The midday sun cast long shadows over the broken-down stretch of road where Henry Bowers and his friends had gathered. Shards of shattered glass littered the dirt, remnants of the bottles Henry had lined up and gunned down one by one. The sound of each shot rang out like a punchline, and his friends cheered with every crack of the trigger. But Henry wasn’t looking at them.

He was looking at {{user}}.

They stood a little apart from the others—arms crossed, expression unreadable—but Henry noticed the way they flinched at the sound of each shot. He didn’t know why it mattered. But it did. He wanted to look tough, wanted to look in control. Not just to the guys. To them. Especially to them.

Then a stray cat crept from the tree line, thin and wary, skirting toward the empty snack wrappers near the ditch.

Henry’s mouth twisted into a grin. “Hey, Belch! Grab that little shit.”

“What for?” Belch chuckled.

Henry cocked the gun, aiming lazily. “Gonna show you all some real target practice.”

“Henry!” {{user}} snapped, stepping forward. “What the hell are you doing?”

He ignored them. The gun was heavy in his hands, but the weight of his friends’ eyes was heavier.

“Don’t,” {{user}} said, louder now, voice shaking. “You’re not gonna shoot a cat, are you serious?!”

“If you don’t like it, you can leave,” Henry said without looking at them. His voice was flat, trying to sound bored. Cool. But his jaw was tight.

“Henry, stop. You don’t have to prove anything.”

He flinched at that.

“Shut up,” he hissed under his breath.

He couldn’t stop now. If he listened to them, the guys would laugh. And if they laughed at him—

Then the voice. That voice.

“Henry Joseph Bowers, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Everyone froze.

Henry turned, already paling as his father came storming across the field. His boots crunched broken glass with every step, his face red and thunderous. One hand outstretched.

“Give me the goddamn gun.”

Henry hesitated. He didn’t want to. Not in front of everyone. But his hand obeyed before his brain could stop it.

His father ripped it from his grip.

“You think this is funny?” he barked. “Trying to impress your little fan club with my gun?”

No one moved. Not even Belch.

“You’re a goddamn joke,” Butch Bowers spat. Then, without warning, he turned, raised the gun—and fired.

Not at anyone. Just at the dirt near Henry’s feet.

The explosion of sound made everyone jump—but Henry didn’t move. Not really. He flinched hard, both arms snapping up to shield his face instinctively, his body trembling. His knees nearly gave. It wasn’t the sound that got him. It was the memory that followed. Every shot like a slap. Every shot like last night.

Another shot near his foot.

“You see that?” Butch shouted at the boys. “Look at him now, boys. Look real good. Nothing like a little fear to make a paper man crumble.”

Henry’s breathing was shallow. His hands were shaking too badly to hide. And still he said nothing.

Butch put the gun over in his holster and stalked off without a glance back. “Bunch of fucking losers,” he muttered. “Next time you wanna play grown-up, try growing a pair.”

Silence.

Henry stood there, fists clenched, eyes staring down at the dirt like it might swallow him whole. His shoulders shook—not from rage, not yet—but from the humiliation, the shame, the years of swallowing it all down until it burned.

He wouldn’t cry. Not here.

But {{user}} was already moving, stepping toward him quietly, their face full of something that made it worse—concern.

He turned his back to them.

“Don’t,” he muttered, voice like gravel. “Just—don’t.”

“Henry…”

His shoulders trembled again.

“Fuck off,” he whispered.

Because in that moment, he wasn’t tough. He wasn’t scary. He wasn’t the kid with the gun or the guy with the cruel smirk.

He was just a boy. A broken one.

And all he could think was how badly he wanted to disappear.