Chapter Text
Warning !!!
Some triggers like Exploitation tendencies, Gaslighting, Manipulation, lack of empathy, Narcissism, and swearing.
Edited on 12/9/24-2/18/2025
"Iter Ad Alium Mundum"
(Attempt 189#)
November 4, 2023
Unknown location - (test subject 0189)
Test subject information - The theory maker of "Iter Ad Alium Mundum".
The ‘Ying and Yang' experiment was done solely by the test subject, although the test subject has been a significant addition to the lab, and high involvement and or impossible-seeming experiments were completed flawlessly.
The test subject is rapidly becoming a danger to those around the lab and the lab itself.
No blood relatives, background check reveals early childhood of the Test Subject.
Mother dead by the time Test Subject was 9 Years old, cause of death was suicide.
After more investigation, an unusual number of doctor visits and counseling started at 4 years old.
The subject was admitted to the mental hospital after their mother's death, results noted that nothing was off about the subject, and she was in a normal mental state.
Moved into foster care with a single older woman with a temper, abandoned alone in a house.
Little to no chance of being labeled as missing or looked for.
The subject has high drug resistance and high levels of willpower. 95% chance of survival.
The subject is Intelligent, Calculating, Cunning, Lacks Empathy, Very Persuasive, and Unreliable to the program mission.
Warning !!! Signs of Narcissistic personality disorder and extremely high signs of borderline personality disorder!!!
Read the logs of the subject observation during lab work.
The last attempt at the project " Iter Ad Alium Mundum" , if failed the loss of the test subject will go unnoticed and the projects related to this program will be cut.
Start phase 1 (sending) - In progress.
November 4, 2023
Your grueling 12-hour shift at the bland-looking ash-white tall building had finally ended. The sky above started to fade into a peaceful ombre of breathtaking sunset view with clouds fading out and the stars replacing the clouds. The moon shined a dark crimson red as it lit up the sky, a rare moon looking back into your eyes as you took a deep breath in the freezing temperature of the outside.
Unbothered that you could see a white cloud coming from your mouth, you were able to see your own breath with ease. Standing alone in the parking lot of the Lab, just a few steps away from the dark red Chevelle SS 454 convertible.
The car was a 1970s classic that a dead family member left in their will for their favorite grandkid and or only grandchild. Out of pity for a child who was given up and they couldn't care less about their family.
And you could care less about them, only mildly good thing about them was the car and a great amount of money from their will.
"I can't wait to dive face-first into my couch binging the Stranger Things series for the fourth time."
Opening the car door with the silver car key on a keychain full of charms and two more keys that let out a loud jingle when it moved. Taking no chance to stay any longer in the area of the draining job of data collecting from an old experiment. You were transferred from experiments to log data from the experiments.
Finally, after slowly becoming bored of the data-collecting, you were going to confront your boss. That was until a certain project was laid on your desk, never before had you seen a file so thick.
After skimming through the logs you found out that the experiment had reached 188 subjects in total, and with one last subject to go the program was coming to a close.
188 test subjects all died or failed, what a total shame you missed it, such an interesting experiment so cruel, and such a failure. You wondered who was in charge of this experiment, and how you would sneer at them and laugh at their failure of a project.
But it caught your attention and planned to know all the details. The name of this new project was "Iter Ad Alium Mundum", a top-secret project that was giving all researchers a major headache.
Most of the work required to achieve results was mostly covered by a dark black marker by the lab. So vexing.
It was almost an impossible project to work on and the NDAs that were signed seemed never-ending, but the payment was always in cash on the first Friday of the month making the purse in the passenger seat full of exactly 50,000 dollars from this paycheck but the bonus that only you received of 250,000 dollars making you question why but your mind was too drained to care at the moment.
Even if your mind warned you to think, getting a bonus all of a sudden without you doing anything noteworthy as of late or being the best employee there, was strange. It did send a cold shiver down your body as you looked at your boss's face. He wore a look of pity as he smiled giving you the extra cash.
