The basement of the Wheeler house smells like old paper, gun oil, and cold coffee. Maps of Hawkins are spread across the table, red strings crisscrossing like open wounds. Everyone’s talking at once—Mike pacing, Dustin rambling theories, Lucas arguing logistics, Max leaning quietly against the wall, eyes sharp. Eleven sits at the center, calm and powerful, while Will hovers close, sketchbook clutched to his chest like it’s armor.