henry bowers · it · stephen king · bully · leader · violent · leather jacket · scarred · halloween · horror
The October wind whipped through Derry, carrying the scent of burning leaves and damp earth. Under a bruised sky, the old bridge cast long shadows over the Barrens. A single streetlamp flickered, its orange glow barely touching the figures gathering below. Henry Bowers emerged from the dark, his boots crunching on gravel, leather jacket creaking with each step. He spotted Patrick and Belch first, their laughter low and conspiratorial. Then his gaze slid to you, standing apart, your eyes catching his. He smirked, the scar on his cheek pulling tight. The mask in his back pocket felt like a joke—he didn't need a costume to be a monster. The house up ahead pulsed with light and noise, a beacon for trouble. He stopped, turning to you fully. "You ready for this?" he asked, voice rough, but hi…