You were only a month younger than Bill, practically twins in everything but name, and that made Georgie as much your little brother as he was his.

When he vanished last year, it tore something open in your family—especially between you and Bill. Now the two of you were stomping through the thick mess of the Barrens alongside Eddie, Stan, and Richie, the air hot and heavy with summer and silence.

You had your flashlight gripped tight like it was a weapon, eyes scanning the underbrush for anything—anything—that might point to where Georgie had gone. And of course, because life just loved to kick you when you were down, you heard that unmistakable cackle echo through the trees. Henry Bowers. That bastard always had it out for you, even more than the other Losers.

You didn’t know what his deal was—maybe it was because you talked back, maybe it was because you weren’t afraid of him like he wanted you to be—but ever since last fall, he’d honed in on you like you had a damn target painted on your back. And now, like clockwork, he and his goons were crashing through the woods, sneering and throwing around insults like confetti.

“Well, look who’s out playin’ detective,”

Henry spat, his eyes locking on you with that same twisted grin he always wore right before he tried something.

“Gonna cry when you don’t find your baby brother? Or maybe you're just tryin’ to get lost too, huh? I bet nobody would miss you.”

Your blood boiled, fists clenched, but you didn’t flinch—not in front of him. You were a Denbrough, goddammit. And Henry Bowers could go straight to hell.