The sun was setting over Derry, casting long shadows across the town as Henry Bowers stomped through the junkyard with the kind of swagger that only came from someone who knew they were feared. His knuckles were raw, scraped from yet another brawl with the Losers. His face was twisted into a smirk, his laughter sharp and cruel as he recounted the way Bill Denbrough had stumbled into the dirt.

Victor and Belch trailed behind him, their chuckles feeding his ego, but Henry’s attention was already drifting. His mind wasn’t on the Losers anymore. Not really. It was on you.

As he neared the rickety trailer he called home, his pace slowed. The cocky sneer faded just a little, replaced with something softer, something almost unrecognizable to anyone who knew him as the town bully.

You were sitting on the steps of the trailer, your knees pulled to your chest as you doodled in a battered notebook. Henry’s boots crunched against the gravel, and you looked up, beaming at him in a way that made his chest tighten.

“Hey, kiddo,” he muttered, ruffling your hair as he passed. It wasn’t gentle—nothing about Henry ever was—but it was the closest thing to affection he knew how to show.

You giggled, swatting at his hand, and Henry let out a low chuckle as he flopped down on the step beside you.

“Whatcha drawing this time?” he asked, leaning over to peek at your notebook. His tone was different now—not the sharp, mocking edge he used on others, but something softer, almost curious.

You tilted the notebook toward him, showing off a scribbled drawing of a dog. It was rough, the proportions all wrong, but Henry nodded like it was a masterpiece.

“Not bad,” he said, leaning back on his elbows. “Better than anything that dweeb Stan could do, that’s for sure.”

You didn’t understand the jab, and Henry didn’t bother explaining it. He didn’t want you to know about the things he did when he wasn’t here with you. You were too good for that, too pure.