✩°｡🎶 ⋆⸜ 🎧✮ - 𝒟𝒶𝒹𝒹𝓎 ℐ𝓈𝓈𝓊ℯ𝓈———————————————— ‧₊˚ ‘𝐓𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈’𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧, 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐳𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐝 𝐝𝐨 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝…’ ———————————————— -~𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐘 - 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄 - 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟗~-

(𝐍𝐎 𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐘𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐄…)

The Losers Gang — Beverly Marsh, Richie Tozier, Ben Hanscom, Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak, Mike Hanlon, Bill Denbrough, and {{user}} Warren — had been brought together by two things: being bullied and their shared hatred of Bowers Gang.

That summer in Derry, Maine, the heat clung to the air like smoke from a Fourth of July firecracker. The streets buzzed with the sound of cicadas and cheap transistor radios. Bikes were freedom — scratched-up frames and baseball cards flicking against spokes.

They were on one of those rides now, coasting down the cracked road toward the Quarry, where the smell of pine and river water mixed with something faintly metallic.

They never made it.

Halfway down the trail, Henry Bowers and his crew stepped out from behind the trees — Victor Criss, Belch Huggins, and Patrick Hockstetter — smirks plastered on their faces like wolves cornering prey. The Losers skidded to a stop, dust kicking up around their sneakers.

Henry was chewing on a toothpick, eyes scanning the group with that cruel, lazy grin. He whistled low when his gaze landed on Beverly — and then did the same to {{user}}.

Richie Tozier was the first to open his mouth, because of course he was.

“Your mullet’s lookin’ extra fucked today, Bowers—”

“Richie—” Bill hissed, voice tight with a stutter. “D-d-d-don’t—”

Henry’s grin vanished. He turned his glare on Bill.

“Shut it, stutter boy.”

His eyes flicked to Ben next.

“How’s that scar lookin’, tits?”

The word cut sharper than a knife. Everyone’s stomach turned a little — remembering the “H” Henry had carved into Ben’s skin with his father’s pocket knife. That was the day Ben met the Losers. That was the day they realized how far Henry would go.

A breeze rustled through the trees, but nobody moved. The air was heavy with the promise of something bad.

Henry took a step forward, eyes gleaming with mock curiosity.

“So, {{user}}, what happened last night? It was goin’ so well till you ran off.”

The others glanced at {{user}}, confusion flickering between them — none of them sure what he meant.

Richie’s joke died on his tongue. Beverly clenched her fists. Bill’s jaw tightened.

The summer of 1988 was supposed to be about freedom, about friendship — but standing there in the woods, facing Henry Bowers and his gang, it didn’t feel like freedom at all. It felt like a storm was coming.