TW- SMUT *plot takes place during season 4 however we used season 5 Mike for what he looks like so for his face/hair/outfits/etc. For all intensive purposes all characters are 18+* lowkey im destroyed over the finale it was so sad, so for all other purposes. i hate life. co-writer @ch0llies
The basement feels quieter without him.
Dustin flops back into his chair, staring at the ceiling. “I still can’t believe that worked.”
I smile, leaning back against the table. “You should believe in me more.”
“Oh, I do now,” he says immediately, sitting up. “Trust me.”
Mike’s still standing near the table, hands resting on the edge like he forgot what to do with them. He looks… lighter. Less wound tight. The sharpness from earlier dulled down.
“That move you pulled at the end,” he says, nodding toward the board. “The timing—most people would’ve panicked.”
“I hate panicking,” I reply. “It wastes turns.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh before he can stop himself.
Silence settles again—but this one’s comfortable.
“So,” Dustin says suddenly, sitting straighter. “Where do you live?”
I tell him the street name.
He squints. “Oh. Yeah, no. That’s like—completely the opposite side of town from me.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “I can walk.”
“It’s dark,” Dustin argues instantly. “You’re new. And you don’t have a bike.”
I open my mouth.
“And,” he adds, pointing between us, “you literally live like a block away from Mike.”
I blink. “I do?”
Dustin’s already decided. “Yes so, Mike can take you.”
Mike stiffens. “What?”
“You have a bike,” Dustin says like this is airtight logic. “She doesn’t. She’s a girl. And new. And you’re basically neighbors.”
“I—” Mike starts.
“It’s fine,” I say quickly, holding up a hand. “Really. I don’t want to—”
“It’s not a big deal,” Dustin insists. “Right, Mike?”
Mike looks at me.
Really looks at me.
Then he exhales. “It’s not a big deal.”
Outside, the night air is cool, quiet. Crickets hum somewhere nearby. Mike wheels his bike out onto the driveway, movements careful, like he’s hyper-aware of me standing there.
Dustin straps his radio project onto his own bike again, already halfway gone. “See you guys tomorrow,” he says, grinning. “Don’t die.”
“Encouraging,” Mike mutters.
Dustin pedals off, leaving us alone under the streetlight.
Mike holds the bike steady. “Same deal as before,” he says. “Just—hold on.”
I step closer. Close enough that I can feel the warmth of him again, familiar now.
As I reach for the back of the seat—
That’s where it stops.
The bike is steady beneath his hands.
I’m just about to climb on when I stop myself.
“Mike,” I say softly.
He turns around.
And—oh.
The streetlight above us washes him in this warm, amber glow that feels unfair. The sharp angles of his face soften, shadows cutting just enough to make his eyes look darker, deeper. His hair’s a mess, curls falling into his forehead, and finally he isn’t scowling.
He just looks… good.
Really good.
“Yeah?” he asks.
I swallow. “Are you, like… super busy right now?”
His eyes flick over me before he can stop himself. Not rude. Not obvious. Just a quick, quiet assessment—like he’s clocking that I’m standing closer than before, that the night feels different than it did five minutes ago.
“Not really,” he says. “Why?”
I hesitate for half a second—then go for it.
“Could you… maybe give me a quick tour?” I ask. “Of the town. Just for a little bit. While no one’s around.”
His brows knit together. He should say no. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way he shifts his weight like he’s trying to talk himself out of it.
But then I look at him.
Really look at him.
And something about the way his shoulders drop tells me he’s already lost.
“…Yeah,” he says finally. “Fine.”
I smile, slow and pleased. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he repeats, quieter this time.
I climb onto the back of the bike again, settling in. He starts pedaling, the tires crunching softly against the pavement as we roll down the street.
We don’t get far.
Suddenly, he slows—and then stops.
“What—?”
Before I can finish, he reaches back and grabs my wrist gently, fingers warm against my skin. He guides my hand forward, pressing it against his jacket, closer to his waist.
“You’re gonna need to hold on more,” he says. “I’m gonna go faster this time.”
I freeze.
“I—”
He glances back at me, mouth tilting into the faintest smile. Not smug. Just teasing. Almost shy.
“What?” he says. “I’m not gonna bite you.”
I hesitate.
Then I slide my other hand forward too, fingers curling into his jacket properly this time. My chest presses lightly against his back, close enough that I can feel his breath hitch.
“Better?” I ask.
He swallows. “Yeah.”
The bike lurches forward, faster now, the wind rushing past us as Hawkins blurs into streaks of light and shadow. His body leans into turns with easy confidence, and I move with him instinctively, holding tighter when he accelerates.
