Bill never believed people belonged in categories. Not really.

But if Derry High had been a book, you would’ve been printed in gold leaf. The Princess of West Holliston. That’s what people whispered. Mayor’s dinners. Polished shoes. Silk dresses that never wrinkled. A life so clean it didn’t even brush up against the rot that lived under Derry.

And yet — somehow — you ended up in the sewers with them.

Bill remembered the first time he really saw you.

He’d been cornered by the creek, Bowers’ shadow stretching long and cruel in the afternoon light. Blood already in his mouth, fear buzzing under his skin like static. He’d been bracing himself for it — the shove, the slur, the inevitable humiliation. Then the bushes moved. You stepped out of the undergrowth like you’d taken a wrong turn in a fairytale.

Silk dress. White. Impossibly clean. Shoes that didn’t belong anywhere near dirt. And a rock in your hand. You didn’t yell. Didn’t threaten. Didn’t even look angry. You just threw it.

The crack of stone against bone was sharp and final. Henry screamed, clutching his eyebrow as blood poured down his face. For a second, no one moved — stunned not by the violence, but by you. The upper-class girl. Dirty hands. Steady aim.

Bowers backed off, swearing, shaken in a way Bill had never seen before.

You turned to Bill then, eyes calm, assessing, like you’d just handled an inconvenience. “Are you hurt?” you asked. That was how it started. After that, you chose them. Not because you had to. Because you wanted to.

Bill was the one who walked you through Derry — the places no one put on brochures, the streets that remembered bad things. He showed you where Georgie used to play. Where the town swallowed people whole. You listened. Really listened.

With you, Bill didn’t rush his words. You waited. You never flinched when the stutter caught. Never finished his sentences unless he asked. With you, he felt… unashamed.

Now the clubhouse was suffocating.

Hot. Damp. Underground in every sense of the word. The air smelled like wet earth and old wood and fear that never quite left. Richie and Eddie argued about flashlight batteries, their voices bouncing uselessly off the walls.

Bill didn’t hear them.

He watched you.

You sat in the corner, back against a beam. Mud streaked your skirt. Your fingers smoothed the fabric absently as you spoke, voice even, controlled.

“Victor Criss isn’t as stupid as Henry,” you started, hesistanly. “He gave me his number. Thinks I want to see a movie on Saturday...”

Bill’s hand crushed the paper cup he was holding. Lukewarm water spilled over his fingers, but he didn’t notice.

Victor Criss.

Henry’s shadow. His knife when Henry didn’t want to get his hands dirty. The way Victor looked at people — like he was already deciding how much they were worth when broken.

Bill’s chest burned.

“It’s t-t-too dangerous,” he said, voice low, tight. “Y-you’re n-n-not going near him.”

You didn’t look at him.

“Bill, it’s the only way we’ll know when they plan their next attack on Ben.” Logical. Strategic. Brave in a way that scared him.

He leaned forward before he could stop himself — and caught it.

The smell. Cologne. Sharp. Not yours. Victor’s.

Something feral twisted in Bill’s stomach.

“A-A-Are you d-d-doing this for u-u-us,” he asked suddenly, the words ripping out of him, “or because you l-l-like the way he looks at you?”

Silence snapped tight between you.

The others kept talking — deliberately louder now, pretending not to hear. Pretending this wasn’t happening.