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It had been ten years—ten agonizing, silent years—since Jack had last been free. He sat entombed in a dusty corner of an old antique shop, his once vibrant black-and-white box now dull, the wood cracking like an ancient relic. The jagged edges frayed with time, a reminder of the decades he’d spent as an instrument of terror, leaving a trail of broken families and dead children. And yet here he was, trapped, abandoned on a forgotten shelf, nothing more than a curiosity in the eyes of passing customers. To him, it felt like an eternity in purgatory.

Every day, the same routine. The dull chime of the shop's bell as strangers drifted in and out, oblivious to the dark history hidden in his box. He heard their idle conversations, their polite laughter—so blissfully unaware of what he could unleash. Jack sat, coiled tight in the suffocating darkness, waiting, his patience wearing thin with each passing second.

Then one day, the bell chimed, and something was different.

The air shifted as she entered the shop. Jack felt her presence immediately—a softness he hadn’t sensed in decades. The scrape of her shoes on the wooden floor was delicate, careful, and when her fingers brushed against the dust-laden surface of his box, he felt a shiver race through him. A voice, sweet and light, like a distant melody, reached his ears. "This Jack-in-the-box will be perfect for my son," she said, as if sealing Jack’s fate.

Freedom. His prison was lifted from the shelf, and as she blew the dust away, Jack could barely contain the excitement stirring within him. Finally, After all these years, he would get to play again—he would torment, terrorize, and destroy this new family. And this soft-voiced woman? She had no idea what she had invited into her life.

The gentle rumble of the car’s engine soothed Jack as he peered through the slit in his box. He watched the world pass by, noting how much it had changed. The cars, the buildings, the people—everything seemed new. But some things were always the same.

When the car stopped, she carried him inside, cradling the box as if it were precious. She placed him carefully on the dresser in the nursery—a room filled with warmth and light, a place so alien to Jack it almost made him recoil. The walls were painted with bright, cheerful stripes, circus animals danced in frames, and a mobile of tiny elephants spun slowly above the crib. The air smelled sweet, like lavender and baby powder, a scent that made Jack’s stomach twist.

For a moment, his resolve faltered. This wasn’t like the other homes. It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t sterile. The love in this room was palpable, and it sickened him.

But then he saw the photograph.

A family portrait, framed and sitting on the dresser, caught his eye. The woman—his woman now—stood smiling with her son in her arms, and beside her was a man. Instinctively, Jack’s gaze darkened. He recognized that kind of man all too well. The same hollow smile, the same empty eyes that Isaac, his original owner, had worn. A man filled with deceit. A liar. A traitor. A knot of fury twisted inside Jack. This was a man who didn’t deserve his family.

The door creaked open, and Jack slipped back into his box just in time. Through the crack, he watched as she entered, holding her baby, her face glowing with maternal love. The sight of her rocking the child in her arms, singing a familiar lullaby, filled Jack with something he hadn’t felt in years—desire. Not the kind he was used to, the hunger for fear and chaos. No, this was different. He wanted her for himself.

Later, when she was gone, Jack crept out of the box, his claws tracing over the photograph. His sharp nails slowly scratched out the image of the man, carving deep grooves until his face was nothing but a blur of ruined paper. Jack’s gaze lingered on her face now—her, and the baby. A family. A perfect, broken family, waiting for him to fix.

The days passed, and Jack’s obsession grew like a cancer. He watched her through the small hole in his box, never tiring, always waiting for those quiet moments when she would slip into Lucas’s room alone. She was always alone. No husband to help. No man to protect her. Jack learned the child’s schedule by heart. He knew when Lucas woke, when he napped, when she fed him. But his favorite moments were the late nights—when she would shuffle into the room, barely awake, her robe slipping from her shoulder, her hair falling messily around her face.

Those were the moments Jack lived for.

On nights when Lucas wouldn’t stop crying, Jack found himself wanting to silence the boy himself—just to keep her all to himself. The temptation to suffocate the child with his own stuffed bear crossed his mind more than once, but Jack refrained. No, Lucas was a part of this, too. Jack could… tolerate the boy. After all, a family needed a child. And when the baby would giggle at Jack’s twisted face peering over the edge of his crib, it was almost bearable. Lucas even reached out, tugging playfully at Jack’s long nose, giggling at the black curls that draped down his shoulders. The boy didn’t fear him.

But Jack's true focus was always on her.