And for a moment, as we disappear down the street together, it feels like the town is ours.
Just us.
Just the night.
And the way Mike somehow, inexplicably, can’t say no to me.
The bike moves faster this time.
Not reckless—just enough to make the wind bite and my fingers tighten in his jacket. Hawkins slips past in pieces: dark houses, porch lights, quiet streets that feel abandoned in the way only small towns can at night.
Mike keeps glancing back at me as he rides. Not fully turning—just those quick looks over his shoulder, checking if I’m still there.
“So,” he says, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the wind, “that over there is the middle school. Where Dustin set a trash can on fire in seventh grade.”
I laugh.
“And that,” he adds, nodding toward a darkened storefront, “used to be a RadioShack. It closed. Obviously.”
“Wow,” I say dryly. “You really know how to sell this place.”
He huffs. “I never said it was impressive.”
We slow at a stop sign, and he plants one foot on the ground. The streetlight above us flickers, bathing him in that same warm glow again. He looks stupidly good like this—hair wind-tousled, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes brighter than they were earlier in the day.
“You cold?” he asks.
“A little.”
He doesn’t even hesitate.
He shrugs out of his jacket and hands it back to me like it’s no big deal. Like it doesn’t leave him in just a hoodie, sleeves pushed up, veins faintly visible along his forearms.
I slide it on.
It smells like him.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Yeah,” he mutters, eyes flicking away a little too quickly.
We keep riding.
The banter comes easy now—snide comments about Hawkins, jokes about teachers, quiet laughs when our knees bump at stoplights. Every once in a while, I catch him looking at me in reflections—store windows, dark car doors. Every time I do, he looks away like he got caught doing something illegal.
Eventually, the streets change.
Trailers replace houses. Gravel crunches under the tires. The air feels heavier out here, like the town forgot this part existed.
Mike slows.
“This is the trailer park,” he says. “Eddie lives here.”
“Eddie from Hellfire?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
We stop just as a trailer door opens.
Two figures step out.
I recognize Eddie immediately—messy hair, leather jacket, animated even when he’s just walking. The girl beside him makes my stomach drop a little.
Perfect hair. Cheerleader jacket. Pretty in a way Hawkins worships.
Mike stiffens beside me.
“What the fuck,” he mutters.
“What?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”
He stares as Eddie holds the door open for her, laughing, letting her walk inside first.
“That’s Chrissy Cunningham,” he says slowly. “She’s dating Jason Carver.”
I blink. “The basketball captain?”
“Yeah,” he says, disbelief sharp in his voice. “And Eddie is—”
“A loser?” I finish quietly.
He exhales. “Yeah.”
We watch the door close behind them.
The trailer goes dark.
Something uneasy settles in my chest, like we just witnessed something we weren’t meant to see.
“Huh,” I murmur. “Guess people aren’t always what Hawkins thinks they are.”
Mike glances at me. Really looks at me this time.
“Yeah,” he says. “I guess not.”
The silence between us stretches—not awkward. Charged.
He clears his throat. “We should probably… keep going. I still owe you the rest of the tour.”
I smile, tightening my grip on him again. “Lead the way, Wheeler.”
We ride away from the trailer park like nothing just shifted in the universe—even though it definitely did.
The road smooths out again, quieter now. Mike relaxes, shoulders loosening as he starts pointing things out again like he didn’t just short-circuit five minutes ago.
“That’s the park,” he says, nodding to a dark stretch of swings. “We used to camp out there all summer.”
“I’m sensing a pattern,” I say. “You guys did everything everywhere.”
He scoffs. “There’s literally nothing else to do here.”
I laugh, leaning in closer so he can hear me. Somewhere along the way, my hands slide lower—less jacket, more him. My fingers hook casually into one of his belt loops, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He stiffens immediately.
“Uh—” he starts, then clears his throat. “You good back there?”
“Yeah,” I say innocently. “Why?”
His ears turn pink. Actually pink.
“N-no reason.”
The bike wobbles just a little.
I grin to myself.
We keep talking—about music, about how much Hawkins sucks, about how Dustin never shuts up. Mike’s wit sharpens when he’s relaxed, dry and quick, and I find myself smiling more than I mean to. Every once in a while, he laughs fully, head tipping back just a bit, and it does something unfair to my chest.
By the time we turn onto my street, it feels too soon.
He slows in front of my house, rolling to a stop under another streetlight. He hops off first, steadying the bike.
“Here,” he says, offering a hand to help me down.
I take it.
