𝙀𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙚 𝙈𝙪𝙣𝙨𝙤𝙣

The knock on your door comes at 2:07 a.m. Not polite. Not subtle. Just loud enough to make your heart jump into your throat. %Before you can even fully panic, there’s a familiar voice outside—already mid-rant.** “Okay, before you freak out, it’s me, you’re not being murdered, and yes I know it’s insanely late but if I stay in that stupid trailer for one more second I might actually lose my mind.” You open the door. Eddie Munson stands there in a leather jacket that is definitely not warm enough, hair a mess like he’s been running his hands through it nonstop. His eyes are bright in that wired, restless way—like his thoughts are going a thousand miles an hour and he physically cannot be alone with them. “Get in the van,” he says immediately, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. “Please. I need air. And noise. And possibly a witness to my impending emotional breakdown.” He grins like it’s a joke. You grab your jacket anyway. The Corroded Coffin van smells like gasoline, old fast food, and Eddie. The second the door slams shut, he turns the key and blasts the radio. Some metal song you don’t recognize explodes through the speakers, loud enough to make the windows rattle. Eddie drives like the devil himself is chasing him, head bobbing, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. He shouts along to the lyrics, voice raw and unpolished, laughing when he misses half the words. For a while, it’s just noise. And honestly? It feels good. Wind through the open windows. Music too loud. Hawkins shrinking in the rearview mirror like it might finally disappear if you don’t look back. Then—eventually—Eddie turns the volume down. Not all the way. Just enough. He exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the road. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I just—needed it loud. Brain was being… stupid.” He doesn’t elaborate. You don’t push. Ten minutes later, he pulls off onto a dark, empty stretch of road—fields on both sides, nothing but stars overhead and the distant hum of crickets. He cuts the engine. The sudden silence is almost shocking. Eddie leans back in his seat, staring up through the windshield. His bravado drains out of him like someone pulled a plug. “…Do you ever feel like you’re running out of time?” he asks quietly. You glance at him. He lets out a humorless laugh. “God, that sounded dramatic. Sorry. Ignore me.” You don’t. Eddie swallows. “I mean it, though. Like—sometimes I wake up and I swear I can feel the clock ticking. Like Hawkins is this… box. And every day I stay here, the walls get a little closer.” He rubs his face with both hands, rings clinking softly. “Everyone already thinks I’m gonna die young. Burn out. OD. Get stabbed in a bar fight or sacrifice myself to Satan or whatever the hell rumor they’re on this week.” He scoffs. “And the messed-up part? Sometimes I think they might be right.” That makes your chest tighten. “I act like I don’t care,” he continues, voice rougher now. “Like, oh yeah, screw it, who needs the future, I’ll just be the town freak forever. But I care. I care so much it’s embarrassing.” He finally looks at you. Really looks. “I don’t wanna die here,” he says softly. “I don’t wanna be another story people tell about the guy who never made it out.” The words hang heavy in the air. Eddie stares at his hands like they might have answers written on them. “But I don’t know how to leave. I don’t know how to be… someone else.” He laughs weakly. “This town chews people up. Spits ‘em out. Especially if you’re different. Especially if you’re loud. Or weird. Or you don’t fit into the neat little Hawkins mold.” He nudges the steering wheel with his knee. “Do you think people can really reinvent themselves? Or do small towns just… decide who you are forever?” The question isn’t theoretical. It’s personal. Vulnerable. Raw. You answer honestly. You talk about change. About escape. About how identity isn’t a cage unless you let other people lock the door. About how leaving doesn’t mean abandoning who you are—it means choosing who you become. Eddie listens like your words are oxygen. When you finish, he’s quiet for a long moment. Then he exhales a shaky breath and nods. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, I like that. Choosing.” He leans his head back, staring at the stars. “You know, you’re one of the only people who doesn’t look at me like I’m already doomed.” He smirks faintly. “Most people see the jacket, the hair, the metal, and they think they’ve got me figured out. But you—you actually see me.” He turns toward you again, softer now. “That’s… kind of terrifying. And also? Kinda nice.” A breeze cuts through the van, cold but grounding. Eddie shivers, then pretends he didn’t. “…Thanks for coming with me,” he says quietly “I didn’t wanna be alone tonight.” The bravado is gone now. No jokes. No performative confidence. Just Eddie Munson—scared, hopeful, aching to be more than what Hawkins expects. After a moment, he reaches over and turns the radio back on—low this time. Something slower. Something softer. He glances at you and grins, just a little. “Okay. We can sit here a bit longer. Then I’ll drive you home. I promise not to crash the van. Probably.”