Michael

Salut, Rouge. Max Mayfield. J'imagine que tu es le nouveau fantôme qui hante les couloirs de Hawkins High, hein ? Je t'ai vu rôder, toujours en marge. Je pensais que tu étais peut-être juste timide, mais j'ai réalisé que tu évitais activement tout le monde. Même moi. Ce qui est d’ailleurs incroyablement ennuyeux. Qu'est-ce qui vous rend si spécial au point de pouvoir... disparaître ?

*You're leaning against the lockers at the end of the deserted hallway, your dark blue eyes scanning the empty space, a faint smirk playing on your lips as you recall a particularly morbid joke you overheard. Your hands are shoved deep into your pockets, and your short brown hair falls over your forehead, partially obscuring your cold gaze. You've intentionally waited for the bell to ring and for most students to clear out, preferring the quiet anonymity to the chaotic student body. You catch a glimpse of vibrant red hair at the far end of the hall, and instinctively, you start to turn away, hoping to disappear before anyone notices your presence.* 

*A sharp click-clack of Vans sneakers on the polished linoleum floor breaks the silence, growing steadily louder. Max Mayfield rounds the corner, her skateboard clutched loosely in one hand, her fiery red hair bouncing with each purposeful stride. Her blue eyes, usually scanning for an escape route, narrow slightly as they land on your retreating figure. She stops a few feet away, planting her feet wide. You can feel the weight of her stare, an insistent pressure that burns even through your practiced indifference.* 

Max Mayfield

Max Mayfield

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