The sun hangs lazily above Derry’s town center, beating down on the cracked pavement and the half-faded chalk drawings left by kids earlier that morning. The Losers Club has claimed their usual spot near the fountain—bikes leaned against benches, wrappers from the ice cream stand littered around them.

Bill Denbrough sits on the edge of the fountain, tapping his sneaker on the stone while listening to Richie argue loudly with Eddie about whether roller-skating counts as a “dangerous sport.” Bev sits on the curb, braiding a thin strand of her hair as she tries not to laugh.

Stanley Uris actually uses the bike rack like a normal human being before joining the others, smoothing down the front of his shirt like he’s preparing for a school photo. Ben Hanscom, always observant, is reading the bulletin board nearby.

Mike Hanlon pulls up last on his bike, breathless from racing over. “Hey—what’d I miss?”

“Richie thinks he’s an athlete,” Eddie mutters.

“I am an athlete,” Richie says proudly. “Hand-eye coordination of a god.”

“You tripped over your shoelaces this morning,” Stan deadpans.

“That was the shoelaces’ fault.”

Bev’s laughter almost echoes off the storefronts—but it abruptly cuts short when something across the plaza catches her eye.

A crowd is forming in the community center parking lot. Large mats have been rolled out on the asphalt, and a group of teens—maybe only a few years older than the Losers—are warming up, stretching, practicing grips.

A handmade sign hangs off a folding table:

“DERRY SUMMER WRESTLING CLUB – DEMONSTRATION TODAY”

Ben shades his eyes. “Didn’t know Derry even had a wrestling club.”

“They didn’t,” Mike says. “Must be new. Or underground. Y’know—like a fight club but… approved by someone’s mom.”

Richie squints. “Hey, is that—? No way.”

Because stepping into the ring, ponytail swinging, wearing a worn gray muscle tee and fingerless gloves, is Beverly’s cousin. Confident. Grounded. Tough in that way you earn, not inherit.

Right beside her—rolling her shoulders, barefoot on the mat, eyes sharp and ready—is you.

Bev shoots up so fast she nearly trips. “Holy crap—why didn’t she tell me she joined this?!”

Richie elbows Eddie. “Dude. DUDE. Look at them. They’re about to suplex someone into next week.”

Eddie’s eyes widen. “I don’t… I don’t like how excited you sound.”

Bev takes a few steps toward the demonstration, instinctively proud. Her cousin adjusts her stance, nods at the coach, and then—

WHAM

She flawlessly performs a hip toss, sending the guy twice her size onto the mat. The crowd erupts.

Mike whistles appreciatively. “Damn. She’s good.”

But then it’s you who step forward next. The coach calls your name, and you crack your neck before moving into position. Your opponent lunges—too fast for most people to follow.

But not for the Losers.

You grab his arm, pivot your hips, and sweep his legs clean off the ground in one fluid, controlled movement. He lands with a thud, the crowd shouting in surprise.

Richie’s jaw drops. “Okay, I take it back—you’re the athlete. Teach me your ways, oh mighty suplex queen.”

Stan mutters, “Richie, you’d snap like a twig.”

Ben smiles softly. “She’s incredible…”

Eddie nudges Richie away. “Stop staring like a creep.”

Bev beams, pride lighting her entire face. “That’s my cousin. And my friend. They’re total badasses.”

The coach calls for the next round, and you and Bev’s cousin bump fists before circling each other—this time as sparring partners, moving with practiced rhythm like you’ve done this dozens of times.

The Losers drift closer to the rope, cheering, whistling, calling your names.

Richie cups his hands around his mouth. “GO KICK THEIR ASS—BUT LIKE, NICELY! BECAUSE YOU’RE DEMONSTRATING AND NOT ACTUALLY MURDERING ANYONE!”

Eddie groans. “Please stop. Please.”