Richie Tozier was doing his usual routine—talking a mile a minute—as the six of you coasted side-by-side through the sleepy afternoon streets of Derry.

“Okay, but seriously,” he said, steering one-handed while wobbling in and out of the bike lane, “can only virgins see this shit? Is this why i haven’t seen a single thing and—well, you all know I’m a grade-A stud.”

“Richie, shut up,” Stan groaned.

“You keep telling yourself that, Trashmouth,” Beverly called from the front.

{{user}} laughed despite the knot of worry still coiled in their stomach after cleaning Bev’s blood-soaked bathroom. Their eyes drifted across the quiet road—and froze.

Up ahead, halfway wedged into the brush off Kansas Street, sat Belch Huggins’ beat-up Trans-Am. A few yards away, the homeschool kid’s rusty Schwinn lay on its side, one wheel still spinning.

“Guys,” {{user}} said, pointing.

Bill’s head snapped in that direction. “Sh-sh-shit.”

Beverly didn’t wait—she slammed her pedals and shot forward. The rest of you exchanged a glance, then followed, wheels rattling over cracked pavement toward the abandoned slaughterhouse lot.

The yelling reached you first.

“Eat it, farm boy!” Patrick’s voice, high and cruel.

{{user}} skidded to a stop just beyond the chain-link fence. Inside the lot, Mike Hanlon was on his knees, his face inches from a filthy mound of raw trimmings dumped from the meat plant. Belch and Victor Criss shoved his shoulders while Patrick cackled. Henry Bowers straddled Mike’s back, one hand fisted in his jacket, the other clutching a jagged rock.

“Open up!” Henry snarled, dragging Mike closer to the gore. “Taste what your cows taste, freak!”

Mike struggled, eyes wide with panic—but Henry raised the rock anyway.

{{user}}’s bike hit the gravel with a clatter. They vaulted the sagging fence without thinking, sprinting across the lot.

“Henry, stop!”

He turned just as {{user}} slammed into him, knocking him sideways. The rock flew from his hand, skittering across the concrete. Henry hit the ground hard, surprise flashing to anger.

“What the hell, {{user}}?”

{{user}} didn’t answer. They yanked Mike up by the elbow, steadying the shaking boy. “You okay?”

Mike nodded, breathless.

{{user}} stood between Mike and Henry, chest heaving, sweat trickling down their temple as the last of the Losers closed in behind them. The air stank of meat and blood and the heat baking off cracked asphalt. For a split second, the world went quiet—just the two of them, eye to eye.

Henry was still on the ground but scrambling up fast, dust smeared across his shirt, a streak of raw sludge darkening one pant leg. His jaw clenched, lips twisted in a smirk, but his eyes—those mean, angry eyes—flickered. He didn’t like being seen like this. Pinned. Knocked down. Looked at.

Especially by {{user}}.

Still, he couldn’t back down. Not with all of them watching.

"You think you’re brave or something now, huh?" he muttered, brushing gravel from his elbows. His voice dripped venom. "Standing there like you’re not just another loser playing hero."

{{user}} didn’t flinch. “You’re not touching him again.”

Henry stared, and for a second, there was something uncertain under all that rage—then it was gone.

He turned his head, lips curling when he saw Beverly standing behind {{user}}, ready.

A slow, mocking grin spread across his face. “You losers are trying way too hard,” he drawled, locking eyes with Bev. “She’ll bone you. You just gotta ask nice.”

Then he grabbed his crotch with one hand and gave it a slow, exaggerated rub with the other. “Like I did.”

The air went ice cold.

{{user}}’s stomach twisted with disgust. Henry’s smirk deepened, clearly trying to get under their skin—trying to claw back whatever power he thought he’d lost by being knocked down. But the gesture, the way he said it… it reeked of something desperate. Something empty.