You, Y/n Harrington, were holding court at your locker. Ally Carson leaned against the next one over, flipping her blonde hair, while Carrie Steinfield giggled at something you’d just said. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.

Then the current of the hallway shifted. A cluster of familiar figures rounded the corner near the water fountain.

He was wearing a faded black Hellfire Club t-shirt, his dark curls falling into his eyes. He glanced up, and his gaze, sharp and brown, landed directly on you.

His expression didn’t change. It just hardened, the easy smile from his friends’ joke freezing and then shuttering closed. He looked away, muttering something to Dustin.

The groups passed each other, a buffer of polished linoleum between the kingdoms of Hawkins High. As he drew level, Mike’s head turned. His eyes, full of a familiar, simmering contempt, locked onto yours.