𝐀𝐋𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐂. ˢᵗᵉᵛᵉ ʰᵃʳʳⁱⁿᵍᵗᵒⁿ ¹

003

𝟬𝟬𝟯. 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗿𝗼𝗻𝗴 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗱𝘀

THE HALLOWEEN PARTY WAS IN FULL SWING, the house packed wall to wall with bodies dressed in everything from cheap plastic masks to elaborate costumes. The bass thrummed through the floorboards, rattling the cheap Halloween decorations that Tina had strung up in a half-hearted attempt to turn her parents' place into a haunted house. Toni Henderson pushed her way through the sea of costumed teens, her sharp gaze cutting through the dim lighting as she tried to navigate the madness.

The air was thick with the scent of sweat, spilled beer, and cigarette smoke, tinged with the cloying sweetness of pumpkin-scented candles. Her fingers absently twisted one of the many silver rings adorning her hands, a restless habit she had when she was trying to suppress the urge to punch someone. Halloween parties were never her scene, but here she was, dressed in her carefully curated Michael Jackson outfit, her black fedora tipped low over her eyes. She wasn't about to let anyone think she came here to blend in.

Toni was making her way to the kitchen when Steve shoved his shoulder harshly passed hers, intending on making his way to his group of friends.

"Watch where you're going, Jesus," Toni muttered, frustrated.

"You were in the way," Steve rushed, before leaving her to stand there.

Toni rolled her eyes, pushing through a cluster of half-drunken partygoers to get to him. She stopped just short of the kitchen island, crossing her arms over her chest. 

After minutes of just standing, Toni decided to just throw caution to the air and lose herself in the chaos of the party, letting the pounding music and chatter swallow her whole. She didn't even realize how long she'd been wandering aimlessly through the house, weaving between clusters of people in skimpy costumes and drunken laughter. The longer she stayed, the more the party blurred into a mess of indistinguishable faces and loud music.

At some point, she decided she'd had enough. The crowd was suffocating, and her patience had worn thin. But when she reached for her back pocket, where her beloved Mustang's keys usually rested, her fingers found nothing but the smooth fabric of her pocket.

"Shit," she whispered, her eyes widening. She frantically checked her other pockets, even patting down the inside of her blazer. But it was no use. The keys were gone.

Panic started to creep in as she retraced her steps through the house. The thought of her precious car sitting unprotected outside sent a jolt of anxiety through her. She pushed her way through the partygoers, ignoring their annoyed looks as she bumped into them. Every corner of the dimly lit house seemed to mock her as she frantically searched, the sickly sweet scent of spiked punch and the haze of cigarette smoke clinging to the air like a bad memory.

After what felt like ages of searching, she was coming up empty. Her nerves were frayed, her frustration boiling over. There was only one person she'd actually spoken to tonight, and as much as she hated to admit it, he was the only lead she had.

Steve Harrington.

Grinding her teeth, Toni shoved her way through the crowded living room, scanning for that familiar mop of hair. The house seemed to have doubled in size now that she was actively searching for him. The laughter and blaring music were like a wall she had to push through, each second that ticked by making her panic rise.

When she finally spotted him, he was slipping out through the back door, the red leather of her keys gleaming briefly in his hand. Relief washed over her—until someone stumbled into her path, sending her sprawling into the coffee table. Her knees banged against the hardwood, and a sharp pain shot up her leg.

"Move!" she snapped at the drunken jock who had tripped her. He slurred an apology, but she was already up and sprinting for the door.

But by the time she made it outside, Steve was gone, vanished into the dark backyard where the partygoers were now spilling out onto the lawn. The chill of the night air hit her like a slap, and she swore under her breath, scanning the area for that stupid, perfectly coiffed hair.

The search was proving to be maddeningly fruitless. Every turn led to a new group of people blocking her way, laughing too loudly, completely oblivious to her panic. It was almost ironic that in a town as small as Hawkins, finding someone in Tina's house felt like searching for a needle in a haystack.

Her breath came in shallow, frustrated puffs as she tried to catch a glimpse of him through the throng. But Steve Harrington had disappeared like a ghost into the night, taking her damn keys with him.

-IRIS

id totally buy steve's hair off of ebay or smth and keep it in a jar