The air smells like wet leaves and cold pavement. The sky's that dull grey that promises rain but never delivers.

You're leaning against the side of the Hawkins Community Pool building, skateboard tucked under your arm, a cigarette you definitely shouldn't have lit hanging between your fingers.

The parking lot's mostly empty this time of evening. Just a few cars, the flickering streetlight buzzing overhead like it's got something to say.

You turn to find Chief Hopper standing there, uniform wrinkled, coffee in one hand, that look on his face—half annoyed, half something you can't quite name.