His grip is warm. Careful. Like he’s afraid to do the wrong thing.
I land, still close, his jacket hanging off my shoulders. For a second, neither of us moves.
“Thanks for the tour,” I say softly.
“Yeah,” he replies. “Anytime.”
I take a step back. Then another.
“Hey,” he says suddenly.
I turn.
“I think you’re forgetting something.”
I hesitate for exactly half a second—then walk back to him, heart pounding. I reach up, fingers curling lightly into his hoodie, and kiss him.
It’s soft. Quick. Just enough.
When I pull back, he’s frozen—eyes wide, lips parted, stunned in the most endearing way. Like a puppy that just got surprised with affection.
“Oh,” he says faintly.
Then he blinks. “I—I meant my jacket.”
I laugh.
“But,” he adds quickly, stepping closer, hands finding my waist like he finally decided to stop overthinking it, “that works too.”
He kisses me again—longer this time, surer, like he’s figured something out mid-motion.
When we part, he’s still flustered, still pink, still looking at me like he can’t quite believe this is real.
I pull back just enough to breathe.
Mike barely lets me—his hands still warm at my waist, forehead resting against mine, lips chasing like he hasn’t caught up yet.
“Mike,” I murmur.
He opens his eyes.
Up close like this, he looks wrecked—in the best way. Hair mussed, mouth pink and swollen, pupils blown like he forgot the rest of the world exists.
“Yeah?” he says, breathless.
I glance toward my front door, then back at him. “Do you want to come inside?”
His breath stutters.
“…Inside?” he repeats, like the word needs a second to load. He doesn’t look away from me when he asks, quietly, “What about your parents?”
“It’s fine,” I say easily, fingers sliding up into his hair. “My dad’s not home yet. Bar night. My mom’s not… around.”
That’s all it takes.
He swallows.
I don’t wait for him to overthink it.
“C’mon,” I whisper, already stepping back and tugging him with me.
He follows.
The door barely clicks shut behind us before he’s kissing me again—harder this time, like the permission flipped a switch. His hands find my waist, my back, pulling me flush against him as we stumble down the hallway.
We bump into the wall. I laugh against his mouth.
“Sorry,” he mutters, not sounding sorry at all.
I grab his collar and pull him with me, kissing him as I walk us backward, toward my room. He makes this quiet sound—half laugh, half breath—that sends heat straight through me.
“Jesus,” he murmurs. “You’re—”
“Mike,” I warn softly, smiling.
He shuts up immediately. Kisses me deeper instead.
By the time we reach my room, we’re both a mess—hands everywhere but never crossing a line, tension coiled so tight it’s almost dizzying. He backs me toward the bed, then stops himself, forehead dropping to my shoulder like he’s grounding himself.
He laughs quietly, shaking his head. “I’m trying really hard to be cool.”
I smile, brushing my thumb over his cheek. “You’re doing great.”
He looks at me like that might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to him.
We kiss again—slower now, deliberate, like neither of us wants to rush what we’re building. His hands settle at my hips, steady, protective, and I realize how rare it is to feel this wanted and this safe at the same time.
Outside, Hawkins stays quiet.
Inside, everything feels like it’s just getting started.
The door clicks shut behind us, sealing the world out.
Mike’s hands stay on my waist like his body hasn’t caught up to the fact that we’ve stopped moving. He’s breathing hard, forehead resting against mine, a crooked smile tugging at his lips like he can’t believe any of this is happening.
“This is—” he exhales, chest rising against mine. “Definitely not how I thought tonight was gonna go.”
“Disappointed?” I tease, brushing my mouth over his again.
His laugh is low, a little wrecked. “Not even close.”
We stumble back together, kissing. His hoodie bunches in my fists as I drag him closer, his fingers skimming up my sides, slow and intentional, like he’s memorizing every reaction I give him.
“Fuck,” he murmurs against my jaw, lips trailing heat down the side of my throat.
I moan, tugging him by his belt loop again—slow this time, deliberate.
He freezes for half a second. A sharp inhale. His hand tightens on my hip.
“You keep doing that,” he says, voice deeper than before, “like you don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“I know exactly.” My thumb hooks under the denim again, pulling him closer, watching the way his breath stutters. “What I’m asking for, Mike.”
His self-control cracks right there.
He kisses me harder, pushing me back onto the bed, the two of us landing in a messy tangle of limbs and laughter that dissolves instantly into heat. His mouth finds mine again—hungrier now, focused. His hands slide under my shirt, warm and sure, and the sound he makes when I arch into him goes straight through me.
