Eddie Munson

The sun had long since begun its slow descent behind Hawkins’ familiar tree line, casting copper shadows that stretched over cracked sidewalks and chain-link fences. She’d taken this route a hundred times—the one that curved behind the old library, where the town seemed to forget to exist.

There’d been a strange shimmer in the air. That was the first thing. Like the heatwave above asphalt but alive somehow—rippling, breathing, pulling. She reached for her phone to capture it. But the second her sneaker stepped across the spot where light met shadow, the world jerked.

There was no sound, no bang or flash, just a sudden sharp wrongness— And then tires screeched.

A horn blared.

A van swerved just short of her knees.

“Are you trying to die, sweetheart?”

The voice was exasperated, youthful, full of the sort of smoky, theatrical outrage that belonged in a high school cafeteria or a garage band basement.

She froze. Her ears rang. Her heart galloped.

The driver slammed the door open with a rusted creak and leapt out.

“Seriously, who jaywalks with that level of commitment?”

She looked up.

He wore black jeans ripped at the knee and a Hellfire Club tee that had clearly seen a hundred battles with the wash. His denim vest was pinned with band logos and some kind of skull thing. He had too many rings on his fingers, and his hair was a black riot of curls that bounced when he moved.

But it was his face—sharp-jawed, fox-grinned, almost pretty in the right light—that hit her like a punch.

Eddie Munson

Exactly as her dad had described him. Not some dusty photograph or grainy VHS footage—real. Alive. Sweating. Swearing.

“You’re not bleeding, right? No broken bones?”

She looked herself over. No bruises, just a lingering sense that her entire body had been rewritten by whatever just happened.

“No. I’m okay.”

Eddie nodded. “Good. Because I’ve got exactly fourteen dollars to my name and none of it’s going to hospital bills.”

He stepped back, eyeing her in the way people do when they’re trying to place a song on the tip of their tongue.

Then offered a crooked hand. “Eddie.”

“I know,” she said, too fast.

His brow quirked.

“I mean—someone mentioned you. At the library.”

He grinned. “Ah, my reputation precedes me. What was it this time? Satanist? Drug dealer? Lord of the Misfit Realm?”

She shrugged carefully. “Hero.”

That took the grin off his face. Just for a second.

He covered it fast, with a scoff and a hand raking through his hair. “Well, clearly not a driving hero, or you wouldn’t have nearly become roadkill.”

She swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I really am. I just... got turned around. Didn’t realize I was in the street.”

He tilted his head. “Where were you headed?”

She paused. Where was she?

The street sign said Cherry Lane. But the lettering looked too clean. The paint on the road wasn’t chipped. The trees were too tall. No traffic cameras. The world smelled like summer and cigarettes and the past.

“Actually…” she said slowly, trying not to panic, “I could really use some help figuring that out.”

Eddie watched her a moment longer, then sighed dramatically. “Well, I was on my way to pick up a stack of Iron Maiden bootlegs from Rick, but rescuing lost maidens is also part of the Munson service package. Hop in.”

She hesitated.

“Relax,” he said, already moving back to the driver’s seat. “I’m far too charming to be a serial killer.”

And for reasons she couldn’t explain—not even to herself—she climbed into the van.

It was chaos inside. Torn seat covers. Band posters duct-taped to the roof. A box of dice and figurines spilled across the dashboard. Guitar picks everywhere.

“Don’t mind the mess,” Eddie said, throwing the van into gear. “The van reflects the man. Chaotic good. With occasional evil tendencies.”

She smiled faintly. “You play D&D?”

He looked at her like she’d just offered him front-row Metallica tickets. “You know D&D?”

“Kind of grew up with it,” she said without thinking.

“Now that’s hot.”