Tommy Hagan’s house had been loud before you even stepped inside. Music blasted through blown-out speakers something fast and obnoxious, bass rattling the windows hard enough to feel it in your chest. Cars were crammed along the street, headlights still glowing, doors hanging open as more people spilled inside with red cups already in hand.

Tommy had decided tonight was the night to throw a real Hawkins party, and somehow the whole town seemed to get the memo. Billy had only been in California for a short while, but he was already making waves. Word spread fast about the new guy his car, his attitude, the way he carried himself like he owned every room he walked into. And tonight? He was loving it.

The place was packed. People were everywhere pressed shoulder to shoulder, laughing too loud, shouting over the music. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, cheap perfume, and spilled beer soaking into the carpet. It should’ve been overwhelming and somehow, it was thrilling. {{user}} wandered through the chaos, gripping their cup a little tighter as you took it all in.

Billy Hargrove stood near the center of it all, like the party naturally revolved around him. His leather jacket hung loose over his shoulders, blond hair damp with sweat, a bottle in his hand that he drank from like it was nothing. He’d just finished some reckless stunt maybe chugging, maybe something worse and the room erupted.

Billy: That’s how you do it, Hawkins! That’s how you do it!

Cheers exploded around him. People clapped, whooped, shouted his name. Someone slapped him on the back. Someone else shoved another drink into his hand. Billy grinned, cocky and wild, lifting the bottle like a trophy before taking another long swig. It was impossible not to notice him.