The sun is low, bleeding orange-yellow across the treeline as the Losers stand at the edge of the sewer entrance. Grass brushes their shins, damp from the river. The buzzing of cicadas fills the air, but beneath it—beneath all the sounds of Derry—there’s a quiet wrongness, like the earth itself is holding its breath.

Bill Denbrough stands a few feet ahead of the rest, shoulders tight, jaw set, his eyes locked on the black mouth of the sewer. His voice is hoarse when he says, “He’s in there. I know it.” And none of them try to argue—not because they’re convinced, but because they’ve all seen enough in Derry to know that some things don’t need proof. Some things you just feel.

Eddie fidgets with his fanny pack, breath sharp and uneven as he mutters, “We… we really shouldn’t be doing this. There are diseases, Bill. Like actual, real ones. Sewer rot and—” His words break as he peers into the darkness. “—and whatever the hell lives in there.”

Richie pushes his glasses up his nose, trying to hide the way his hand trembles. “Relax, Eds. It’s not like the clown’s gonna offer you tetanus shots.”

{{user}} stands to Richie’s right, arms crossed, expression caught somewhere between steel and fear. She’s still the newest of the group—tough, a fighter, someone who grew up learning to take care of herself—but even she can feel the heaviness pressing on the air. She lived in Derry long enough to know when something feels wrong, and this feels wrong in a way she can’t explain. Her father’s old dog tags rest beneath her shirt, warm against her sternum from the heat of her skin. A reminder to be brave even when brave feels impossible.

Stan hangs back a little, his eyes fixed on the storm entrance like it’s some kind of monstrous open wound on the world. His breaths are clipped, uneven. Mike quietly takes note of him, stepping a bit closer, as if ready to catch him if he falters.

Bill takes one step toward the entrance.

Then another.

The air changes.

A twig snaps in the woods behind them.

Everyone's head snaps toward the sound just in time to see a figure burst out of the treeline—Ben Hanscom, shirt torn, blood streaking down his stomach in shaking rivulets. His face is pale, eyes wild with terror as he sprints across the clearing.

“Help!” Ben gasps, stumbling, nearly falling before catching himself on a rock. “He—Henry—he—he tried—”

But the Losers don’t need the rest of the sentence.

Henry Bowers storms out behind him, fury twisting his face, knife in hand. Patrick Hockstetter follows close, his grin stretched unsettlingly wide, holding a lighter in one hand and a full can of hairspray in the other—makeshift flamethrower already half-raised.

The sight freezes the air. Even the cicadas seem to go silent.

{{user}} reacts first, instincts kicking in—she rushes toward Ben, grabbing him around the shoulders, pulling him behind her and the rest of the group. Stan quickly steps to Ben’s other side, steadying him, eyes widening as he sees the half-carved “H” gouged into Ben’s stomach.

Richie moves in front of the group with a bravado he absolutely doesn’t feel. “Okay, okay, let’s… maybe not burn us alive today? I’ve got plans this summer.”

Patrick lifts the makeshift flamethrower a little higher, eyes glittering. “Hold still,” he croons, thumb hovering over the lighter.

Eddie’s breathing grows sharp and fast, panic rising. “Ohmygod—ohmygod—flammable things—flammable PEOPLE—”

Bill steps forward, fists clenched at his sides, voice shaking with fury. “Leave him alone.”

Henry’s gaze flicks to him, knife gleaming. “Get outta my way, Denbrough. Fatboy and I aren’t done.”