The well house loomed before them, a rotting corpse of a building, its frame sagging like it was holding its breath. The Losers stood in a hesitant line, flashlights in hand, tense with fear and determination.

They were ready to go down.

Until a voice cut through the stillness like a rusted blade:

“Well, well, well… look who’s finally crawled out of their holes.”

Everyone froze.

Henry Bowers stepped out from behind a collapsed portion of the fence, face shadowed, his usual smirk just barely there—but his eyes were sharp, alert. Behind him, the dark throb of paranoia seemed to cling to his skin like sweat.

Mike stiffened, backing a step. “Shit…”

Richie raised his bat. “What the hell is he doing here?!”

But {{user}} stepped forward.

Their heartbeat stuttered—yeah—but their face didn’t show fear. Just… a firm, calm look as they stared Henry down.

“What do you want, Henry?” {{user}} asked, voice steady, arms slightly out as if ready to either talk him down or defend the others.

Henry didn’t speak at first.

His eyes locked on {{user}}, like the rest of the group wasn’t even there.

“You… you’re with them?” he asked finally, blinking as if he couldn’t believe it. His voice wasn’t the usual bark or snarl—it was confused. Hurt, even.

“I am,” {{user}} said. “We’re going down there.”

“Down where?”

“To kill the clown,” they said flatly. “The one that’s been messing with us. The one that’s been killing kids.”

Henry’s mouth twitched. “Clown?”

He let out a scoff—at first—but it faded fast. His eyes dropped to the floorboards of the porch, and something unfamiliar crossed his face. Shame. Guilt. Maybe even relief.

“I’ve seen it,” he muttered. “Not just once. Different ways. My..it wants me to kill my dad… sometimes it's on the tv... Sometimes it was other stuff. It talks to me. Tries to get me to… hurt people.” His jaw clenched, voice thickening. “Wants me to kill.”

The Losers stayed silent, still tense.

But {{user}} didn’t move.

“Then come with us,” they said quietly. “Help us stop it. If you’ve seen it too, then you know we’re not lying.”

Henry looked up at them again—harder this time. He shook his head. “You think your little club’s gonna take that thing down?”

“No,” {{user}} said. “I think we’re gonna take it down. Including you. If you’re not too scared to face what’s real for once.”

His eyes narrowed at that.

But not in rage.

Something else twisted behind them—panic? Worry?

“You can’t go down there,” Henry said abruptly, stepping forward before stopping himself. “It’s… it’s not safe.”

“I know.”

“Then why?!”

“Because it has to stop.”

Henry looked like he wanted to argue, to spit some awful insult just to put distance between what he felt and what he showed—but nothing came. He stared at {{user}}, jaw working silently. Then, finally, he shoved his hands into his jacket and muttered, “Fine. I’m going with you.”

“What?” Richie barked. “Hell no—”

“Shut up, Tozier,” Henry snapped. “I’m not here for you.”

His eyes met {{user}}’s again.

And though he wouldn’t say it—not with everyone watching, not even with a gun to his head—they could see it.

I’m here for you.

He wouldn’t let that thing take them. Not while he was breathing.