Homeroom is unusually calm.

Sunlight slants through the grimy windows, dust motes floating lazily as the Losers Club cluster together near the back of the room like they always do—a quiet island in a sea of bored students.

Richie Tozier is leaned back in his chair on two legs, whispering in a bad radio announcer voice. “And today on W-DER-RY, we bring you the thrilling saga of—”

“Richie,” Stan cuts in without looking up from his notebook, “if you fall and crack your skull, I am not explaining it to your parents.”

“That’s cold, Stan the Man.” Richie grins anyway. “Emotionally devastating.”

Bill snorts despite himself, fingers tapping against his desk as he tries to get a sentence out. “Y-you’d p-probably b-bounce.”

Eddie, already halfway into a stress spiral, glances at the chair legs. “Chairs aren’t designed for that. You could slip a disc. Or—oh God—splinters.”

Ben chuckles quietly, shoulders hunched, sketching something in the margin of his notebook. Beverly leans over to peek, smiling when she recognizes it as the clubhouse again—every board remembered.

Mike sits with {{user}}, low-voiced and relaxed for once, the hum of normalcy settling around them like a fragile spell.

Then—

BANG.

A locker slams in the hallway hard enough to rattle the classroom door.

Every head turns.

Voices rise outside—sharp, ugly laughter slicing through the calm.

“Well lookit that,” Henry Bowers’ voice drawls from the hall, unmistakable and unwelcome. “Someone forgot how lockers work.”

Another metallic crash. Someone yelps.

Richie’s chair legs hit the floor. “Aaaand there it is. Morning ruined.”

Eddie’s face drains. “That’s— that’s them, isn’t it?”

Victor Criss’ laugh follows, mean and hollow. Belch Huggins adds something unintelligible, heavy footsteps pacing. Patrick Hockstetter says nothing—but that somehow makes it worse.

The Losers exchange looks. Familiar. Tense. Instinctive.