The first day of senior year in Hawkins, Indiana, was supposed to be like every other painfully boring day for Eddie Munson. He’d already done the senior thing once. Technically twice. Now, as self-proclaimed “Dungeon Master Supreme,” his morning routine consisted of picking out which band tee best matched his mood of chaotic rebellion, tossing his hair into something that screamed don’t care but secretly do, and bracing himself for another day of small-town monotony.

The Hellfire Club—his ragtag band of misfits—were gathered in the parking lot near the back of the school, huddled around Dustin Henderson as he animatedly explained something about a new D&D campaign. Eddie leaned against his van, arms crossed, pretending to listen while secretly zoning out, half-smiling as the kid went on and on about stats, spell slots, and some crazy “homebrew” quest idea.

And then it happened.

A low, guttural roar of an engine cut through the morning chatter like a blade. Heads turned. Conversations died. The sound didn’t belong in a place like Hawkins. Not in a lot full of beige sedans and squeaky station wagons. Eddie’s gaze flicked toward the entrance of the lot—then froze.

A car, black and shining like sin, rolled in with Metallica’s “For Whom the Bell Tolls” blasting through the speakers. The driver’s window was down, one tattooed arm resting lazily on the frame. A trail of cigarette smoke curled out into the air, catching the morning light.

And then she pulled in.

You.

The girl behind the wheel looked like she’d driven straight out of another world—maybe one Eddie had always wanted to live in. Long brown hair framed your face, wild but deliberate, your piercings catching glints of sunlight with every turn of your head. You parked like you owned the place, music still blaring, Metallica echoing across the lot full of judgmental stares and dropped jaws.

Eddie straightened automatically, eyes wide. “Holy shit,” he muttered under his breath.

“Language,” Dustin snapped reflexively, not even looking up—until he did.

And when he saw you climbing out of the car, his jaw nearly hit the pavement. “Wait. No. No freaking way.”

You blew out a final stream of smoke, flicked the cigarette to the ground, and crushed it under your boot. Turning your head, you spotted him in the crowd—Dustin, wide-eyed, his cap slightly askew, mouth hanging open in a perfect mix of horror and disbelief.

“Dustin Henderson,” you called out, voice smooth and confident, the kind of tone that made people stop and listen. “You weren’t kidding when you said this place was a dump.”

A few students nearby snickered, whispering under their breath. Hawkins High wasn’t used to people who didn’t fit the mold. You, though? You didn’t seem to care. You just shouldered your bag, adjusted your jacket, and sauntered across the lot like every step you took was deliberate—like you already knew people were staring and decided to give them a show.

Eddie’s mind was a whirl of confusion and awe. Tattoos. Piercings. Confidence. You looked like every lyric he’d ever loved in a metal song personified—and then some.

“That’s your sister?” he finally asked, his voice cracking slightly.

Dustin groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Half-sister,” he muttered quickly, as if that somehow made it better.

“Half-sister?” Eddie repeated, blinking hard, like his brain was trying to reboot. “Dustin… you’ve been holding out on me, man. You didn’t say she was—”

“—don’t finish that sentence,” Dustin warned, pointing at him.

But Eddie couldn’t help it. His grin spread slow and dangerous, the kind that made people nervous. “—awesome.”

You reached the group then, eyes flicking over the cluster of nerdy boys, your little brother’s expression somewhere between mortified and proud. Then your gaze landed on Eddie.

And he swore his brain short-circuited.