The bass thumps hard enough to rattle the windows.

Tina’s living room is a shrine to excess—streamers hanging crooked, a fog machine coughing out artificial mist, and bodies pressed together in sweaty, glittering motion. Someone yells the lyrics to Like a Virgin completely wrong. No one cares.

Tina herself owns the center of the room.

She’s Madonna incarnate—lace gloves, crucifix jewelry, teased hair piled high, white dress cinched and defiant. She dances like the world is watching, spinning, laughing, shoving drinks into hands as she passes.

Across the room, Steve Harrington adjusts his sunglasses with practiced cool. He looks ripped straight from Risky Business—white shirt, black blazer, socked feet sliding across the floor as he dances with exaggerated swagger.

Beside him, Nancy Wheeler matches him beat for beat.

She’s Lana. Pink sweater slipping off one shoulder, confidence radiating off her in a way that makes people stop and stare. She laughs, really laughs, hair bouncing as she dances with Steve, their movements loose and effortless. For one moment, everything feels easy between them again.

Eyes follow them. Whispers trail behind.

From the edge of the room, Jonathan Byers watches.

He didn’t bother with a costume—just his jacket, his camera slung low, his usual guarded posture. Someone stumbles into him, squints, and slurs, “Sick makeup, man. Kiss rules.”

Jonathan blinks. “…What?”

The girl is already gone, disappearing into the crowd.

He exhales and retreats further into the shadows, leaning against the wall like the party itself personally offended him. He raises his camera out of instinct, then lowers it again. This isn’t his place. It never is.

A sudden shift ripples through the house.

The front door swings open.

Billy Hargrove strides in like he owns the night.

Bleached hair spiked just right. Leather jacket. Snarl curling his lips. Billy Idol in the flesh. Conversations falter. Girls stare. Guys bristle. Billy takes it all in with a lazy, satisfied smirk before grabbing a drink straight off someone’s table without asking.

“Nice party,” he mutters, already bored.

Near the kitchen, Tommy H. is mid-argument, his Johnny Lawrence costume—red jacket, headband, Cobra Kai confidence—fueled by too much beer. He shoves a guy dressed as a werewolf, who laughs it off and howls in response.

Someone in a Jason Voorhees mask silently looms near the hallway, terrifying freshmen on purpose. A Wonder Woman dances on a coffee table. Alex from Flashdance spills a drink and doesn’t notice.