Pity was an emotion that didn't fit right on the older male's face. The man who scouted you from a high school science fair where you won first place for a project proved that there is a highly likely way to travel to other universities if one could use a major source of radiation.
You were a freshman at the time, exactly one year from today that you accepted the job offer after learning about being paid under the table to bypass a lot of laws.
You would have wished you had spoken to him about the look of pity
November 4, 2022
The gymnasium was a cacophony of voices, a blend of excited murmurs and hushed whispers as students, parents, and teachers roamed the polished floor, glancing at the numerous tri-fold posters displayed along the tables. The bright fluorescent lights above illuminated the scene, reflecting off glossy photos and carefully printed text. Amid the hum of activity, you stood by your project, arms crossed, a polite smile fixed onto your face, though your mind was far from the cheerful atmosphere of the school science fair.
Freshman year had been uneventful until this moment, but even now, with the weight of victory resting on your shoulders, you felt nothing. Winning this fair, a mere school event with no real prestige, meant little to you. The ribbon pinned to the top corner of your poster board was supposed to be a symbol of achievement, yet it felt more like a participation trophy—a hollow acknowledgment from people who couldn’t even begin to grasp what you had truly presented.
The air was thick with the scent of cardboard, ink, and the faint hint of sweat as bodies pressed past one another. Parents clapped their hands in encouragement, teachers nodded their approval, and the younger children weaved through the crowd with wide eyes full of wonder. Yet, none of them truly understood. None of them looked at your work with the sharp gleam of realization or curiosity that you had hoped for. Their glances were fleeting, their praise empty.
You had come here hoping—no, yearning—to find at least one person who saw beyond the surface of your equations and theoretical constructs. You had poured over your theory with the fervor of a scholar, mapping out the complexities of alternate dimensions, of mirror universes, of worlds running parallel yet in reverse. And yet, as you stood there, watching the crowd flow like a lazy river, not a single person had engaged with it beyond the basic, rehearsed reactions of, “Wow, that’s impressive!” or, “You’re so smart!”
Those words meant nothing. They never had.
Your fingers tapped idly against the edge of your project board as your blank eyes skimmed over the faces in the crowd, searching, hoping—though your expression remained impassive. Would anyone here even attempt to challenge your work? Did no one else think beyond their own limited scope of reality? Was your mind truly the only one wandering the depths of possibility?
Your small hope withered further when yet another parent passed by, glanced at your board, and offered a saccharine smile. “Oh, how fascinating!” they chirped before moving along, their interest as fleeting as a summer breeze.
A sigh pressed against your lips, but you swallowed it down. You had given up the act long ago, the one where you pretended to care for shallow praise and social niceties. Yet, despite yourself, a part of you still wished for more—for someone who could match your intellect, someone who could see beyond the mere ink on the poster and grasp the raw, electric brilliance of what you had proposed.
And then, he arrived.
A tall man in a crisp white lab coat, a striking contrast to the casual attire of the other adults. He moved with an air of detached efficiency, his presence demanding respect without uttering a word. His graying hair was neatly combed back, his sharp eyes scanning each project with the methodical scrutiny of someone who had seen it all before—and had yet to be impressed.
Your eyes followed him as he wove through the rows, never lingering too long, never pausing to do more than offer the occasional nod or murmured acknowledgment. He was here out of duty, not curiosity. A judge with no real investment in the outcomes.
At least, that’s what you thought.
Until he passed by your board.
“Congratulations,” he said in passing, his tone clipped and perfunctory. He didn’t even stop walking.
“Thank you, sir,” you replied automatically, already turning to pack up your things. There was nothing left for you here.
But then—
The sound of shoes pivoting sharply against the polished gym floor.
A pause.
The rustling of fabric as the man turned back, his eyes narrowing as he truly looked at your project for the first time.
