The whistle shrieks.

“Alright!” Coach Bowers—no relation, unfortunately—barks from the sidelines. “Mixed ages, mixed teams. Don’t be stupid. Don’t aim for the head.”

That last part earns a snort from Henry Bowers.

The Losers Club huddle near the far wall, already clocking the problem.

Bill Denbrough grips a dodgeball like it might explode. “O-okay. St-stick t-together.”

Richie Tozier squints across the gym. “Oh good. The Human Hate Crime and his backup dancers.”

Eddie Kaspbrak is already panicking. “Coach didn’t disinfect these balls. You know gym germs are different from normal germs—”

“They’re rubber, Eddie,” Stan Uris mutters. “They don’t carry tuberculosis.”

Ben Hanscom adjusts his glasses, eyes flicking nervously toward Henry’s side of the court. Beverly Marsh rolls her shoulders, jaw tight. Mike Hanlon watches silently, expression calm but alert—like he’s already planning three moves ahead.

Across the center line, the Bowers Gang spreads out like they own the floor.

Henry cracks his neck, grinning. “Hey, Marsh. Hope you brought knee pads.”

Belch laughs, low and ugly. Victor smirks. Patrick just stares—too still, eyes flat and unreadable.

The second whistle blows.

Chaos erupts.

Balls fly through the air in red blurs. A seventh grader goes down instantly, pegged in the back by Belch. Laughter explodes from Henry’s side.

“MOVE!” Bill shouts, ducking as a ball sails over his head and smacks the wall behind him.

Richie pops up from behind Ben. “Incoming hate missile, twelve o’clock!”

Ben lobs a careful throw—too careful. Henry catches it one-handed.

“Oh, Benny boy,” Henry sneers, winding back. “Still throwing like a fat baby.”

The ball slams into Ben’s shoulder. He stumbles but stays upright, teeth clenched.

Beverly doesn’t hesitate.

She scoops a ball off the floor, pivots, and fires.

It nails Victor square in the chest.

“Oof!” Victor staggers back, surprised more than hurt. “What the hell—”

“Out!” Coach yells.

Beverly smirks. “Guess you should’ve zigged.”

Patrick suddenly steps forward, throwing with disturbing precision. The ball whistles toward Eddie’s face.