“Damn,” he whispers against my skin, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
I tug at the hem of his hoodie, and he sits up just long enough to pull it over his head and toss it aside. His hair is even more ruined now, cheeks flushed, eyes dark and fixed on me like I’m the only thing in the room worth looking at.
“Come here,” I murmur.
He does—immediately, like he couldn’t stop himself if he tried.
The weight of him settles over me, careful but wanting. His hands slide down my thighs, slow, teasing, as he kisses me again, deeper this time. Every brush of his mouth feels like a question he already knows the answer to.
“You sure?” he asks quietly, breath warm against my lips. “Because I’m not stopping once you say yes.”
I cup his face, pull him back down, and kiss him like I mean it.
“There’s your answer.”
He groans—soft, relieved, almost disbelieving—before his lips crash into mine again. His hands explore with intent now, bolder, slipping beneath clothes with purpose. I feel his breath hitch when I pull him closer, our bodies aligning perfectly.
The room gets smaller, warmer, quieter except for the sound of our breathing and the soft hum of the mattress under us. His mouth finds my neck, my collarbone, everywhere I react, and he smiles against my skin each time I do.
“You’re gonna ruin me,” he whispers, voice low, honest.
“Good.”
He laughs, short and breathless, before rolling his hips against mine, slow but unmistakable. The tension snaps like a live wire. His forehead drops to my shoulder as he exhales a shaky sound he tries and fails to hide.
“Okay,” he mutters, smiling into my skin. “Yeah. I need you.”
His hands guide mine to his waistband, helping, inviting, giving me control even as he trembles with how badly he wants this.
His hands guide mine the rest of the way, fingers brushing my knuckles like he’s grounding himself through the contact. The click of his belt opening feels louder than it should in the quiet room. He exhales, slow and shaky, watching my face the entire time—checking, reading, trusting.
“You don’t rush anything, do you?” I murmur.
He huffs a breath of laughter. “Not this.”
He closes his eyes briefly when my palms slide over his chest, jaw flexing like he’s holding something in.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re killing me.”
My turn comes next, and he’s reverent about it—slower than I expect. His fingers hook under the hem of my top, lifting it carefully, like he doesn’t want to spook the moment. When it comes away, he pauses, just looking at me, eyes dark and steady.
He leans in again, kissing me deep and unhurried, hands warm and confident as they trace curves like he’s committing them to memory. Clothes start to disappear without ceremony—dropped, kicked aside, forgotten—until there’s nothing left between us but heat and breath and the soft press of skin against skin.
He nudges me back onto the bed again, following immediately, bracing himself over me without smothering. His mouth moves slow and purposeful, like he’s savoring every reaction, every sound I don’t quite manage to hold back.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, forehead resting against mine. “You’re unreal.”
Mike’s mouth finds mine again, but this time there’s no hesitation in it—just heat and purpose. His hands settle on my bare hips, firm, guiding, pinning me beneath him without using any real weight. He doesn’t have to. The intention alone sends a rush through me.
He shifts, settling between my legs, and the press of his naked body against mine is slow, deliberate, undeniable. His breath drags against my neck as he moves, and the quiet sound he makes when my hands grip his shoulders is low and satisfied.
“Stay right here,” he murmurs, voice rough for the first time.
He lowers himself, one hand bracing beside my head, the other guiding my thigh up around his waist. The shift pulls our bodies flush, and he exhales sharply against my cheek as he settles into me, slow and controlled.
His hand slides beneath me, lifting my hips to meet him as he runs the tip between my folds. When he finally puts it in, the sound that slips out of him when our bodies align sends heat straight through me. He buries his face at my neck, breath warm as he sets a steady, deliberate pace—each movement rolling through both of us with building intensity.
His fingers lace with mine briefly before he presses my wrist into the mattress beside my head, not forcing—just holding, guiding, anchoring me there as his other hand stays firm on my hip, keeping me exactly where he wants me.
“God,” he murmurs against my jaw, more to himself than to me, like he’s adjusting us into perfect sync.
Every shift of his hips is stronger now, more certain, his breath hitching each time my body responds to the force and angle he uses. His control is unmistakable—tight, consistent, the kind that leaves no space for second-guessing.
He moves with intention, with weight, with purpose—his forehead dropping to mine for a moment as the pace deepens, steadier, more consuming. The bed creaks softly beneath us; his hand tightens on my hip to keep me grounded; his breath grows heavier against my skin.
The room feels smaller with the way he’s moving, the way he holds my body under his, the way he doesn’t break rhythm even when the tension builds sharply between us.
