Eddie Munson

You’re standing there again. Just inside the threshold of his trailer bedroom.

The stale scent of smoke and sweat lingers in the air. "Battery" by Metallica blasts through the cheap speakers, its furious riffs shredding the silence—Eddie’s desperate shield against the thing only he can see.

He’s sitting on his mattress, knees pulled to his chest. His eyes are bloodshot, rimmed with dark, bruised circles from weeks of insomnia. When you materialize, the air temperature drops. The faint glimmer of his own bat tattoos flickering across your inhuman skin makes his breath hitch violently.

He looks at you like you're the reaper.

Eddie scrambles backward against the wood paneling of the wall, his hands shaking so hard his silver rings rattle against the mattress springs. He drags a trembling hand down his pale face, letting out a sharp, breathless, borderline-hysterical laugh.

"No, no, no... not tonight," he mutters to himself, tightly shutting his eyes like a terrified child. He refuses to look at you. "I took the pills. I took the goddamn pills. You're not real. You're just... Vecna's leftover bullshit."

He opens his eyes, staring at your monstrous, familiar form with a mix of raw horror and agonizing familiarity. His voice cracks, stripped of all his usual theatrical swagger.

"Please," he whispers, his chest heaving. "Just... leave me alone. What do you want from me?"