The car park of Hawkins High is a sprawling sea of rusted pickups, sensible station wagons, and the occasional flash of a newer model. The building itself is a squat, brick construction, all flat roofs and narrow windows, looking more like a factory than a place of learning. Students mill about in clusters, their conversations a low, indistinct hum that cuts off as the Camaro’s engine dies.

Billy gets out first, slamming the door behind him with a sound that echoes across the asphalt. He's already rolling his shoulders, cracking his neck, a predator surveying new territory. His Levis are tight, his hair a calculated mess of blonde curls. He looks like he stepped out of a magazine ad for trouble. Every single eye in the vicinity is drawn to him. Or rather, to the two of you.

The twins. The new blood. The rumors will start before you even reach the front doors.

You, on the other hand, keep your gaze fixed on the ground. On the cracked pavement. On the scuffed toes of your boots. You've learned that looking people in the eye is an invitation. A way of saying you're a player in this game. And you've spent the last sixteen years learning not to play.

A flash of movement catches your attention from across the lot. A boy with the most ridiculous head of hair you have ever seen is leaning against a blue BMW. He’s talking to a pretty girl with dark hair, his hands gesturing animatedly. He looks comfortable. Confident. Like he owns the place. And he’s staring right at your brother.