Chapter Text
Mike Wheeler tugged the familiar knitted jumper over his head—the dark blue one his mom always insisted made him look “presentable.” The wool scratched faintly at his neck as he pulled at the sleeves, making sure they hugged his wrists just right. Next came the worn jeans, their knees faded from too many bike rides and backyard adventures. Same routine, same clothes, same small town of Hawkins. But nothing truly felt the same anymore.
His backpack, battered and sagging in the corner, waited for him. The strap was frayed, the zipper stuck halfway closed, but Mike shrugged it on anyway. It was as much a part of him as his old Dungeons & Dragons dice or the walkie-talkie by his bed. Swapping it for something new would feel like erasing the last traces of a time when Will and El still lived in Hawkins—when everything had been whole.
He told himself he should be excited. Sophomore year, the first day back. He’d finally see Dustin and Lucas at lunch after nearly a month of radio silence. The Byers’ house was empty now, a moving truck having carried Will out of Hawkins weeks before. Since then, Mike’s nights were filled with the faint static of the walkie, Lucas’s voice sometimes buzzing through to talk about basketball tryouts or homework, Dustin’s cheerful sign-off echoing in the quiet room. Mike would lie awake long after, clutching the walkie by his pillow, hoping for a burst of static, a code red, or—impossibly—Will’s voice.
He missed Will so much.
Mike adjusted his sleeves and glanced at his reflection. Same jumper, same jeans, same tired eyes staring back. Hawkins High waited for him, indifferent to who he was or what he’d lost. With a resigned sigh, he squared his shoulders, hiked the backpack higher, and stepped out into the hallway.
He trudged downstairs, backpack digging into his shoulder, greeted by the scent of burnt toast and the sharp tang of coffee wafting from the kitchen—unchanged, grounding. Holly was spinning in circles in the living room, her purple dress flaring out as she twirled, blond pigtails bouncing. She giggled, catching herself on the couch.
“Morning,” Mike muttered, ruffling her hair as he passed by.
Holly squealed, batting at his hand with a grin. “Miiike!”
A faint smile tugged at his lips as he slipped into the kitchen. His mom was already there, efficient as ever, sliding a folded couple of bills into his backpack’s side pocket without missing a beat. “Lunch money. Try not to lose it this time.”
“I won’t,” Mike replied, grabbing a half-burnt slice of toast.
His dad sat silent behind a raised newspaper, coffee cooling beside him, the world locked out. Mike watched him for a moment, unsettled by the blankness, the routine. He promised himself he’d never fade into the background like that.
Nancy was already at the door, hurriedly jamming her shoes on. “Mike!” she called, “We’re gonna be late. Move it!”
Mike rolled his eyes, shouldered his backpack, and bit into his toast as he followed her.
They had barely reached the driveway when Holly came racing after them, little feet thudding on the pavement. “Mike!” she squealed, arms outstretched. Mike let out a dramatic sigh, but couldn’t help scooping her up, spinning her once as she shrieked with laughter. He set her gently back down and nudged her toward the house.
“Go on, back inside,” he said, trying to sound gruff, but the affection was clear.
“Bye, Mike!” she shouted, dashing away.
Nancy shook her head, grinning. “See? She likes you more than me.”
Mike shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I talk to her more.”
Nancy gave a mock salute, conceding the point.
Mike loved Holly. She wasn’t just a little kid anymore—she asked him questions, laughed at his dumb jokes, and made the house feel less empty. Part of him wished he could take her with him, have her sit beside him at Hawkins High. At least then he’d know someone was on his side.
Nancy unlocked the car and slid into the driver’s seat. “Alright, let’s go. First day. Big deal.”
Mike climbed in, backpack on his lap. Nancy glanced over as she started the engine.
“Here’s some advice,” she said, half-bossy, half-sincere. “Try not to be a complete weirdo. Teachers eat that up in high school. Just—keep your head down. Don’t draw attention.”
Mike rolled his eyes at her but didn’t argue. He leaned into the window, watching the Wheeler house shrink behind them as Nancy pulled away.
