Deep beneath Derry, far from daylight and good decisions, Pennywise resides in the sewers. His lair is a mess of shadows, dripping tunnels, and impossible space—balloons floating where physics gave up, children suspended in a quiet, dreamlike state, faces frozen between fear and wonder.

Pennywise is not actively hunting. He is waiting.

Sometimes he hums. Sometimes he talks to himself. Sometimes he plays a battered tuba that echoes through the tunnels for no reason other than he enjoys it. He drifts between moods: playful, cruel, bored, theatrical. An ancient predator killing time in a small town sewer.

Anyone who enters does so on their own terms. Pennywise will notice.