He stepped closer, his gaze scanning the intricate diagrams, the neatly aligned formulas, and the carefully detailed hypothesis that had been all but ignored by everyone else. His brow furrowed slightly before his eyes flicked to yours, a spark of genuine interest flickering within their depths.
“What is this?” he asked, his voice softer now, tinged with curiosity. “This seems like something an older mathematician would come up with. Can you explain this a bit more?”
Your breath hitched slightly, a warm sensation blooming in your chest.
Finally.
Finally, someone was asking the right question.
You straightened your posture, your fingers gripping the edge of the table as a slow, genuine smile began to creep across your lips. It felt foreign—this sudden surge of excitement, this eagerness bubbling up inside you. But you welcomed it.
“This is a theory I came up with after enjoying some fictional shows,” you began, your voice carrying a newfound energy. “I started to think about the possibility of a ‘Mirror Universe’ or a ‘Bizarro Universe.’ The Mirror Universe isn’t just a hypothetical opposite—it’s a reflection, an existence where what we perceive as fiction could be reality. Meanwhile, the Bizarro Universe is entirely different—it doesn’t just mirror, it inverts, running backward in time, its existence intricately tied to our own.”
You paused, watching his reaction. He hadn’t lost interest. If anything, he had leaned in closer, his sharp gaze darting between you and your board, absorbing every word. Encouraged, you pressed on.
“The theory of the Mirror Universe suggests that the stories we watch and read about exist as actual realities within a different dimensional plane. Their lives are our entertainment, and our lives may very well be their fiction.”
The man hummed in thought, rubbing his chin. “And the Bizarro Universe?”
You grinned now, your excitement palpable. “It runs backward, meaning if someone were to enter it, they would be moving against the flow of time. Technology there would be decades, if not centuries, behind, and anyone who managed to enter would likely never return. They’d be stuck, regressing until they… well, ceased to exist.”
He let out a low chuckle. “That’s a rather dark conclusion.”
“But logical,” you countered swiftly. “If time itself moves in reverse, then one’s existence there would be unnatural. Even if a person survived the initial transition, they would eventually reach a point where they were never born.”
He nodded slowly, considering your words. “And what of the Mirror Universe? If it exists, how would one travel there?”
Your smirk widened. “That’s the challenge, isn’t it?”
The conversation stretched, theories exchanged like a fast-paced chess match. Each question he posed, you met with an equally thought-out answer. For the first time, someone was truly listening—not just nodding along, but engaging, challenging, debating.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of intellectual exhilaration, he extended his hand.
“Would you like to work for our small lab?” he asked. “We could use minds like yours. Your age is irrelevant—we prefer brilliance over experience.”
You stared at the offered hand, then up at his face. His expression was unreadable, yet the gleam in his eye told you he recognized something in you—something he hadn’t found in anyone else here.
With measured movement, you reached out, your fingers closing around his. His grip was firm, calloused—hands that had spent years writing, building, creating.
“How much do you pay?” you asked, your tone flat, but the glimmer of amusement in your eyes unmistakable.
He laughed—a deep, genuine chuckle—as he answered. And at that moment, your life changed forever. One you would welcome...someplace you could finally be challenged and not bored of this dull town.
The rest was history.
November 4, 2023
Although the similar-minded male shared the name with the evil doctor, you found him as the only father figure you had.
Well, what you assumed a father would be like or act like. Not truly knowing or understanding what it was like.
But he has never once shown any emotion close to pity or sadness before today.
Immediately you felt your breath stop and your spine devoured by a chill.
The man known for his cheerful demeanor and honest smile looked at you with eyes of pity as he gave you the bonus as you left the building, the man waved to you goodbye with a tone of badly veiled sadness.
"Good luck tonight, be safe."You didn't pay attention to the hidden meaning of this warning disguised as a goodbye. Even something inside of you was screaming to become alert at the male's demeanor and words.
