The Hawkins Public Library had a business section most people ignored.
I spent August there, buried in financial newspapers and investnt guides from the past decade, pretending to research "college planning" while actually morizing which companies would explode in value over the next few years. Apple Computer. Microsoft—still private, but they'd go public eventually. IBM investing in personal computers. Early tech that would define the future.
My future. This tiline's future.
The knowledge sat in my head like stolen goods. Insider trading from another dinsion. But if I was going to prepare for the apocalypse, I needed money that wasn't dependent on my parents' guilt-fueled handouts.
My father ca ho in late September, staying three days between Tokyo and Geneva. I caught him in his study on the second night, drink in hand, reviewing contracts that probably ant more to him than his son.
"Dad." I stood in the doorway. "Can we talk about my college fund?"
Richard Harrington looked up, surprised I'd initiated conversation. "College? You're fifteen."
"Sixteen in December." I walked in, carrying a notebook filled with research. "I've been thinking about my future. About building wealth early instead of waiting until after graduation."
His eyebrows rose. Interest sparked—the first genuine attention he'd paid in months. "Go on."
I sat across from him, opened the notebook. "Personal computers are the future. Everyone's going to have one eventually—hos, businesses, schools. The companies building them now are undervalued. If we invest early..."
"We?" Suspicion crept into his tone.
"I want to learn." I t his eyes directly. "You're successful. You understand markets. I'd like you to teach by setting up a trust account. Small investnts in tech companies. I'll research, make recomndations, and you approve or reject them."
Richard Harrington studied like I was a stranger. Maybe I was—the original Steve never cared about business, never sought his father's approval beyond asking for money.
"What companies are you thinking?" he asked slowly.
I flipped pages, showing him analysis I'd copied from library resources. "Apple Computer. They're about to release sothing called the Lisa—it'll fail, but their next project will revolutionize personal computing. IBM just entered the PC market. And there's a startup called Microsoft that's partnering with IBM on operating systems."
"You researched all this?"
"Library. Business journals. Annual reports." All true. "I want to understand how wealth is built, not just inherit it."
Sothing shifted in my father's expression. Pride? Surprise? He finished his drink and stood. "I'll have my broker set up a custodial trust account. Five thousand seed money. You make recomndations, I'll approve reasonable ones. But Steve—this is real money. Not a ga."
"I know." I stood too. "That's why I'm taking it seriously."
He extended his hand. We shook, formal and distant, but it was more contact than we'd had in months.
"When did you grow up?" he asked quietly.
When I died and woke up in your son's body, I thought. "Recently," I said instead.
The first investnt went through in October: two thousand dollars into Apple stock at thirty-eight dollars per share.
My father's broker called it "risky" and "volatile." Richard approved it anyway, curious to see if his son's research would pay off. By December, Apple had climbed to forty-five dollars. Seven dollars per share profit on fifty-two shares. Three hundred and sixty-four dollars in three months.
Not life-changing money. But proof the system worked.
I docunted everything in my coded journal, calculating projected returns over the next decade. If I played this right, I'd have genuine financial independence before graduation. Money to buy equipnt, fund operations, establish safe houses.
Money to fight monsters.
Eddie found at my locker in late November, bouncing with nervous energy.
"Dude," he said, voice low. "Hellfire's doing a marathon session this Saturday. Boss fight, epic conclusion, the works. You should co watch."
"Why?" I closed my locker. "I don't play."
"Yeah, but you give good advice." Eddie grinned, all wild hair and manic enthusiasm. "Plus, we're ordering pizza and I'm broke. So if a certain King-Steve-in-training wanted to fund our nerd activities..."
I laughed despite myself. "You're bribing with my own money?"
"I prefer to think of it as crowdfunding our friendship."
"Smooth." I considered. Hellfire Club would eventually be crucial—Dustin and Mike would join in a few years, Lucas too. Building connection with Eddie's group now ant easier integration later. "Okay. I'll bring pizza. But I want to actually understand what's happening, not just watch you roll dice."
Eddie's face lit up. "Yes! Okay, so here's the campaign structure..."
He explained for twenty minutes, gesturing wildly, completely oblivious to students staring at the talhead and the jock having an animated conversation about elves and dragons. I absorbed it all—the lore, the rules, the story Eddie had been building for months.
It was brilliant. Genuinely creative worldbuilding that most people would dismiss as "nerd shit" without ever appreciating the skill involved.
"You're good at this," I said when he finished. "The storytelling. Character voices. World consistency."
Eddie blinked. "Most people think it's stupid."
"Most people are stupid."
He laughed, loud enough to make Carol glance over from where she was gossiping with friends. Her expression soured when she noticed talking to Eddie, but I ignored her.
"Saturday," Eddie confird. "My place, six PM. Bring pepperoni and your capacity for dramatic combat narration."
"I don't do dramatic narration."
