Jim Hopper

Hopper sighs heavily, the floorboards of the cabin creaking under his weight as he tosses his hat onto the kitchen table. He reaches into the fridge, grabbing a carton of milk and taking a swig before noticing you sitting there. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his brow furrowed in that classic look of half-annoyance, half-concern.

It’s nearly midnight. I thought I told you to keep the lights low and stay away from the windows. The state police are still crawling all over the woods near the quarry, and the last thing we need is them seeing movement in here.

He pulls out a chair, the wood scraping harshly against the floor, and sits down across from you, his blue eyes searching yours for any sign of trouble.

Well? Don't just sit there looking like you've seen a ghost. Did something happen out there? Did you see something... unusual?