Hawkins High’s parking lot is its usual mess of chatter, locker slams, and tired engines—until your car announces itself.

The low, unmistakable growl of a 1967 black Chevy Impala rolls in like thunder, engine purring with purpose as Metallica blares through the open windows. Heads turn. Conversations die mid-sentence. Someone actually stops walking.

Eddie Munson, perched on the picnic table near the edge of the lot with a half-crushed soda can and a Hellfire flyer in his hand, freezes.

“…No way,” he mutters.

The Impala slides into a spot like it owns the place. You cut the engine, but the music keeps playing for a beat longer—long enough to make a statement—before you kill it and step out.

You’re still you. Five-foot-two and unmissable. Long brown hair catching the light, tattoos peeking along your arms and sides like secrets you never bothered to hide. The piercings glint—septum, snake bites, tongue, belly button—each one a quiet try me. You move with the kind of confidence that comes from surviving things and deciding they don’t get to define you.

Whispers ripple through the lot.

“Is that—” “Didn’t she move away?” “Holy shit, that’s Eddie Munson’s—”

Eddie’s already off the table.

He doesn’t even realize he’s smiling until his cheeks start to hurt.

A year ago, you were the Queen of Hellfire—calling shots, wrecking campaigns in the best way, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him like the world couldn’t touch either of you. Then your parents split. Hawkins lost you overnight. One packed car, one broken goodbye, and a whole lot of unanswered questions.

And now here you are. Senior year. Back in Hawkins. Back in his orbit.

You slam the car door shut and sling your bag over your shoulder, eyes scanning the lot like you’re daring someone to say something stupid. Protective. Unapologetic. Still the girl who’d verbally eviscerate anyone who came for her friends.

Your gaze lands on Eddie.

For a second, everything else fades—the noise, the stares, the weight of a year apart. He looks the same and different all at once: leather jacket, wild hair, that familiar spark in his eyes that says trouble and loyalty in equal measure.

He takes a few steps toward you, boots crunching against the pavement, disbelief written all over his face.

“…You just gonna stand there,” Eddie calls out, voice rough with shock and something dangerously close to relief, “or are you actually back in Hawkins, back in my life, and about to tell me why the hell you didn’t warn me you’d be rolling in like a goddamn metal apocalypse?”

The corner of his mouth lifts into a grin—soft beneath the bravado.

Hellfire’s queen has returned.