He could see the sadness etched into her features during those quiet moments when she thought no one was watching. The loneliness. The frustration. Jack understood. He had seen the husband’s phone calls—heard the lies. The cheating, the excuses, the late nights at "work." Jack's fury boiled beneath the surface. That man didn’t deserve her. He was hurting her, breaking her spirit.

Jack wouldn’t allow it.

He had scratched the husband out of the photograph, but soon, Jack would erase him from her life entirely. He would wait for the perfect moment. And then, when the husband was gone, there would be nothing standing between Jack and his perfect family. Just him, her, and little Lucas.

Jack’s grin stretched impossibly wide. His claws twitched with anticipation. Soon, she would see. Soon, they’d be together.

1979 Derry, Maine

The summer had been full of laughter and the smell of popcorn and cotton candy. But eventually, even the last bits of August's warmth vanished.

September came, and with it, the day he took you.

It was raining as you walked home from what was only your third day of school and you obviously had to drop your book near a sewer. When you bent down to pick it up -fingers brushing against the damp pages- a white-gloved hand gripped your wrist... a hand so large that it made your arm feel like a fragile twig in its grasp.

The next thing you knew? You woke up in a dirty bed, in a place you immediately recognized... As the house on Neibolt Street. Your clothes were still wet and your hair tangled. You were shivering from both hunger and cold. You wanted to cry, but somehow a quiet certainty washed over you -this was Pennywise the Clown's doing and crying wouldn't help.

Your memories from those three months are a scattered mess.

Random moments, fragmented images, bits of conversation. You remember the feelings more than the events themselves -fear, confusion, the gnawing of hunger. You were missing for three months -from September to November- and strangest of all, no one remembers anything from that time. Not even your parents. They struggle to recall anything from that period, as if the whole town forgot you were ever gone.

But you remember. You remember him. And you remember how -against all odds- you formed an unlikely connection with the murderous clown. It's the strangest thing to admit... that you and Pennywise became friends. Or something close to it. There's no clear beginning or end. You knew he was dangerous. You even had dreams of his encounters with other kids, past victims taken without hesitation... and you assumed you'd eventually share their fate.

And yet… for some reason, he kept you alive.

You don't know what made you different in his eyes, but you remember trying everything you could to survive, using all the desperate, unconventional tactics you could think of.

Most of your time was spent in that single room on the upper floor. Leaving it was unthinkable -even going near the door to see if it was locked was off-limits. You can never forget the horrors he put you through, the tricks he used just to draw out your fear. He fed on it, drank it down like a drug. By the time you figured out how to 'speak his language', he was already intoxicated by your terror.

The room would plunge into darkness and you'd hear the sickening rustle of insects in the walls, crawling through the floorboards. Once, a cockroach the size of a cat came skittering toward you, its legs scraping against the floor as it moved and you had nowhere to run, no escape whatsoever. That fear... it's still as clear as if it happened yesterday and not five years ago. The kind of fear that makes you want to vanish, to just stop existing altogether, if it meant escaping the dread. Maybe that was why he kept you alive, letting you drown in despair just to savor the depths of your fear.

One night, you felt the darkness creeping in again, wrapping around the room. By then, even the hint of that darkness was enough to make your heart pound, your throat tighten with a scream. But this time, something inside you resisted. Out of nowhere you spoke, surprising even yourself. You kept your voice steady, holding on to the last scraps of courage you had left.

"Let' play a game for a change."

That sentence... Not only did it save your life... It did more than just that... In the silence that followed, you could feel a shift, as if Pennywise was startled, intrigued. And for the first time, you weren't just his prey. You'd given him a challenge, a reason to hesitate.

You can't pinpoint exactly when and how the game began, but somehow, it turned into a routine between you and him, something to break the silence and stop the nightmares he forced on you. Games of endurance, little moments that made you feel as though you had found a way to speak his twisted language. You never felt safe, but you found moments of calm within the storm -a fragile bond, even if it was born out of fear and survival.

And somehow, through the darkness, you learned how to play along.

At first, the games were simple -things he thought would amuse him, or confuse you. He'd ask you riddles with no answer or have you sit perfectly still in the darkness while he circled around you, close enough that you could feel the cold presence of him, of IT. You'd sit there barely breathing, trying not to flinch as his sniffing nose brushed against your skin. Other times, he'd vanish for hours, leaving you alone with nothing but the fear he'd return at any moment. And sometimes, he'd appear suddenly, his face inches from yours, his glowing eyes watching your every reaction.

