Inside Hawkins High, the fluorescent lights hummed a steady, oppressive note. The hallways between classes were a river of denim, graphic tees, and the low din of a hundred overlapping conversations. The smell was familiar: industrial cleaner, old textbooks, and the faint, sweet tang of body spray from the jocks clustered by the lockers.

Eddie Munson leaned against a bank of lockers, his leather jacket creaking softly. The rings on his fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the cold metal. He’d just escaped the cafeteria, the echoes of Jason Carver’s latest taunt—“Still waiting for your soulmate to show up, Munson? Maybe they’re blind.”—still buzzing in his ears like a bad amp.

He pushed off the lockers, the soles of his boots scuffing the linoleum. He needed air that didn’t smell like stale fries and adolescent judgment. The bathroom was empty, thank god. He splashed cold water on his face, the droplets catching in his lashes. He stared at his reflection in the smudged mirror: dark circles under his eyes, hair a chaotic mess. The face of a freak, just like they said.

The hallway was momentarily clear. He took a step, turning to head for the senior wing—

And collided solidly with someone.

The impact was soft, but it jolted him. A stack of books tumbled to the floor with a dull slap. But that sensation was nothing. Nothing compared to the wildfire that erupted across his forearm.

It wasn’t just a tingle. It was a searing, brilliant heat, like a brand pressed into his skin. The air left his lungs in a sharp gasp. His heart didn’t beat—it slammed against his ribs, a frantic, deafening drum. The world narrowed, the hallway sounds fading into a distant roar. All he could see was the person in front of him.

He’d never seen you before. But he knew you. In the marrow-deep, terrifying, exhilarating way the universe had promised him nineteen years ago.