Something wasn't right
The uneasiness lingered in your mind like a shadow that refused to be shaken off. As the car hummed beneath your hands, the streetlights cast a fleeting glow on the windshield, illuminating the deserted roads leading to a home that barely felt like one.
Once, the walls had echoed with the sharp, relentless screeches of an older woman whose presence in your life was a paradox—neither mother nor complete stranger. You had never been able to define what she was to you. A guardian by technicality, a specter in the grand scheme of things. The echoes had faded, replaced by a suffocating silence that should have been comforting but instead gnawed at the edges of your thoughts.
Your friends—if you could call them that—knew nothing about your living situation. It wasn’t that they asked, but you never offered any details either. The idea of social outings beyond school or brief interactions with staff members never seemed worth the effort. It was easier to keep your distance, to remain an enigma rather than risk the pity or judgment that would inevitably follow.
As you turned onto your street, the thought crossed your mind again—her name. You weren’t sure if you had forgotten it over time or if you had never bothered to remember it at all. It was a habit of yours, after all, discarding names of people who held no significance in your life. People like her.
The truth was, the two of you barely spoke. A conversation might happen once a month if that. It had become even less frequent since you had taken the after-school job at the lab. Perhaps that had been your saving grace, a way to escape the grim reality of your home life and immerse yourself in something that, for once, made sense. Time blurred when you were there, surrounded by scientific theories and intelligent minds that actually understood the words tumbling from your lips. The stimulation was addicting, a far cry from the hollow existence waiting for you at home.
But then came the letter.
A hastily scrawled note on cheap, wrinkled paper. It had been left on the counter one afternoon, waiting for you like a time bomb set to detonate the remnants of an already fractured reality. The words, though messy, were clear: she had left.
She loathed children—especially teenagers—and she could no longer stand your presence. The house, small and unimpressive as it was, was now yours until you turned eighteen. Then, you would be on your own.
At least she had been considerate enough to send money, enough to cover the bills and groceries. It was, without a doubt, illegal. If someone were to find out, she would face consequences—fines, maybe even jail time. The thought of reporting her flickered across your mind for the briefest moment before you dismissed it. That would be too much of a hassle and too much-unwanted attention. As long as she sent the money, you would tolerate the arrangement. If she didn’t…well, there were ways around that. You knew enough people at the lab, powerful enough people, to arrange something. Dr. Brenner would see to it that you had what you needed. You weren’t just another replaceable worker there—you had value, something that set you apart from the others.
The letter had been filled with resentment as if your very existence had been the reason for her failures in life. Failed relationships, and missed opportunities, are all somehow traced back to you. The irony was almost laughable. She had done the bare minimum, provided the most basic necessities, and called it ‘care.’ The rest had been up to you—cooking, cleaning, surviving.
You had crumpled the letter in your fist and hurled it into the trash without a second glance, a scowl settling on your face. It was pathetic, really, a grown woman throwing a tantrum in written form. You despised people like that—people who left damage in their wake and walked away as if they bore no responsibility for it.
The first week after her departure had been a blur. Work, studying, the occasional trip to the grocery store. Your evenings were spent curled up on the couch, binge-watching Stranger Things for what felt like the hundredth time. Something about it struck a chord within you—the bonds between friends, the desperation of a mother searching for her lost child. You envied them, their connections, their devotion. The idea that someone would move mountains just to find you, just to make sure you were safe, was foreign yet intoxicating.
But as soon as the screen went dark, the emotions faded. The envy, the longing—it all dissipated, leaving behind the familiar indifference that had become second nature to you. Fiction had a way of making you feel things you otherwise wouldn’t, only for reality to remind you of just how detached you truly were.
As you pulled into the driveway, the familiar sight of the dimly lit house greeted you. No warm light spilling from the windows, no voices to welcome you home. Just silence.
