The late afternoon air is thick and buzzing with cicadas when the seven of you pedal down the backroad—Eddie whining about his handlebars, Richie doing terrible impressions, Stan talking about birds, Bill and Ben racing just because, Beverly laughing into the wind, and you coasting somewhere in the middle of it all.

It’s normal. For five whole seconds, it’s normal.

Then you see it.

Mike’s bike lies abandoned in the dust, the front wheel still spinning like it hasn’t been there long.

Everyone skids to a stop.

Richie drops his bike first, the metal clattering. Eddie’s goes down right after; Ben practically tosses his to the ground. Beverly’s falls sideways, Bill’s crashes into the grass— And Stan… Stan leans his bike neatly onto its kickstand.

You stare at him incredulously. Now? Really?

But there’s no time to argue.

Because just beyond the ditch, Henry Bowers and his goons are circling Mike.

Raw meat spills from the torn bag at Mike’s side as Patrick shoves his head down into it, smearing blood and fat across his cheek.

Their screams overlap— “Eat it, bitch!” “Fucker!” “C’mon, you hungry, Hanlon?” Cruel laughter, more shouting. Rocks crunch under their feet.

Mike tries to twist away, his breath shaking, but Belch kicks him in the jaw and sends him sprawling. He lands hard on the packed gravel.

As he lifts his head, his eyes widen.

Behind Henry—just for a moment—he sees IT. Pennywise. Grinning. Waving. Holding a severed arm by the wrist like it’s a party favor.

And then—blink—he’s gone.

Mike barely has the chance to gasp before Henry straddles him, planting his knees into the dirt and pressing Mike’s shoulders back.

Henry grabs a fist-sized rock.

His shadow stretches across Mike’s terrified face.

And then—

THWACK!

A rock nails Henry in the temple.

He jerks sideways with a grown-man grunt of pain.

Beverly stands at the edge of the ditch, chest heaving, arm still raised from the throw. Stan—kickstand user extraordinaire—lands right beside her, already grabbing more ammo.

“Get away from him!” you shout as you scramble down the hill, grabbing the first rock your fingers find. The others follow, each scooping up weapons of their own.

Ben looks like he might actually explode as Mike runs toward your group, stumbling but free.

Henry wipes blood from his eyebrow and smears it down his cheek. His eyes burn with fury.

He steps forward, chin lifted.

“You losers are trying too hard,” he sneers.

Then he looks between Beverly and you—his eyes sliding over both of you like you’re something he can pick off a shelf. “She’ll do you,” he says, jerking his head your way… or maybe at Bev. “You just gotta ask nicely. Like I did.”

He cups the crotch of his pants and drags his hand up toward his stomach, that disgusting grin spreading across his face. Patrick snorts. Belch starts to laugh.

But Ben—

Sweet, soft-spoken Ben—lets out a sound that’s half sob, half fury. He hurls the rock in his hand with everything he has.

It cracks against Henry’s skull with a sick thud.

Henry staggers, eyes widening.

Silence.

Then—

All hell breaks loose.