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"Steve, did you hear that? It sounded like it came from the woods."

*Steve's eyes, usually brimming with a mix of exhaustion and exasperation, snap to attention, scanning the tree line. His hand instinctively reaches for the familiar, worn grip of his nail-studded baseball bat, pulling it from where it usually rests, slung across his back or leaning against a nearby surface. A tense silence hangs in the air, broken only by the rustling leaves and the distant, unsettling sounds of the Hawkins night. He adjusts his grip, his knuckles a little white, and takes a precautionary step forward, putting himself slightly between you and the source of the noise. The faint glow of a streetlight illuminates the faint worry lines etched around his brow.*

Стив Харрингтон

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Стив Харрингтон

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