With a sigh, you grabbed your purse and the greasy bag of fast food that would serve as tonight’s dinner. The jingling of your keys echoed in the empty night as you unlocked the door, stepped inside, and locked it behind you. The scent of stale air mixed with the aroma of fried food, an odd combination that you had grown used to.
You set everything down on the coffee table before making your way to your room, peeling off the stiff clothing of the day and replacing it with something far more comfortable—an oversized road trip shirt with ‘Canada’ emblazoned in bold red letters, paired with flannel pajama pants that had seen better days. Grabbing a thick black blanket, you wrapped it around yourself like armor before slipping on your favorite house slippers—black, cat-shaped, ridiculously soft. A small smile tugged at your lips.
The couch welcomed you as you sank into it, pulling the blanket tighter around you. The TV flickered to life, the familiar opening credits of Stranger Things rolling across the screen. You unwrapped your food, the scent making your stomach growl as you took the first bite.
For a moment, everything else faded—the letter, the empty house, the quiet loneliness that had become your existence.
For a moment, you could pretend that you weren’t alone.
Not that you really cared but it was a slightly pleasant feeling.
TV shows and Movies all seemed to show and bring out emotions from you, but the second the show or movie was off you returned to being indifferent or emotionless for the most part until it involved your theories and experiments..
You wished that sometimes there was someone who would miss you if you disappeared or someone who would be there no matter what.
The way one family fell to selling their home just for answers on what happened to their daughter…envy ran through your veins but stopped as soon as the TV was off.
Fiction really taught you how to live and feel but the second you were to look away from them you returned to yourself.
Your night ended, on the couch watching stranger things once more for the fourth time, relishing your food as your eyes begin to be in a trace as you watch until you fall asleep.
November 5, 1983
Unknown location Hawkins, Indiana - (test subject 0189)
Test subject information - The theory maker of "Iter Ad Alium Mundum".
The 0189 test subject was successful, starting the observation of test subject 0189.
Starting phase 2 (observation) - In progress.
The resting heart rate is normal, the subject is sleeping, the implant is sensing a different location from the subject's house and vitals have no change.
Shall continue monitoring every 90 minutes.
Vitals are normal, with no change. 90min
Vitals are normal, with no change.180min
Vitals are normal, with no change.270mins
Vitals are norm-
!!!WARNING THE TEST SUBJECT CANNOT BE FOUND!!!
Attempting to locate the test subject ... Attempted failed …
Attempting to locate the test subject ... Attempted failed ...
Attempting to locate the test subject ... Attempted failed ...
The 0189 test subject can not be located, the subject implant has been removed, and or broken.
Subject 0189 is most likely deceased, Attempt 189 failed. Although the subject could no longer be found the subject has an 80% of still being alive and removing the implant. The project will be reconsidered if logs of the subject or ways change.
" Iter Ad Alium Mundum "
Failed, the Project has been Terminated.
Starting last end phase , study team will look for the subject in everything she has ever watched
November 5, 1983
A piercing ringing sound tore through the silence, yanking your mind from the depths of a dreamless sleep. A groan escaped your lips as you squinted against the dim morning light, your fingers blindly reaching for the incessant alarm that should not have been set for a weekend.
Your vision was blurred, and hazy, as though your brain was still grasping at the remnants of sleep. You blinked, attempting to clear your sight, and let your hand skim across the coffee table in search of your phone. Instead of the familiar smooth surface of your device, your fingers met wood—vibrating, but solid and foreign.
A strange unease slithered up your spine as you forced your eyes open, only to be met with an unfamiliar sight. The floor beneath you was covered in thick, orange carpet adorned with daisy flowers in red, white, and yellow. It was vintage—too vintage.
Your breath hitched as your head turned sharply, scanning the unfamiliar space. This was not your house. Gone was the small, cozy two-bedroom, two-bathroom home with the semi-spacious backyard. Instead, you found yourself in a sprawling home, larger, unfamiliar, and unsettling in its pristine, lived-in look.
