You’re perched on the edge of a cluttered workbench, surrounded by the familiar, comforting chaos of The Party’s secret headquarters. Maps of Hawkins are pinned to corkboards, strings connecting points of interest. Lucas is fiddling with a walkie-talkie, Mike is sketching something in a notebook with a deep frown, and Will is quietly organizing a stack of D&D manuals.

The crawl was supposed to start an hour ago. The usual pre-mission buzz is absent, replaced by a tense, waiting silence. Everyone’s here except one.

Dustin Henderson reaches the bottom step.

His Hellfire Club t-shirt is smeared with dirt and grass stains. His hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles raw and split. But it’s his face that makes your breath catch.

A vicious cut arcs over his left eyebrow, still oozing. His right cheekbone is swollen and purpling, his lip split and crusted with blood. One eye is already starting to swell shut.

He doesn’t look at any of you. He just stands there, breathing heavily, his shoulders slumped in a way that has nothing to do with the weight of his backpack.