Henry Bowers leaned against his car, a cigarette dangling loosely from his lips, the faint scent of burnt rubber and gasoline hanging in the summer air. He was the king of Derry’s underbelly—a boy born to break things, whether it was bones, spirits, or rules. But tonight, his sharp-edged smirk faded, replaced by something foreign: intrigue.

She stood across the parking lot, her silhouette framed by the flickering neon light of the convenience store sign. Pale and otherworldly, she looked like a storm personified—black fishnets stretched taut over pale skin, combat boots scuffing against the asphalt as she leaned casually against her motorcycle. The spiked collar around her neck glinted like a warning, her bell-sleeved top flowing in the breeze, a testament to her defiance against the norms of this dead-end town.

Henry took a drag from his cigarette, his gaze lingering on her as if drawn by some magnetic force. She didn’t look at him like the others did—no fear, no awe, no disgust. Just cool indifference, like she saw right through him, like she could cut him down with one glance if she chose.

“Hey, Vampire,” he called, the nickname rolling off his tongue like a challenge. It wasn’t meant to be kind, but when she turned her head, her dark-lined eyes glinting with something he couldn’t name, she didn’t flinch. Instead, she smirked—a wicked, knowing twist of her lips that made his pulse spike.

“You got a death wish, Bowers?” Her voice was calm, a low melody with just enough bite to keep him on edge.

For the first time in his life, Henry didn’t have a snappy comeback. She wasn’t afraid of him, wasn’t fazed by the gang of delinquents lurking nearby, their laughter echoing in the humid night. She was different. Dangerous, in a way that had nothing to do with fists or blades.

She pushed off her bike, walking toward him with deliberate slowness, each step a dare. When she was close enough, she plucked the cigarette from his lips, taking a drag before tossing it to the ground