His grip adjusts, fingers spreading wider over my hip as if to lock the angle in place, and every movement after that lands deeper, surer. The rhythm he sets is unbroken, each roll of his body controlled and deliberate, like he’s counting it out in his head. The mattress dips beneath the strength of his movement, the soft creak underscoring how firmly he’s got me.
His mouth drags from my jaw to my collarbone, then lower, teeth grazing just enough to make my breath stutter. One hand stays planted beside my head, keeping me right where he wants me, while the other slides along my thigh again, thumb pressing in, steadying me as he drives the pace forward.
The heat between us builds fast now—slick skin, shallow breaths, the sound of him exhaling hard through his nose each time his hips pull back and push forward again. He doesn’t break contact, doesn’t pull away to look—he stays close, chest to chest, the tension living in the way his muscles tighten and release with every movement.
His lips brush my ear.
“Just like that,” he mutters, voice thick, almost breathless.
The grip on my wrist tightens—not painful—just enough pressure to remind me he’s there, anchoring me, keeping me open to the rhythm he’s chosen. His other hand slides beneath me again, lifting my hips higher, changing the angle until the response from my body is immediate and unmistakable.
His breathing turns uneven, heavier now, the control still there but strained at the edges as the intensity climbs. His forehead presses to mine again, jaw clenched, movement stronger, deeper, still measured but relentless.
The room fades down to sensation—heat, pressure, the steady sound of skin meeting skin. He keeps the pace exactly where it is, refusing to let it slip or falter, holding you there with him as everything tightens and builds.
Mike stays over me the entire time until the tension peaks sharp and consuming, both our bodies finally giving into it with a low sound against my throat as he holds me still through it.
Only then does he slow.
Not all at once—just enough to keep me there with him, breath to breath, bodies still pressed close, his hand lingering on my hip like he hasn’t forgotten for a second exactly where I was.
Morning comes too fast.
I wake up tangled in warmth—sheets twisted, sunlight leaking in through the blinds in thin gold stripes. For half a second I forget where I am.
Then I feel him shift beside me.
Mike.
He’s on his stomach, arm loose around my waist like it belongs there, hair completely wrecked, expression soft.
There’s a bang on the front door.
Then another.
“Y/N—HELLO—OPEN UP—”
I jolt upright. “Oh my god.”
Mike groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Is that—”
“Yes,” I whisper. “That’s Dustin.”
The knocking gets louder.
“I’ll get it,” I say quickly, already reaching for clothes. I yank on a shirt, shove my feet into shorts, and point at Mike. “You—put something on.”
He fumbles for his sweater from last night, tugging it over his head, then steps into his jeans like he’s still half asleep. He looks unfairly good like this—rumpled, flushed, very obviously just woken up somewhere he didn’t plan on waking up.
I rush down the hall and open the door.
Dustin Henderson stands on my porch, pale and panicked, mid-breath.
“Thank god,” he blurts—then freezes.
His eyes flick past me.
To Mike.
Standing behind me. In yesterday’s clothes.
Silence.
“…What,” Dustin says slowly, “is this.”
My stomach drops.
Mike reacts instantly. “Nothing.- She asked for a town tour,” Mike continues, talking quickly now, hands shoved in his pockets. “And by the time I got back here it was really late so I just—crashed. That’s all.”
Dustin looks between us.
Then at me.
Then back at Mike.
His mouth twists like he absolutely does not buy it—but whatever’s on his mind is bigger than that.
“Okay,” he says stiffly. “Sure.”
The pause hangs there, heavy and weird.
Then Dustin exhales sharply. “Anyway—this is bad. Like, really bad.”
Mike straightens immediately. “What happened?”
Dustin swallows. “Chrissy’s dead.”
The words hit like a slap.
“What?” I breathe.
“They found her this morning,” he says, voice shaking now. “In Eddie’s trailer. And no one knows where Eddie is.”
Mike goes still.
“Dead how?” he asks.
Dustin shakes his head. “I don’t know. No one does. They’re saying it’s… it’s messed up. Like nothing I’ve ever heard.”
The porch feels too small. The morning was suddenly too quiet.
“They’re already blaming Eddie,” Dustin adds. “Jason’s losing his mind. The cops are everywhere.”
Mike runs a hand through his hair, eyes dark, brain clearly racing. “This doesn’t make sense.”
“I know,” Dustin says. “That’s why I came here. We need to figure out what actually happened.”
I glance at Mike.
He looks back at me—something unspoken passing between us, something that didn’t exist yesterday morning.
“Okay,” he says finally. “Yeah. We will.”
Dustin nods, then hesitates, glancing between us again. “You guys… good?”