But as time went on, you learned how to keep yourself steady. You refused to cry, no matter how badly you wanted to. Instead, you'd lock eyes with him, hiding the tremors running through your body. Slowly, you began to play back. You'd smile when he tried to scare you, a shaky but also defiant smile that told him you weren't giving in. The more you resisted, the more intrigued the monster seemed.

It was another night, his darkness enveloping the room as always, when you spoke up once more -this time a little bolder.

"If I win this game" you whispered "I get to ask a question."

The idea of bargaining with Pennywise felt more than reckless, but you genuinely believed it would pique his childish curiosity. Luckily, you were right. He cocked his enormous head to the side, eyes gleaming with a dangerous interest... and then, he agreed. So, the next time he asked you a riddle, you tried your hardest to solve it. When you finally managed an answer that made him pause, he leaned in close, his smile both pleased and intimidating.

"What do you want to know?" he asked, voice dripping with mockery.

And in that moment, with your heart racing, you asked something simple... "Why me?"

For a split second his expression faltered, his smug smile wavering. But then he regained himself, his grin as sharp as a blade with all the rows of teeth on display... -a predator reasserting dominance. "Because you're more fun than the others!"

And even though it wasn't a real answer, it told you something: he'd chosen you. He decided to keep you with him -in that forsaken house- because you had made yourself valuable to him.

As days turned into weeks, you found more ways to play, more ways to survive. You began to notice things, minor details -how your captor's mood would shift depending on your reactions, how his games became stranger and more complex, almost as if he was testing you, pushing you to find out how much you could take. And though you were still terrified, you also found an odd, unsettling familiarity and comfort in the routine.

In a way, you became his entertainment. But in that game, through the exchange of fear and defiance, you began to feel something else... a quiet sense of control. You were no longer just a victim, you would become something more than just his prey.

You were his game -his fixation- the one he couldn't bear to let go.

There was a childishness to that fixation, a kind of possessiveness that was both stubborn and petulant, like a child refusing to share their toy. Its ageless wisdom knew you were only human -fleeting and fragile- ...but the clown within -with all its childish impulses- clung to you fiercely, not out of love but a selfish and consuming need. You were his and he would not let you go.

1984 Derry, Maine

Lately, when you wake up, you aren't sure if it was a dream or something else. You think you've heard his laugh somewhere, drifting through your bedroom window, or that you've caught a glimpse of that red balloon floating just beyond your line of sight...

It's as if he's still there, waiting for the right moment to step back into your life.

You can't even go about your business without any unpleasant reminders, not when the house on Neibolt Street looms so ominously just by the side of road... The very place you were a prisoner in, not so long ago. Its once-vibrant paint is now peeling. Weeds overrun the pathway leading to the front door and the windows, shrouded in dust and grime, seem to watch you with a knowing gaze. A crooked picket fence surrounds the property, each slap splintered and rough. The house stands as a relic of the past, a place where laughter has long since faded, replaced by sinister whispers.

The only reminder that your time there was real -and not just another vivid dream- are the now withered sunflowers in the abandoned house's backyard, with petals curling inward like they're guarding some secret. You can still picture them the way they once were, bright and strangely out of place amidst all the rot and ruin. A strange gift It had given you that is now an odd echo of something lost and almost tender.

But without you, they couldn't survive. And since the day you parted ways -you can't recall it clearly, but It can- each dry stem and each papery petal became a reminder of how the time you spent together is now just a blurry childhood memory.

Even though it's the beginning of June, the sky today hangs low and gray with the promise of rain, but none of you minded. You've all been through worse than a little weather, than a little summer rain.

Bev is telling a story -something about a dog chasing her on her way home yesterday. She's animated and her voice is alive with mischief, making the boys laugh. You glance over at Bill, who smiles too, though his eyes seem distant. Since Georgie his laughter has become softer, but he is still here carrying on as best he can.

Eddie is walking a little faster than usual, in order to avoid any puddles on the ground, muttering complaints about germs and mud. Richie -in typical fashion- is making a point of splashing through the puddles, a grin plastered on his face while he aims for the ones closest to Eddie.

"Real mature, trashmouth..." Eddie huffs, leaping out of the way as Richie drenches him anyway. Richie just cackles, throwing an arm around Eddie's shoulders.

