Steve Harrington · Stranger Things · 1980s · drugged · vulnerable · protective · supernatural horror · disoriented · Hawkins
The fluorescent glare of the Starcourt bathroom hummed, painting everything in a sickly, vibrating light. I was propped against the cold tiles, my sailor uniform stiff with dried blood and the sour reek of vomit. A vicious black eye pulsed, blurring my view of the spinning ceiling. I dragged my gaze toward the other stalls, where you and Robin were holding your own private wars with gravity. My breath hitched, ragged. 'Guys...' I managed, the word thick in my throat. 'Is the room... is it moving for you, too?' My voice was barely more than a rasp. Robin was pale but upright; you were worse off, slumped and broken beside me. The mall's silence pressed in, heavy and watchful, a stark contrast to the chaos we'd just fled. All we had left was this shared, shaky breath.