The morning air is sharp and quiet, the kind that makes Hawkins feel smaller than it is.
Mike Wheeler rides his bike too fast, hands tight on the handlebars, headphones pressed into his ears like armor.Smalltown Boy hums low, pulsing through him — a song that feels like it knows something he doesn't have words for yet.
He passes identical houses. Lawns cut too short. Flags hanging limp.Everything looks like it's pretending.
Mike pedals harder.
A voice cuts through the music.
"Hey! Wheeler!"
Mike brakes hard, swerving just in time. He pulls one earcup off.
Eddie Munson leans against a rusted van parked half on the curb, cigarette dangling from his mouth, grin sharp and unapologetic. Leather jacket. Messy hair. A walking middle finger to Hawkins High.
"You ride like you're late for your own execution," Eddie says.
Mike exhales. "What do you want?"
Eddie taps the side of his head. "You. You've got the look."
"What look?"
"The I hate it here but I don't know where else to go look."
Mike snorts despite himself. Eddie pushes off the van and walks beside the bike.
"You play?" Eddie asks.
"Play what?"
"Anything that requires thinking. Preferably involving dice, imagination, or mild rebellion."
Mike hesitates.
Eddie grins wider. "Hellfire Club meets after school. You should come."
Mike looks down the street, then back at Eddie.
"Fine," he says. "Whatever."
Eddie salutes. "Welcome to the cult."
The Hellfire Club room smells like soda, old books, and something vaguely burned.
Dustin Henderson is already there, sitting cross-legged on a chair, talking a mile a minute.
"So the rogue shouldn't split the party, but—oh, hey, new guy!"
Dustin hops up, grinning. "I'm Dustin. You look like you'd survive at least two sessions."
Mike blinks. "That's… reassuring."
They sit. They play. Mike doesn't laugh much, but when he does, Dustin notices.
Afterward, Eddie claps his hands. "Basketball game tonight. Hawkins versus Roosevelt."
Dustin lights up. "Lucas is playing."
Mike raises a brow. "You know one of the players?"
"Yeah. He's—" Dustin pauses, searching. "He's in between things."
The gym is loud. Too loud.
Mike sits stiffly beside Dustin, watching the court. Lucas Sinclair moves like he belongs there — confident, fast, pulled between the jocks cheering him on and the bench he never fully commits to.
The final buzzer sounds. Hawkins wins.
Lucas grins, breathless, sweat-soaked. He spots Dustin and Mike in the crowd and jogs over.
"We won," he says, like he still can't believe it.
Dustin punches his shoulder. "You killed it, man."
Mike nods. "Yeah. You were good."
Lucas smiles at that — really smiles.
"My friend Jason's having people over," Lucas says. "You guys should come."
Mike hesitates.
"It's chill," Lucas adds quickly. "Just… people."
Jason's house is too big, too clean, too loud.
Music shakes the walls. Jocks sprawl everywhere, red cups in hand. Jason Carver claps Lucas on the back like he owns him.
Mike sticks close to Dustin.
"Relax," Dustin says. "Worst case scenario, we leave."
They don't stay long.
Someone suggests a bar. Someone laughs. Someone else says they won't get carded.
The night stretches open.
The bar is dim, neon flickering. Old music hums under quiet conversation.
Mike doesn't expect to see him.
A boy sits alone at the far end of the counter, sketchbook open, pencil moving fast and precise. His drink sits untouched beside him.
He looks like he doesn't belong here.
Like he belongs nowhere.
Dustin notices first.
"Hey," he says softly. "That guy looks… lonely."
Before Mike can respond, Dustin's already walking over.
"Hi," Dustin says, cheerful as ever. "I'm Dustin."
The boy looks up, startled. His eyes are dark, guarded.
"I'm Will," he says quietly.
Dustin gestures behind him. "We're… kind of a mess, but you can sit with us if you want."
Will hesitates. Then nods.
As Will turns, his eyes meet Mike's.
The noise fades.
Something tight pulls in Mike's chest — sharp, unfamiliar, terrifying.
Will freezes too, like he's been caught mid-thought.
Neither of them looks away.
Not yet.