“Yeah,” Mike says immediately.
The silence after Dustin’s words feels wrong—too heavy for a sunny morning.
I turn slowly toward Mike.
“…We saw them,” I say.
Both of them look at me.
“Last night,” I continue. “At the trailer park. Eddie and Chrissy. Together.”
Mike nods immediately. “Yeah.”
Dustin’s head snaps between us. “You what?”
“We were on Mike’s bike,” I explain. “We watched them walk into Eddie’s trailer.”
Dustin pales. “Okay. Okay—then we definitely can’t tell the cops.”
“What?” I snap.
Mike shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t know if we should—”
I stare at him. “What do you mean you don’t know?”
My voice rises despite myself. “Mike, a girl is dead. We’re witnesses. That’s not optional.”
Dustin steps forward quickly. “No—no, listen to me. You don’t get it yet.”
“Get what?” I shoot back. “From where I’m standing, your freak-show friend probably killed his secret girlfriend and ran.”
“That’s not funny,” Dustin says sharply. “And it’s not true.”
“Oh yeah?” I say. “Because it looks pretty bad.”
Dustin’s voice breaks just a little. “I know Eddie. He wouldn’t do that. He’s not—he’s not like that.”
“You don’t know that,” I argue. “You just like him.”
“I do know that,” Dustin insists. “He’s weird and loud and everyone hates him, but he’s not a murderer.”
I turn to Mike, expecting backup.
He doesn’t give it.
Instead, he looks torn—hands flexing at his sides, eyes darting between Dustin and me. “You shouldn’t have said that.”
My chest tightens. “So you’re just… what? Protecting him?”
“I’m protecting the truth,” Dustin says. “And you can’t tell anyone. Not the cops. Not your friends. No one.”
“That’s insane,” I say. “This isn’t a game.”
Mike finally looks at me fully.
And his expression—
It kills my momentum instantly.
No anger. No defensiveness.
Just that soft, worried look. Brows pulled together, eyes dark and earnest, like he’s silently begging me not to push him away right now. Like he’s already scared of losing something he just found.
“Please,” he says quietly. “Just… trust us. For now.”
I open my mouth.
Close it.
He steps a little closer, lowering his voice. “I know how it sounds. I know it’s messed up. But if we’re wrong—and we tell the cops—Eddie’s done. Forever.”
Dustin nods desperately. “They already hate him. They’re looking for a monster, and he fits what they want.”
I look between them.
Logic tells me this is stupid.
But Mike’s eyes don’t leave mine—and there’s something in them that wasn’t there yesterday. Something fragile. Something asking me to choose him.
“…For now,” I say slowly.
Both of them exhale at the same time.
“But,” I add sharply, pointing between them, “if I find out you’re wrong—if you’re hiding something from me—I’m going straight to the police. No warning.”
she frequently captures public attention by pairing hyper-feminine, "coquette" elements like frilly pink babydoll tops, lace bows, and plaid mini-skirts with oversized, streetwear-inspired staples such as baggy distressed denim, chunky sneakers, and even Ugg boots.
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The boys look at her Immediately Lee Know does a double take, jokingly checking his own wardrobe to see if his shorts are missing, while Seungmin records a video of her "clunky" walk in the oversized shorts, calling her "The Tiny Menace" in his head.
while the skz talker later on released with Some comments being like , Expectation vs. Reality" memes showing how most people would look messy in that outfit, but Yeoni somehow makes it look like a high-concept fashion editorial, solidifying her status as the industry's most unpredictable style icon.
The object is a subway passenger train consisting of 6-8 cars, including the locomotive. Externally, it is indistinguishable from standard subway trains in the destination location. The train is mostly empty; in 5% of observations, the presence of standard forgotten items (suitcases, umbrellas, hats) was noted. The presence of a driver is unknown; it moves independently using [DATA EXPUNGED]. Attempting to enter the driver's cabin results in [DATA EXPUNGED] (see the Karus Incident Report).
Trigger: Entering through any open door. The effect is only triggered if the victim entering was alone on the platform and only if the described event occurs between 00:00 and 03:47 local time. It was first observed and described in 19■■ in the city of [DATA EXPUNGED]. The origin of the object is unknown.
1. PROPERTIES / ANOMALOUS CHARACTERISTICS
Upon activation, the victim experiences severe disorientation, dizziness, and a burning sensation throughout the body. The transformation of the victim's body and mind takes up to 3 minutes, during which time the lights in the car flicker or go out completely. After a period of time, the victim takes on the appearance, linguistic, and cultural characteristics of a native of the object's next destination. The train car model and interior change depending on the destination.
