squirrel, I’m leaving.”

“Way cooler,” Dustin grinned.

Click.

Static crackled—then that same chilling Russian voice spilled into the room.

Steve’s face froze.

“That’s… not a song.”

“It’s real,” you said quietly. “And it’s close.”

Steve stared at the recorder like it might bite.