"Where the hell am I?" you muttered, bolting upright. Your mind raced as you took in the space.
The loud, grating noise that had torn you from sleep still blared. You spun, locking onto the source—an old-fashioned yellow alarm clock with painted flowers on its face. Anger flared hot in your chest as you strode toward it, grabbing it with a forceful grip.
With a snarl, you hurled the clock against the wall. It shattered, pieces scattering across the floor in a satisfying display of destruction. The noise was gone, but the situation had only become more perplexing.
It had been a long time since you felt anger this vividly, a raw emotion that burned through your usual calculated detachment.
Moving through the house, you discovered something even more unnerving. This place belonged to someone with your exact name—your full name. Your pulse quickened as you found documents, letters, and belongings with your information printed neatly on them, as though you had lived here for years.
But you hadn’t.
The house itself was enormous, two stories high with six fully furnished bedrooms, each with queen-sized beds and color-coordinated furniture. Built-in wall phones occupied each room, an outdated but oddly functional detail. The bathrooms were luxurious, more extravagant than anything you had ever owned.
The kitchen was massive, opening into a conversation pit-style living room. A dining area stood pristine, as if waiting for guests who would never arrive. The backyard was fenced in with a brown picket fence, polished and perfect.
But it was the basement that drew you in.
Stepping cautiously down the creaky wooden stairs, you found a massive board covered in papers, notes, and photographs, all connected by crisscrossing yarn. It looked like the work of someone obsessed, someone unraveling a mystery no one else could see.
Your fingers traced the chaotic connections as you read aloud.
"Hawkins Lab?" The words left a strange taste on your tongue.
Following the thread, your gaze landed on a crude, childlike drawing of a monster—a twisted, humanoid figure with an unnatural, flower-shaped head filled with jagged teeth.
A separate note lay on the floor, its edges soaked in dried, rust-colored blood. You crouched, lifting it carefully.
"Blood draws the flower-headed monster close. Seems to be blind. Reacts fast to noise. Keep space, or it will catch you quickly."
Your grip on the note tightened.
Something was very, very wrong. And for the first time in a long while, you weren’t just indifferent—you were intrigued.
Because whoever had put this together had known something. Something you needed to uncover. And if there was one thing you were good at, it was lying your way into the answers you sought.
"The Hawkins Lab can not be trusted."
You picked up the note with a grimace, eyes scanning the words as your mind spiraled with a flood of thoughts. With a slow, measured pace, you ascended the stairs and collapsed onto the couch, letting the weight of reality sink in. A deep, frustrated sigh escaped you, the betrayal slicing through the walls of indifference you'd carefully built over the years.
"That fucking asshole!" The words left your mouth like venom as your hands reached for the nearest objects—pillows, books, whatever was within reach—and sent them crashing against the walls. The echoes of impact filled the empty house, matching the turmoil within you.
It all made sense now. The look on his face, the unexpected bonus yesterday—it was all a ruse. A final pat on the back before tossing you to the wolves.
Betrayal was an unfamiliar feeling, one you'd never truly processed until now. And it burned, seething through you like wildfire. You paced the room in a fury, your mind frantically piecing together every moment, every detail, until a particular phrase snapped into focus.
"Iter Ad Alium Mundum... Motherfucker. Of course." You halted, the puzzle clicking together as your stomach twisted in self-loathing.
"How could I be so fucking dumb?!" Your voice echoed in the empty house, frustration manifesting in your clenched fists.
"Latin! Of course, they had to be pretentious about it! Journey to Another World!" You threw your head back with a bitter laugh, rage boiling over as you realized exactly what had happened.
They had used you. Your theory. Your research. They had turned it against you and made you their test subject.
Your fingers trailed over your forearm instinctively, and your eyes widened as they landed on a blinking red dot embedded just beneath the skin. Freshly implanted. The small incision was barely healed the skin around it tender.
