Mike's Basement – One Hour Ago
The flickering light bulb swung gently overhead, casting long shadows across the walls of the Wheeler basement. The quiet hum of the space was occasionally interrupted by the faint clinking of LEGO pieces and the soft rustle of a discarded D&D character sheet. The tension from the events at the quarry still hung in the air, but the bond between the three boys—and the girl at the center of it all—had slowly begun to mend.
After their quiet reconciliation, they'd retreated to Mike's house, a familiar safe haven. Now, the door to the basement was half-open, and muffled voices floated from the bathroom adjacent to it.
El stood in front of the mirror, dabbing a damp cloth against her cheek. Her face, though still bruised from the emotional weight she carried, looked softer now—almost serene. Mike leaned against the doorway, watching her.
"You look…" he hesitated, shy all of a sudden. "You look pretty."
She blinked at him through the mirror, her fingers pausing mid-wipe. Then, slowly, a small smile tugged at her lips. "Pretty?"
"Yeah," Mike said, awkward but sincere. "Like… really pretty."
Her smile lingered, and for a moment, it wasn't just a compliment—it was a fragile thread of trust between them.
"You seem happy," he added, noticing the subtle light in her eyes that hadn't been there before. "Did something happen?"
El tilted her head. "I don't know," she said. "Since yesterday night, I've had this… feeling. Like something is coming. Someone. Close to me." She turned back to the mirror, almost whispering, "And it's getting stronger."
Mike's heart thudded. "Someone? Like… someone you know? A friend?"
"I don't know," she said softly. "But… it feels important."
He swallowed, trying to hide the weird twist of jealousy forming in his chest. "Is it a… guy?"
El frowned, puzzled. "I don't know," she repeated. But her voice held no fear—only curiosity.
Before Mike could press further, static crackled loudly from the walkie-talkie sitting on the table in the basement. Dustin hurried over and snatched it up.
"Lucas?" he said, twisting the knob. "Come in."
The voice on the other end came in fragmented bursts through waves of interference. "—guys—listen—bad news—closing in—agents, I think—get out, now!"
"What? Say again!" Dustin shouted. "Lucas, what agents?"
More static.
But the word "bad guys" came through loud and clear.
Mike and Dustin exchanged a look. Mike rushed up the basement stairs, Dustin right behind. El stayed back, heart racing. At the living room window, Mike and Dustin peered through the blinds.
A white utility van was parked across the street. Hawkins Power & Light.
"Mom!" he called.
Karen Wheeler was in the kitchen, flipping through a magazine. She looked up, startled. "What is it, honey?"
"Did you schedule any electrical work?
Power company? Anything like that?"
She blinked. "No. Why?"
Then another van appeared. And another.
Dustin's voice sharpened. "Mike, we gotta go. Now."
No more hesitation. The three of them burst through the back door, grabbing their bikes pedaling hard into the street. Mike was in front, El behind him, Dustin flanking the other side.
As they turned a corner, El glanced back—just for a moment—and froze.
Standing near the open door of one of the vans was a man in a white lab coat, flanked by agents.
Her breath caught.
White hair. Cold eyes. The slight tilt of his head, studying her like a subject in a cage.
He didn't need a name tag.
She knew him.
Papa.
Her legs faltered on the pedals for a split second. Memories flashed—salt water, wires, screams, her own voice echoing in the tank, crying out for him… and being left alone.
The man who made her bleed. The man who called pain progress.
Dr. Brenner.
Her blood ran cold.
They pushed harder, riding furiously through the streets. Sirens could be heard in the far distance. Then, cutting across the intersection, a figure on a bike joined them—Lucas.
"Guys!" he shouted. "Cut through the alley! They're right behind you!"
But a black van skidded into view, blocking their path. Tires screeched. Men in suits jumped out.
"Go left!" Mike screamed.
They swerved—and then El turned.
Her eyes focused. The air rippled.
With a deep breath, she flung her arm toward the van.
It lifted clean off the ground—hovering mid-air for a second—before crashing sideways with a deafening roar.
They didn't look back.
They just kept riding.
---
Hawkins Police Station – At same Time
The buzz of fluorescent lights flickered above the station. Jonathan sat stiffly on the bench, a makeshift ice pack pressed against the side of his bruised face. Nancy knelt beside him, gently adjusting the cloth.
"I'm so sorry," Jonathan said, voice hoarse. "I shouldn't have gone after Steve like that."
Nancy shook her head. "You did the right thing. Someone had to knock that smug look off his face."
He winced. "Still. I messed up. I don't know how we're going to explain this to my mom."
"Hey," she said softly, brushing a bit of dried blood from his cheek. "We'll figure it out."
The front doors burst open, and in walked Joyce Byers, hair disheveled, eyes wild.
"Jonathan!" she shouted.
Sheriff Jim Hopper was right behind her.
When Joyce saw the cuffs on her son's wrists, she nearly screamed. "Why is he in cuffs? Take them off right now!"
Calvin Powell stepped forward. "Ma'am, your son assaulted an officer—"
Joyce didn't let him finish. "Don't you 'ma'am' me! He's a good kid!"
Jim raised a hand, cutting off the argument. "Calvin. Lose the cuffs."
Calvin grumbled but stepped aside. Jonathan winced, rubbing his sore wrists.
Calvin gave a reluctant nod and gestured for Jim to follow. The two stepped out into the parking lot. Without saying a word, Calvin led him straight to Jonathan's car and opened the trunk.
Inside sat a crowbar, several cans of gasoline, and a half-used box of matches, guns.
Jim stared at the contents for a long moment, jaw tight.
Back inside, Jim turned to Jonathan, arms crossed.
"Mind telling me what all that's for?" he asked, voice low but pointed.
Jonathan didn't back down. "You wouldn't believe us."
"Try me," Jim said.
Back in his office, Nancy and Jonathan did most of the talking, laying it all out—almost everything. Joyce sat nearby, arms crossed, listening intently as Jim paced behind his desk, eyes narrowed.
They told him about the creature, the thing that had taken Will and Barb. They showed him the photograph of the monster, blurry and distorted but real.
But they didn't say anything about the other guy. The one they called Zero—Dray. A new friend, maybe.
Still, they added what they'd learned: the creature was drawn to blood… and vulnerable to fire.
Jim narrowed his eyes. "How do you know that?"
"We're guessing," Nancy said quickly.
He knew they weren't telling him everything. But he also understood—they didn't fully trust him yet. Still, the fear in their eyes was real, and for now, that was enough.
He stood. "Wait here. I've got to clean up this mess with the arrest report."
Outside the office, Joyce turned on her son.
"What were you thinking, Jonathan?" she hissed. "Gasoline? Weapons? You could've gotten yourself killed. You put Nancy in danger too."
Jonathan looked down, guilt flashing across his face. "I couldn't just sit around doing nothing, Mom. Will's still out there. I had to try something."
She softened, pulling him into a hug. "I know. But next time… we do it together. Okay?"
He nodded.