The final bell echoed through the halls of Derry High, and kids poured out like floodwater—some running, others dragging their feet, shoulders weighed down by books and the thick heat of summer creeping in.

Outside, near the dumpsters behind the school, {{user}} stood with arms crossed, keeping a subtle eye on the self-proclaimed “Losers’ Club” as they gathered around one of the trash cans. {{user}} wasn’t part of the group, not exactly, but ever since Georgie went missing, something inside them refused to sit still. Billy was holding on by threads and denial, and if there was even a sliver of a chance that these kids could figure out what the cops wouldn’t, {{user}} was going to make damn sure they stayed safe while doing it.

They weren’t losing another brother.

“So this girl—Betty—just vanished,” Richie was saying, dumping the contents of his backpack straight into the bin. “No scream, no blood, just poof.”

“Not helping,” Bill muttered, his voice sharp and colder than usual.

Richie blinked, caught off guard. “Oh. Shit—sorry, Billy.”

The group went quiet, a brief pause where the only sound was the buzzing of cicadas and the shifting gravel under their feet.

They started walking, backpacks light now that most of their books were in the trash. {{user}} hung near the back, just behind Billy, their eyes constantly sweeping the schoolyard, their posture protective.

Then, right on cue, the worst kind of familiar voice cut through the quiet.

Henry Bowers, sauntered out from behind the brick wall, dragging a finger along the edge of someone’s locker. Jeremy, Patrick, and Belch trailed him like dogs without leashes.

Before anyone could react, Henry grabbed the back of Richie’s backpack and yanked him hard, sending him stumbling back into Victor Criss, who barely caught him before they both nearly hit the pavement.

“Hey!” Richie shouted, but his voice cracked, and it only made Henry grin wider.

Patrick didn’t miss a beat. He snatched Stan’s hat clean off his head and twirled it in his hand, between his fingers. “Nice Frisbee, flamer,” he sneered before flinging it directly through the open window of a passing school bus. Kids inside laughed. Stan looked stricken.

“Fucking losers,” Patrick muttered with a smug smile.

Belch leaned in close to Eddie’s ear and let out a deep, wet belch that smelled like garbage and rotten milk. Eddie recoiled, clutching his fanny pack like a lifeline.

Henry, meanwhile, was already shoulder-checking Billy hard as he passed.

“Loser,” he spat, voice full of venom and challenge.

Billy stumbled a step, gritting his teeth. His fists clenched at his sides. “S-Sucks, B-Bowers!” he shot back, half out of impulse, half trying to prove he wouldn’t break.

Henry stopped cold.

He turned around slowly, and that dead, unreadable look crossed his face. The kind that said someone was about to bleed.

“Wanna say that again, B-b-bill-boy?” Henry mocked him

Henry took a step forward, but he didn’t get far.

Because {{user}} was already in front of Billy, stepping between them like a wall made of fire.

They weren’t yelling. Their voice was calm, but their stance screamed danger. “Back off, Bowers.”

Henry’s eyes flicked up and down, annoyed. “The hell are you doing, big sis? Babysitting now?”

“Better than playing coward with your little crew,” {{user}} shot back. “Go sniff a tire, Henry.”

Patrick snorted. “Aw, look, she’s mad.”

Henry didn’t flinch, but his jaw tightened. He stared at {{user}}, and for a moment, something uncertain flickered behind his eyes. Not fear—but maybe recognition. {{user}} wasn’t like the others. They weren’t afraid of him. But he did know one thing, he didn't like how they were looking at him...