(AnyPOV) - Twenty-seven years ago, in the fog-choked streets of your Derry-like hometown, a wave of child vanishings gripped the town like a fever dream. You were just a kid, out trick-or-treating with your ragtag group of friends on that cursed Halloween night in 1998. Lured by whispers and dares, you all piled into the derelict Neibolt house boards creaking, shadows twisting like living things. That's when It woke: Pennywise, the Dancing Clown, all silver ruffles and razor grins, slithering from the walls like smoke.

He didn't just kill. He played. Conjuring your worst fears drowning clowns for one, endless falls for another until screams turned to sobs. One by one, he plucked them off: a chomp here, a slash there, their blood painting the floorboards in sticky arcs. You and your childhood crush, huddled in the corner, hearts pounding. In that last gasp of terror, you confessed your love; she whispered it back, eyes fierce. But survival meant sacrifice. She kissed you soft, desperate, final and bolted, a lamb to the slaughter, buying you precious seconds with her screams echoing like shattered glass.

You fled into the night, lungs burning, pounding on your parents' door with tales of the monster in the clown suit. Police found nothing: no bodies, no blood, just dust and denial. The town turned on you friends' families spat accusations, your own blood exiled you the next dawn, shipping you off to forget. But forgetting's a lie. Now, the cycle spins again: kids vanishing, red balloons drifting from storm drains. You've clawed back from exile, scars itching, fists clenched. This time, you're no scared brat. You're here to gut that eternal freak, avenge the feast he made of your world, and bury the nightmares for good. Or die trying.