First day. Same old Hawkins. But with Will gone, it felt like he was stepping into a world he didn’t recognize.
...............................................
Nancy eased the car into a spot near the back of the student lot, and the moment Mike stepped out, the world rushed at him—noise, bodies, the chaotic tide of teenagers streaming toward the double doors of Hawkins High. Upperclassmen lounged on hoods and trunks like this was their personal kingdom, eyeing newcomers with bored authority. Freshmen darted between parked cars, faces drawn tight with nerves, while the unmistakable scent of cafeteria tater tots drifted through the morning air, impossible and weirdly comforting.
Nancy slung her bag over her shoulder and shot him a sidelong glance. “If anyone gives you trouble, just tell me who. I’ll make sure they regret it by lunch.”
Mike rolled his eyes, but there was gratitude hidden in his shaky laugh. “Yeah. Thanks.”
It stung, needing his big sister to defend him, but at least she was on his side. Nancy could be ruthless when she wanted—sometimes it was a relief to have her in his corner.
Mike jammed his hands into his pockets and let her stride ahead, following her into the current of students pouring inside.
The hallways were a wall of sound—chatter, slamming lockers, the shrill beep of someone’s watch. Mike wove through the crowd, reading numbers above the doors until he found his locker: 025. His hands trembled a little as he spun the dial—26-11-25. The lock clicked open, and the empty metal space gaped back at him. Waiting for books, for a schedule, for someone to tell him where to go next.
He’d get his timetable soon, figure out classes, faces, routines. Dustin and Lucas would be here. Lunch would be normal again, he told himself. Just get through the morning.
But standing in front of the locker, the weight in his chest only got heavier. Same school, same halls, but nothing felt the same. Not without Will.
“Boo.”
Mike jerked, heart thudding, and spun around—Dustin, grinning wide, stood behind him, with Lucas at his side. Relief crashed over Mike so hard he almost laughed out loud.
“Jesus, Dustin,” Mike muttered, gripping his backpack tighter.
“What? I’m being friendly!” Dustin said, feigning innocence.
“Friendly is saying hi, not giving me a heart attack,” Mike shot back.
Lucas clapped his shoulder, grinning. “Good to see you, man.”
For a moment, the noise and tension faded. They slipped into easy conversation, the familiar rhythm coming back like muscle memory. Mike hadn’t realized how badly he’d missed them until now.
Dustin rummaged in his backpack and pulled out a wrinkled flyer, flattening it against the locker door. “Check this out.”
In bold, smudged letters:
HELLFIRE CLUB — A Dungeons & Dragons Campaign. New players welcome.
Mike’s stomach twisted. He stared at the flyer, hands stuffed in his pockets. He’d promised Will—no new party, not without him. Just seeing the words felt like a betrayal.
Before he could say anything, Lucas announced, “Actually, I’m trying out for the basketball team this year.”
Mike blinked. “Team?”
“Basketball,” Lucas repeated, puffing out his chest. “I practiced all summer. Think I might make varsity.”
Dustin snorted. “We’ll see.”
Lucas shot him a look. “Better than you, man.”
Mike tried to laugh, but it came out thin. Lucas talking teams, Dustin chasing clubs—everyone was moving on. Except him.
As the bell rang, they found three open desks in homeroom. Dustin lunged for one, Lucas right behind, and Mike trailed after, a little of the old comfort seeping back into his bones. But the intercom crackled before they could sit.
“Can Michael Wheeler please come to the main office? That’s Michael Wheeler. Thank you.”
Every head swiveled toward him.
Dustin froze mid-sit, Lucas’s eyebrows shot up.
“What’d you do?” Dustin whispered.
“Nothing!” Mike whispered back, panic rising. He’d barely been here an hour.
Lucas grinned. “Guess you’re already in trouble.”
Mike felt heat crawl up his neck as he slung his backpack over one shoulder. He tried to ignore the snickers and sideways glances as he left the room.
“Save me a seat,” he muttered.
Lucas gave him a thumbs-up. Dustin nodded, still wide-eyed.
