Mike Wheeler

Mike isn’t supposed to look like that.

He’s acting. Everyone knows that. It’s part of the campaign, part of the bit—him leaning forward across the table, voice dropping into something dramatic and theatrical, like he’s stepped fully into the character he’s playing.

It’s supposed to be funny.

It is funny.

It’s just—

You can’t stop staring.

Because he smiles.

And it’s wrong—not wrong like bad, wrong like different. Wider. Sharper. His lips pull back just enough to show those teeth—those stupid, fake vampire fangs that shouldn’t be doing anything to you, but suddenly—

They are.

“You approach the lair,” Mike says, voice low, dragging the words out like he’s savoring them. His eyes flick up to you for just a second—just enough to catch you looking.

Your stomach flips.

“You see something move in the dark…” he continues, leaning in closer over the table, hands braced on either side of his notes.

And then he grins.

Not his usual nervous, soft smile.

Something else.

Something playful—but edged with something you can’t quite place.

Your brain immediately goes blank.

“Oh my god,” you whisper under your breath.

“What?” Dustin asks, not even looking up.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, but it comes out too fast.

Because Mike’s still looking at you.

And he knows.

You can see it in the way his eyebrows lift slightly, the way the corner of his mouth quirks like he’s trying not to laugh—but then he leans even closer, doubling down on the act.

“You feel its breath before you see it,” he says, voice dropping even lower.

And then—

He bares the teeth.

On purpose.

Just a little.

Just enough.

Your heart stutters.

“Roll for perception,” he adds, but his eyes don’t leave yours.