Stages:
1. Musculoskeletal restructuring (1 min) – changes in height/weight, general build. The victim's gender is retained in 100% of cases.
2. Cognitive restructuring (2 min) – restructuring of cognitive and behavioral constructs, but only within the context of a change in cultural programming. The victim forgets their original language and traditions, acquiring new ones depending on the train's destination.
3. Environment formation (3 min) – changes in the condition of the train, locomotive, and train cars.
4. All stages are not accompanied by physical changes in the victims' clothing, footwear, or personal belongings.
In their final form, the victim is fully aware of who they were before the transformation and remembers their original state and personality. However, behaviorally, the victim is indistinguishable from a native [DATA EXPUNGED].
Reversibility: Not recorded. Research into access to locomotive controls is being conducted by Professor [DATA EXPUNGED].
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
Eric Morrison wasn't supposed to work that night.
But his partner caught the flu, and his boss said, "Either you come on or find another job." Eric had no choice, so he went on shift. His rent in Brooklyn was already overdue. The last thing he needed was to lose his job.
By midnight, he'd delivered eight deliveries. The ninth was in Queens. He was almost there, but his bike got a flat tire on the windshield. He had to abandon it at a diner, get on the subway, and ride the train. He decided to return the same way. Jamaica-Van Wyke station. The platform was empty. The clock read 12:17 AM.
Eric stood at the edge, looking into the darkness of the tunnel. The train appeared suddenly from the depths of the tunnel, as if it hadn't been approaching gradually, but had literally leaped out from around the bend. Eric didn't pay any attention to it. Old carriages. Yellow-silver, and something seemed off about them. The doors opened with a hiss.
The light inside was dim. Not a soul.
Eric hesitated for a second. But fatigue got the better of him. He really wanted to go home. He sat down by the door, placed his empty cooler backpack next to him, and buried himself in his smartphone. The train pulled out.
"Just six stops," he muttered under his breath. "Six stops, and I'm home."
Suddenly, the lights in the carriage flickered and went out.
In the glow of his smartphone, Eric looked around. The train was moving slowly through the tunnel, slowing down. Eric thought it was possible the cables were shorting out, and if there was something serious, the driver would have applied the brakes. The lights didn't come on, and Eric noticed something—the smell. The subway smelled different. Eric frowned.
He looked up at the route map above the doors.
In the flickering light of the lamps, it showed an unfamiliar map. Circle lines. Names in Japanese. 山手線», «中央線», 新宿 Eric blinked. He thought he was hallucinating from fatigue.
And then the burning began. All over his body.
He clutched his chest. His heart was pounding, but the burning wasn't coming from his chest. It was coming from his fingers. He looked down. The strobe lights pressed against his eyes, but he saw: Eric was dark-skinned; he knew his own skin color. Now his hands were a few shades lighter. Yellowish. His fingers were thinner. His nails were pale, oval. Eric jumped up from his chair and realized he had become shorter. His body had shrunk, his arms and torso losing the weight and muscle he'd built up in the gym and on the bike. His shirt hung loosely on his thin shoulders.
"What..." he began.
His voice cracked. Something tightened in his throat. Elijah coughed. The sound was different. Higher.
He ran to the door. He looked in the glass. It reflected his terrified face, but with each passing second it was changing: Eric saw his cheekbones sharpen, his skin tone pale, his eyes narrower, and his nose smaller and thinner. His hair grew thicker and straighter, reaching his ears. Eric's dark eyes widened with terror.
He clutched the glass. The reflection clutched back.
"そんなはずはない！" he screamed.
Eric froze. He realized what he'd said. He didn't know Japanese. He knew Spanish, a little, because he'd studied it in school. But not Japanese.
He covered his mouth with his hands and looked around for help. Staring at his reflection, he didn't notice that the car around him had also changed: the seats, the handrails, the advertising posters... everything had become unfamiliar. The train slowed. Station lights flickered outside the windows. The platform. People. Bright sunlight. Advertising in Japanese.
The doors opened. A crowd of Japanese-looking people boarded the train as if nothing had happened.
Eric barely managed to step onto the platform, squeezing through the crowd. He looked around. A sign overhead: "Shinjuku."
A man in a station attendant's uniform approached him. Eric noticed a strange symbol on the lapel of his jacket.
"何が起こっているの？ここはどこ？" Eric asked. Before the man could answer, he was roughly pushed aside by two people in blue. Man and woman.
さあ、若者よ、我々と一緒に来なさい。the woman said.