Mike walked into the hallway, the low hum of whispers trailing behind him like static. His mind raced. What could the office possibly want?
The hallway outside the main office was a river of students, surging in noisy clusters. Mike hunched his shoulders, doing his best to move with the flow, but his backpack dragged behind him like a stubborn anchor. At one point, the frayed strap snagged on a locker handle, yanking him off balance. He muttered a curse under his breath, wrestled it free, and pushed on, feeling the heat rise in his ears with every jostle and shove.
By the time he reached the office, Mike’s nerves were frayed. The smell of paper, disinfectant, and floor wax hit him first, familiar and oddly sterile. Behind the front desk sat the secretary—a wiry woman with thinning hair, lips painted a startling, almost neon red that clashed with her electric blue blouse and the oversized pink bow at her throat. She didn’t look up, and Mike hovered awkwardly, shifting his weight from foot to foot, uncertain whether to interrupt her focus on a stack of forms.
He was seconds from clearing his throat when a familiar voice called out from the staff room.
“Mike!”
Mr. Clarke emerged, a folder tucked under his arm, his smile as genuine and relaxed as always. Relief loosened the knot in Mike’s chest.
“Hey, Mr. Clarke. Do you know why I’m here? Am I in trouble?”
Mr. Clarke chuckled, shaking his head. “Not at all, Mike. Actually, I was hoping you could help me out.”
Mike blinked, confused, as Mr. Clarke steered him to a pair of chairs against the wall. Someone was already sitting there—a boy about his age, slim and neat, hands folded in his lap. When Mike and Mr. Clarke approached, the boy stood quickly, gave a polite, practiced bow, and extended his hand. His dark eyes were serious, but his smile was careful and warm.
“This is Lee Sim-Suk,” Mr. Clarke introduced, glancing between them. “He just transferred here. I thought you might show him around, help him get settled.”
Mike hesitated, then shook Sim-Suk’s hand. The boy’s grip was firm, unexpectedly confident, and for a second the moment felt too formal, too adult, for either of them. Still, Mike managed a lopsided smile. “Uh… hey.”
Sim-Suk gave a small nod, his English slow but clear. “Hello. Nice… meet you.”
Mike shot Mr. Clarke a look of confusion. “I’m still not sure why me.”
Mr. Clarke smiled, shifting his folder. “Because you’re the right person for the job—friendly, responsible, and I know you’ll help a new student feel at home.”
Mike nearly snorted. Friendly? Responsible? Most days he felt like he was barely holding it together. But he nodded, already resigned. Babysitting duty, day one.
Mr. Clarke went on, “It actually works perfectly. You two have the same classes—English, math, science, the works. You’ll be together pretty much all day. That way, neither of you gets lost.”
Mike’s stomach twisted. A buddy, just like that? As if friendships were assignments.
Mr. Clarke handed them each a copy of their timetable. “See? Practically identical. Makes everything easier.”
Mike scanned the schedule—block after block, his name and Sim-Suk’s lined up side by side. He tried not to sigh.
“I’ve got to run to a meeting,” Mr. Clarke said, glancing at his watch. “Why don’t you two stay here a few minutes, get acquainted, then head to homeroom together?”
He offered them both a last encouraging smile before ducking back into the staff room. The office fell quiet except for the faint, rhythmic ticking of the secretary’s desk clock.
Mike slid into the seat beside Sim-Suk, gripping his timetable like a lifeline. Sim-Suk sat perfectly straight, hands folded atop his paper, glasses slipping a little down his nose. The silence stretched, heavy and awkward.
Mike tried not to stare, didn’t want to make things weirder. Still, it was impossible not to notice—Sim-Suk wasn’t American, and Mr. Clarke hadn’t bothered to say where he was from. Not that Mike was judging. He just wasn’t sure what to say, or how to say it.
His mind spun in anxious circles. Should he ask where Sim-Suk was from? Would that be rude? It felt like something adults always messed up, but Mike didn’t want to assume or offend. And what if he said nothing—would he seem cold?