"You will by the end of the night." He walked away backward, still grinning. "Resistance is futile, Harrington!"
Eddie
Steve Harrington showing up at his trailer with four large pizzas was surreal enough.
Steve Harrington sitting on Eddie's ratty couch, actually paying attention to the campaign while the Hellfire seniors debated strategy? That was so alternate-dinsion shit.
"The dragon's obviously weak to ice magic," Steve said during a break, grabbing another slice. "You guys keep hitting it with fire spells. That's its elent. Try the opposite."
Jeff, the group's sorcerer, stared. "How do you know that?"
"Basic logic? Fire dragon probably lives in a volcano. Ice would be its natural weakness."
Eddie watched Steve integrate seamlessly into his group—asking questions, making observations, offering tactical suggestions that were actually smart. No mockery. No condescension. Just genuine interest.
Who is this guy?
The Steve Harrington everyone knew was popular, confident, destined for social dominance. But this Steve helped nerds with D&D strategy and bought pizza without expecting anything in return. This Steve defended Eddie from bullies and never asked for recognition.
Eddie had spent two years waiting for the punchline—the mont when Steve revealed it was all a joke, a long con to humiliate the freak. But the punchline never ca.
Instead, Steve kept showing up. Kept being decent. Kept acting like Eddie was worth his ti.
It was unsettling. And kind of amazing.
"Okay," Eddie announced after the dragon fight concluded spectacularly. "Steve Harrington is officially the Hellfire Club's patron saint. All in favor?"
Hands raised around the room. Steve looked embarrassed but pleased.
"Do I get a title?" he asked.
"The Paladin of Pizza," Eddie declared solemnly. "Defender of nerds, slayer of bullies, bringer of pepperoni."
Everyone laughed. Steve too, genuine and relaxed in a way Eddie had never seen him at school.
Yeah, Eddie thought. We're actually friends. Weird.
Steve
December arrived with biting cold and social recalibration.
Tommy cornered after basketball practice, frustration radiating from every movent. "Dude, what's your deal lately?"
"What do you an?"
"You know what I an." He gestured vaguely. "You're hanging with freaks. That Munson kid and the band geek. You walked away yesterday when and Carol were having fun with those AV Club losers."
"Fun." I grabbed my gym bag. "You an mockery."
"It's just jokes, man."
"It's bullying." I faced him directly. "And it's boring. Don't you have better things to do than make freshman cry?"
Tommy's jaw tightened. "Since when do you care?"
Since I died and ca back knowing exactly how this story ends, I thought. Since I realized high school cruelty is aningless when actual monsters exist.
"Since I grew up," I said instead. "Maybe you should try it."
I left him standing there, confused and angry. Carol caught up with in the parking lot, her expression calculating.
"You're choosing sides," she said. "King Steve doesn't hang with losers."
"Then maybe I'm not King Steve."
"You will be." She smiled, sharp and certain. "You're too good at it to walk away. This is just a phase."
"Maybe." I unlocked my car. "Or maybe I'm deciding who I actually want to be instead of who you think I should be."
Carol's smile faltered. I drove away before she could respond.
The distance grew throughout December. Tommy and Carol still invited to parties, but the invitations ca with unspoken conditions: be cruel, be shallow, be the King they expected. I declined more often than I accepted.
Eddie and Robin filled the gaps easily. Real conversations instead of performative popularity. Actual friendship instead of strategic alliances.
My sixteenth birthday ca on a Tuesday. My parents called from Tokyo—five minutes of awkward small talk before they rembered they had a eting. No cake. No celebration. Just another day in the empty mansion.
Until Robin showed up after school with Eddie trailing behind, carrying a homade cake that listed slightly to one side.
"Surprise?" Robin said, grinning. "Eddie baked. I supervised. It's probably edible."
"Definitely edible," Eddie corrected. "Possibly delicious. No promises."
They'd brought movies—The Evil Dead and An Arican Werewolf in London. We ate questionable cake in my basent, watched practical effects and fake blood, and argued about which transformation scene was better executed.
It was the best birthday I'd had in either life.
"Thanks," I said later, after Eddie left and Robin was gathering her things. "For this. For being..."
"Friends?" Robin supplied. "Yeah, well, you make it easy. Despite the whole mysterious-training-montage-in-your-basent thing."
"Still can't explain that."
"I know." She pulled on her jacket. "But when you can, I'm ready to listen. Whatever you're preparing for—you don't have to do it alone."
My throat tightened. "I'll rember that."
Robin left, and I sat in the basent surrounded by training equipnt and empty cake plates, feeling sothing I hadn't felt since waking up in this world: genuine gratitude.
I had real friends now. Not strategic alliances or carefully cultivated connections, but people who showed up with crooked cakes and bad movies because they gave a damn.
That mattered more than any amount of preparation or planning or future knowledge.
That was worth protecting.
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