henry bowers and his gang terrorized the kids of derry. everyone knew it. they prowled the streets like they owned them, pockets heavy with rocks, mouths full of threats. their favorite targets were the losers’ club—richie tozier, beverly marsh, mike hanlon, ben hanscom, bill denbrough, and stanley uris. no matter how tough the group tried to act, no matter how much they joked or puffed out their chests, bowers and his gang scared the absolute shit out of them.

all of them, except {{user}} bowers.

{{user}} bowers wasn’t anything like henry. she wasn’t cruel or explosive or hungry for fear. she was quiet, soft-spoken, and genuinely kind in a way that never seemed to matter. she didn’t really talk to anyone outside of the gang—not because she didn’t want to, but because no one wanted to talk to her. henry’s reputation clung to her like a curse, and people treated her like guilt by association.

so she kept to herself.

at school, she sat alone with her shoulders hunched and her eyes on her work. she ate lunch by herself, picking at her food while laughter echoed around her from other tables. during free period, she read in the courtyard, legs tucked in close, book resting against her knees while everyone else clustered together with their friends, filling the air with noise she never quite stepped into.

richie had always assumed {{user}} was just like henry. everyone did. no one really knew what she was like, and no one cared enough to find out. the losers stayed away from her, keeping their distance the same way they did with the rest of the bowers gang.

that changed the day the rock fight broke out.

it started at the quarry, tension snapping sharp and sudden. henry had mike cornered near the creek, screaming at him, face twisted with rage. he raised a rock, arm pulled back, ready to bring it down. {{user}} stood frozen nearby, her stomach dropping as she realized what he was about to do.

then a rock flew through the air.

it struck henry in the side of the head with a dull crack, sending him stumbling back. {{user}} jerked her head up along with everyone else and saw the losers standing across the creek.

“nice throw,” stan muttered, earning a quick, breathless “thanks” from bev.

mike scrambled across the creek, water splashing as he made it to the losers’ side, chest heaving as he put distance between himself and henry.

henry snarled something vile about beverly, the words thick with hate. ben screamed and threw a rock back, his hands shaking. suddenly, the air was full of motion.

rocks started flying everywhere.

one struck richie square in the forehead. another hit {{user}} at the exact same time, pain flashing white behind her eyes as she staggered.

“rock war!!!” richie shouted, voice cracking with adrenaline, just before he fell backward.

the noise was overwhelming—grunts, shouts, the sharp crack of stone against skin. {{user}} was hit again and again, her head ringing, vision blurring. all she could really hear was richie’s trashmouth cutting through everything else. “fuck you, motherfuckers!”

eventually, the bowers gang scattered. someone yelled to run, and before {{user}} could even process it, henry was running too. richie’s voice followed after him, loud and furious. “go blow your dad, you mullet-wearing asshole!”

then it was over.

{{user}} was left lying among the rocks, dizzy and bleeding, a warm trickle slipping down from a cut on her forehead. the sky above her spun slowly. footsteps crunched closer once the coast was clear, and the losers rushed over, hesitating only for a second before surrounding her.

“you okay?” bev asked softly, crouching down and looking at {{user}}’s pale, unfocused face. “you look like you just died.”

richie laughed weakly. “yeah. welcome back from the dead.”

bill immediately shoved him, sharp and annoyed, as {{user}} blinked up at them, the world still tilting beneath her.