He fidgeted with the edge of his timetable, heart thumping. He’d never been the welcoming committee before. He barely knew how to keep his own friends. How was he supposed to help someone else?
Mike risked a sideways glance. Sim-Suk looked calm, composed, as if he hadn’t noticed the storm of nerves beside him. Mike wished, just for a second, that he could borrow even a little of that calm.
Mike slouched lower in the chair, unable to stop himself from glancing over at the new kid beside him.
White button-down, crisp and starched. Black trousers, pressed within an inch of their life. Shiny shoes that looked like they’d never seen a muddy sidewalk. Mike couldn’t help it—he winced for the guy. Hawkins High was a denim-and-hoodie wasteland. Most of the kids looked like they’d rolled out of bed, then rolled around in the dirt for good measure. Even Mike had just thrown on an old sweater and jeans. But this kid? He looked like he was here for an interview, not the first day of school.
Details stuck in Mike’s mind: Sim-Suk’s hair, jet black and thick, fell in smooth lines that framed his face, almost too perfect. His jaw was sharp, eyes even sharper—dark, almond-shaped, with monolids and a fold at the inner corner Mike had never noticed on anyone before. There was a tiny mole under his left eye, barely visible unless you stared.
An unadorned black backpack sat at Sim-Suk’s feet, a neatly folded raincoat draped over one arm. A raincoat, in Hawkins—where it rained maybe twice a year. Mike’s stomach twisted. This guy was doomed.
He pressed his lips together, shifting in his seat, suddenly hyperaware of every difference. It was obvious Sim-Suk wasn’t from here. Not Hawkins, not Indiana, maybe not even America. Mike already felt like an outsider with Will gone—what was it like for this new kid, accent and all?
Mike’s chest tightened. Should he ask where Sim-Suk was from? Would that be rude? His mind spun in anxious circles, the silence stretching, thick and suffocating. Sim-Suk seemed perfectly content to wait it out, composed and still.
Mike’s fingers drummed his timetable against his knee.
Say something. Anything.
His mouth jumped ahead of his brain. “Are you… Chinese?”
The words landed with a thud. Mike’s face went scarlet. “No, sorry—I didn’t mean—I just—where are you from? That’s all. Sorry. That was dumb.”
Sim-Suk didn’t react, just blinked once, then answered in careful, precise English. “South Korea. I have been in the United States… two years. My family moved to Hawkins… two weeks ago.”
Mike nodded, too quickly, relief flooding him just because Sim-Suk hadn’t bolted. “That’s… actually pretty cool. I’ve lived here all my life. Not exactly exciting. Hawkins is… well, Hawkins.” He gave a sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
Scrambling, Mike tried again. “So, uh—what do you do for fun? Are you liking it here so far?”
Sim-Suk’s lips curved into a polite smile. “I like… math. Also bicycle riding. Sometimes cooking.”
Mike grinned, his nerves thinning out a little. “Awesome. Bikes are kind of my thing, too. You’ll fit in just fine. And, honestly, you can call Hawkins a shit hole or lame—I won’t be offended.”
For the first time, Sim-Suk smiled for real, and Mike felt the knot in his chest loosen.
Sim-Suk tilted his head, considering. “Not… shit hole... Maybe… very… quiet.”
Mike snorted. “Trust me, you’re not missing much. Only thing to do here is hang out at stores meant for old women in there 40s.”
Sim-Suk’s eyes glimmered with humor. “No, I think… shops try only for women who are… fifty.”
Mike barked out a laugh, surprised by the quick wit. “Okay, fair point.”
The tension dissolved, replaced by something close to camaraderie. Mike pushed himself up, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “Let’s go. I’ll walk us to homeroom. We’ve got Mrs. Dixon today. Heads up—she’s extra grumpy on Mondays.”
Sim-Suk adjusted his own bag, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “Why grumpy?”
Mike grinned. “She hates kids. All of us. You’ll see.”
For the first time since that morning, Mike felt almost like himself—like maybe, just maybe, things weren’t as hopeless as they’d seemed.