The bell rings with a metallic clang that echoes too loud off the tiled walls. It barely cuts through the noise already flooding the biology lab.

Richie Tozier is mid–impression—some half-baked TV announcer voice—while Bill leans over his notebook trying not to laugh. Eddie is lecturing Beverly about how frog preservatives are “probably extremely toxic” and how none of them are wearing proper gloves. Ben is quietly flipping through the lab manual, already on step three. Mike’s gaze keeps drifting toward the windows, thoughtful, distant. Stan is sitting bolt upright, ruler-straight, hands folded like he’s bracing for disaster.

Across the room, the Bowers Gang is no quieter.

Belch is laughing too loud at something Victor mutters under his breath. Henry has his boots hooked around the legs of his stool, rocking back and forth with a slow, deliberate creak, eyes sharp and bored as they track the Losers. Patrick Hockstetter is silent—too silent—poking at the frog tray in front of him with the metal probe like he’s already decided the frog deserves whatever happens next.

“You will all shut up. Now.”

Mr. Keene’s voice cracks like a whip.

The room freezes.

He’s a tall man with a permanent scowl and the look of someone who regrets becoming a teacher every single day. He surveys both groups with equal irritation before slapping a clipboard against his palm.

“Clearly, seating you idiots together was a mistake,” he says flatly. “So we’re changing things up.”

A collective groan ripples through the room.

Keene starts pointing.