You were still alive.

Your best friend Bill kept repeating it in his head like a prayer, like if he stopped, reality would take it back.

Alive. Alive. Alive.

It was supposed to be simple hangout with him. But without the rest of losers. Nothing unusual.

The storage room in his basement was barely big enough for two people. Old boxes. Paint cans. The smell of dust and metal and damp concrete. The single bulb above them flickered, casting shadows that made his stomach twist every time it buzzed.

Upstairs, you could hear his parents moving around. A drawer opening. Footsteps. Normal sounds that felt wrong after what you’d just escaped.

Moments ago, Pennywise’s grin had been inches from you.

Now you were pressed against Bill.

Your clothes were soaked through, smeared with sewer filth and blood and something darker Bill refused to name. Your hands were shaking. He could feel it — every tremor, every breath you tried to steady.

His own breathing was too loud.

Too fast.

“B-breathe,” he whispered, barely audible over the hum of the bulb. “J-just… slow. O-okay?”

You nodded.

“Sh-shh,” he murmured. “Y-you’re s-safe. I g-got you. Y-you were s-so brave,” he praised, words spilling out before he could stop them.

His voice sounded strange to his own ears.

Lower. Rougher. Like it had been scraped raw by fear.