The forest looks different in daylight.
Hopper crouches near the clearing, eyes scanning the ground like it might confess if he stares long enough. The grass is trampled, branches snapped low. Too many shoes. Too many voices last night.
He exhales through his nose.
"Bag wasn't torn," he mutters to himself.
A deputy looks up. "What?"
"The drugs," Hopper says, standing. "Bag's clean. No struggle marks near it."
"So?"
"So if someone attacked her, it didn't happen there." Hopper gestures with his chin. "Body was placed."
The deputy frowns. "You think Eddie moved her?"
Hopper doesn't answer.
Instead, he kneels again, brushing dirt aside. There — a faint scuff mark leading away from the clearing. And another. Like heels dragging.
"Chrissy didn't die here," Hopper says quietly.
The bar is shut down before noon.
Yellow tape stretches across the entrance. A cruiser idles nearby, lights spinning slow and lazy, like the town is still waking up to the nightmare.
Inside, chairs are flipped upside down. Glasses sit half-washed. The smell of alcohol clings to the air.
Hopper walks the length of the counter.
"Who closed last night?" he asks the bartender.
"Me," the man says. "Around two."
"Anyone leave in a hurry?"
The bartender hesitates. "Chrissy Cunningham. She was… off."
"How so?"
"She kept rubbing her arms. Asking if anyone had aspirin." He pauses. "She left alone."
Hopper nods, eyes narrowing. "Eddie Munson?"
"Yeah, he was here." The bartender sighs. "But so were half the damn kids in this town."
Eddie Munson is hiding in a place that smells like rust and old rain.
The abandoned warehouse squats at the edge of Hawkins, forgotten by everyone except graffiti artists and stray cats. Eddie presses his back against a concrete pillar, phone shaking in his hand.
He dials.
It rings once. Twice.
"Eddie?" Dustin's voice cracks. "Where are you?"
Eddie laughs, broken and hysterical, then sobs into his sleeve. "I didn't do it, man. I swear. She—she asked me. She wanted the pills."
"Eddie—"
"She was scared," Eddie whispers. "I didn't force her. I didn't—"
Dustin swallows hard. "Where are you?"
"I can't tell you that," Eddie snaps, panic flaring. "They'll come after you."
"I don't care," Dustin says. "You're my friend."
Silence.
Then, barely audible: "Warehouse off Route Six. Old mill sign still hanging."
The line goes dead.
Mike doesn't hesitate.
"We're going," he says.
Lucas shakes his head. "Jason's gonna kill us."
"Jason can screw himself," Dustin snaps. "Eddie's innocent."
Will stands quietly, sketchbook hugged to his chest. "We can't leave him alone."
Mike looks at him — really looks at him — and nods.
"Yeah," Mike says. "We can't."
Jason Carver is pacing his living room like a caged animal.
"He left," Jason says, voice tight. "Lucas left without saying anything."
One of the jocks scoffs. "You think he helped Eddie?"
Jason's jaw sets. "I think he knows something."
"He was with Max," someone mutters.
Jason turns sharply. "Then where the hell is he now?"
Silence.
Jason grabs his jacket. "We find Munson. And we find Lucas."
Steve Harrington is halfway home when he sees them.
Four kids. Bikes. Determined. Scared.
He slows his car, frowns.
"Dustin?" Steve calls out the window.
Dustin freezes. "Oh. Shit."
Steve pulls over. "Where are you going?"
Dustin looks at the others. Then sighs. "We're… helping a friend."
Steve eyes their faces. The fear. The loyalty.
"Get in," he says.
Mike blinks. "What?"
"I said get in," Steve repeats. "Before you do something stupid without adult supervision."
As they drive, Dustin spills everything.
Steve grips the wheel tighter with every word. "Munson didn't kill anyone."
"Thank you!" Dustin blurts.
Steve glances in the mirror at Will and Mike. "You two okay?"
Will nods. Mike doesn't.
Police scanners crackle across Hawkins.
Eddie Munson: wanted for questioning.
Joyce Byers hears it while folding laundry. She pauses, listening.
"Will's been out a lot," she murmurs to herself. "That's… good. Right?"
She doesn't like the way her chest tightens.
The warehouse looms.
Steve parks a block away. "Stay low," he says. "And quiet."
They find Eddie pacing, hair wild, eyes red.
Dustin tackles him in a hug. "You idiot."
Eddie laughs through tears. "I thought you wouldn't come."
Mike watches Will step closer to Eddie, offering silent comfort. Something twists in his chest — fear and admiration tangled together.
Lucas stiffens. "Guys… we're not alone."
Headlights cut through the dark.
Jason's truck.
"Run," Steve says.
Too late.
Across town, Max lies on her bed, scrolling.
Lucas Sinclair.
Basketball photos. Group shots. A smile she hasn't been able to forget.
She types.
Max:Hey. You okay?
The message sends.
No response.
She frowns, unease creeping in.
The hunt has begun.
And Hawkins will not stay quiet for long.