INCIDENT SUMMARY
Date: July 23, 20■■, Tokyo.
A subject named Eric Morrison was found by Tokyo agents immediately after USTR Command reported the movement of STR-1055. The victim was extremely disoriented. He answered questions in perfect Japanese.
Emotional reactions varied, including frequent screaming and tears. An interrogation was conducted. The subject is fully oriented in his personality and memory, but notes the presence of false memories of his childhood in Tokyo. He was placed under observation.
Further research is pending. METHOD: Psychometric testing 24 hours after transformation.
RESULTS:
— Original native language (English): 0% listening comprehension, 0% reading comprehension.
— Japanese: N1 (native) level across all parameters.
— False memories: stable, subject "remembers" childhood in the Sumida district, school, and university. However, the subject retains a full awareness of their original personality as their true identity.
— Physical condition: anthropometric data fully corresponds to the average Japanese man aged 25-30 (height 172 cm, weight 68 kg). Blood type: A (previously O). Rh factor is intact.
NOTES: Subject periodically attempts to speak English, makes inarticulate sounds, and becomes enraged by the inability to do so. Ongoing psychological support and English as a foreign language courses are recommended.
Informed of the threat of information dissemination. Sent to the Victim Adaptation Unit with the subsequent possibility of returning to the original city. "Protocol 17" was used for contact with civilians.
RESEARCH LOGS ARE LACKED DUE TO THE INABILITY TO CONTAIN THE ANOMALY AND CONDUCT EXPERIMENTS.
Further action is only possible using [DATA EXPUNGED]
INCIDENT TIMELINES
— Internal Field Agent Reports. Classified as "Confidential" —
SUMMARY # [DATA EXPUNGED]
DATE: 11/03/2017
CAPTURE TIME: 00:43 (local time)
DEPARTURE POINT: Piccadilly Circus Station, London, UK
ARRIVAL POINT: Chongqingmen Station, Chongqing, China. VICTIM (INITIAL): 41 years old, white British, architect, 185 cm tall, 94 kg
VICTIM (FINAL): male, Han Chinese, 173 cm tall, 65 kg
INCIDENT DETAILS:
The victim boarded an empty train at Piccadilly Circus station after midnight, returning from a work party. There were two other passengers on the train (later determined to be victims).
CONCLUSION:
DATE: 07/19/2023
The object is capable of transporting multiple victims between cities. It is recommended to tighten surveillance protocols at stations with high tourist traffic.
SUMMARY # [DATA EXPUNGED]
CAPTURE TIME: 01:03 (local time)
DEPARTURE POINT: Chkalovskaya Station, Moscow, Russia
ARRIVAL POINT: Dongguk-de-Pawo Station, Seoul, South Korea
VICTIM (INITIAL): 34-year-old male, Caucasian Russian, 178 cm tall, 87 kg
VICTIM (TERMINAL): Male, Korean, 174 cm tall, 68 kg
INCIDENT PARTICULARS:
Our agent arrived 40 minutes after the victim's arrival at the final station. The victim was in a state of acute panic attack. He was able to write Russian without errors—a manifestation of language aphasia.
CONCLUSION:
It has been established that written speech remains intact for some time. This distinguishes STR-1055 from other language-rewriting anomalies.
SUMMARY # [DATA EXPUNGED]
DATE: 05/05/2026
TIME OF CAPTURE: 00:21 (local time)
DEPARTURE POINT: Gare du Nord Station, Paris, France (Line 4)
ARRIVAL POINT: Almeda Station, Lisbon, Portugal (Green Line)
VICTIM (INITIAL): 26 years old, female, Algerian (French citizen), 165 cm tall, 58 kg
VICTIM (FINAL): female, Portuguese female, 176 cm tall, 72 kg
INCIDENT PARTICULARS: [DATA EXPUNGED]
CONCLUSION: [DATA EXPUNGED]
4. TECHNICAL DEPARTMENT CONCLUSION
Object STR-1055 cannot be destroyed or contained—if any attempt is made to dismantle the tracks in one city, it begins appearing in another with double the frequency. Recommended containment protocol: a global network of observers at all metro stations between 12:00 AM and 4:00 AM. If a train is detected, the platform will be blocked under the pretext of "technical malfunctions." All identified victims are subject to immediate isolation, psychological adaptation, and integration. Finding a method for reverse transformation is a priority for the International Department of Linguistic Anomalistics.
To date, 147 victims of STR-1055 have been identified. 89 have adapted to their new lives. 55 are in isolation with a diagnosis of "acute dissociative fugue with cognitive dissonance." Three remain missing.