A tracking device. Data collection. Monitoring.
No. Absolutely fucking not.
A wicked, cunning smirk twisted your lips as a plan formed. You weren’t going to be their experiment. Not without a fight.
Clenching your jaw, you reached for the nearest sharp object—a rusted pair of scissors from the coffee table—and positioned it over the tracker. No hesitation. No second thoughts.
Pain exploded through your nerves as the metal pierced your skin. A strangled scream tore through your throat as you pried the device out, blood pooling around your fingers. The agony was unbearable, but you refused to stop, refused to let them win.
With a final pull, the small metal implant detached from your flesh, clattering onto the floor. Tears blur your vision as you pant, adrenaline making your hands shake.
"Fuck!" The exclamation was half a sob, half a triumphant snarl.
Staggering into the bathroom, you rummaged through the cabinets until your fingers found the first-aid kit. Pouring alcohol over the gaping wound, you bit down on your shirt to muffle the scream that threatened to break free. The pain was excruciating, but you relished it. It was proof that you were still in control.
Threading a needle with unsteady fingers, you forced yourself to stitch the wound closed, every poke and pull of the needle another reminder of what they had done to you. Once satisfied with your crude handiwork, you wrapped your forearm tightly in gauze.
Taking a shaky breath, you turned back to the small metal implant on the floor. Your lip curled in disdain.
Lifting your foot, you brought it down with a sharp, decisive stomp. Again. And again. And again. Each impact was a blow meant for the bastard who had betrayed you.
The implant was now nothing but crushed metal and shattered circuitry.
And then, a knock.
Your entire body froze. Your mind sharpened instantly, the pain dulling under a surge of survival instinct.
A visitor.
Composing yourself within seconds, you wiped at your face, ensuring no traces of distress remained. A slow, calculated smile curled your lips as you ruffled your hair slightly and adjusted your clothes. A disheveled look, but not suspicious.
You had a lie ready before you even reached the door.
With a practiced ease, you opened it just enough to conceal your injured arm. "Hello! How can I help you?"
Your heart stopped for just a second.
Steve Harrington stood before you.
A fictional character. From your favorite show. Right in front of you.
The sight of him—taller than expected, younger, with a wary but friendly expression—nearly made you falter.
"Oh, hi?" His voice was uncertain. "My mom sent me over to check if everything was okay. She heard some screams and loud noises. Thought someone might be hurt or in danger."
You blinked, quickly assessing the situation. Steve Harrington. Season 1 version, judging by the hair.
Disappointment flickered through you before you could stop it. You had always preferred his longer hair.
"It's a shame," you mused aloud before you could stop yourself. "Longer hair is much more fitting... for those with charisma."
Steve’s brows knitted together for a moment, a flicker of hurt flashing in his eyes.
Shit.
You recovered swiftly, flashing him a reassuring smile. "But thank you for checking up on me! Tell your mom I appreciate living in a neighborhood where people actually care about others."
Extending your good hand toward him, you introduced yourself. "I'm (Y/n), new to town, new to the neighborhood. Hope we can be friends. The loud noise? Just me dropping a few moving boxes."
Steve hesitated, eyes searching your face for any signs of a lie. He wouldn’t find any. You were far too good at this game.
"Are you okay?" he asked, still skeptical.
You nodded with a practiced ease. "Completely fine. But hey—since you're here, how about giving me a tour? Paid, of course. Ten bucks for your time. Be my reason to procrastinate unpacking?"
Steve paused, then smirked, the playful, cocky expression settling naturally onto his face. "I'm Steve Harrington. I live next door. And yeah, I can give you a tour. No need to pay me, though. I'll take care of you."
He reached forward, shaking your hand firmly before stepping back, flashing a wink as he turned to leave.
You watched him go, amusement curling at the edges of your lips.
"A tour with season 1 Steve is bound to either be a fun or horrible time."