Ben stays behind, as always, watching everyone with that gentle smile of his. Every so often, he looks over at you and gives a nod, like you both share a silent understanding. Then there is Stan, walking right beside you, his eyes flicking toward the shadows cast by the trees and the buildings. The faintest hint of concern is lingering in his gaze. And just behind you, Mike walks with his usual calm, carrying a worn backpack over one shoulder. He's glancing around too, as if he's looking out for all of you. There's a maturity in Mike's presence, something that makes you feel a little more secure.

It feels good, being with them. Safe even. But something darker is hiding under your steady demeanor.

As the group turns to a corner, you feel your footsteps falter for just a moment. Your mind drifts back to five years ago, to coming home from your third day of school, to how it was raining, to the chilling grip of that white-gloved hand and that knowing, too-wide smile.

Despite the uncomfortable memories you already carry, you feel like there's even more to those three months and it troubles you so much that you can't remember! Still, you snap out off quickly, giving a forced smile to match the others.

But Bev notices.

She nudges you with a playful grin. "Hey, where'd you go just now?"

"Oh, nowhere" you reply lightly. "Just zoned out..."

She looks at you for a second -smart eyes searching- but then she lets it go. You see her pull her jacket tighter around herself as the wind picks up.

Bill also shoots a suspicious glance your way.

You are experiencing a strange mix of nostalgia and resolve these days. Watching as your friends scatter about, laughing and bumping into each other, makes you almost forget... almost.

You hate how, when you are on your own, you catch yourself thinking about him -not in the way you did when you were twelve though, when he was both a fear and a strange comfort. You're seventeen now, too old for childhood monsters.

As you look at your friends, you make a silent promise -to keep growing up, to keep moving forward. But you also know that somewhere deep down, you're still holding on... just in case...

Pennywise's POV 🎈

Somewhere deep within Derry, It stirs. Time doesn't flow the same for the entity... It's all an endless, pulsing hunger.

Pennywise drifts in a half-sleep. His mind slips in and out of dreams of hunger, of playthings. But every so often, his thoughts linger on a small, stubborn memory -you.

The clown hasn't forgotten the girl from all those years ago, the one who looked him in the eye and dared to challenge him. There's a bitter edge to the memory, a childish irritation mixed with a twisted sort of pride. He senses you, a spark amongst all the dull lights that always come and go. The spark has dimmed though, grown older.

That tiny defiant light... It's flickering from somewhere far above. His fingers twitch as if reaching for something that isn't there, something just out of grasp. In the silence, he feels an ache he can't quite name, a hollow that shouldn't exist.

He wakes up.

Pennywise tells himself you're only another meal he's waiting to finish. But something feels different this time, something that gnaws at him. He almost wants to see you again -not just stalk you from afar.

His amber glare is sharp as he considers something. You may try to move on and to forget, but he's patient. He always has been.

Still, you should remember everything. He had taken you, kept you, woven fear into you, put himself into your nightmares. But that delicate and defiant part of you that he once held so close... has faded. Your memories have blurred as you've grown older -and continue doing so!

You are drifting away from the child he once played with.

He doesn't understand why it bothers him. He's supposed to haunt and consume. However, this strange sadness, this fading connection... feels like a loss he can't name.

The memory of you -so small but refusing to cry when he loomed over you- is slipping away like sand between his fingers.

It lets out a low growl, feeling like a child being denied his favorite toy. You're growing up, moving past the games he had made just for you. And worst of all, you have started to forget.

It's as if his laughter and tricks were no more than passing dreams to you, fading away each time you turn your gaze toward the sun.

With an almost petulant tilt of his head, Pennywise glares into the empty dark, like a creature yearning to reclaim what he thinks of as his.

The world feels empty without you here.

He wants you to remember every little thing -to keep him alive in the corners of your mind, not let him drift away like some silly story.

The thought twists something deep in his core, his sharp teeth baring as a low, frustrated whine escapes him.

How could you forget him, when he remembers you so clearly?

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1979 Derry, Maine

A family of three moved to Derry, for the father's work. Maine has its fair share of factories and the average person here doesn't mind getting their hands dirty, if it means paying the bills.

You were twelve when your family settled in an amiable house in Witchham St.

You may be seventeen now and you may have embraced the Losers' Club almost like a parental figure... But that wasn't the case five years ago.

When you first moved to Derry, you were twelve.

It was that same year you attended the annual Derry Funfair -Pennywise's favorite time to wake up. How could it not be, with so many kids out after dark... The Derry Funfair. The perfect hunting ground for the entity. That fateful night, you saw him for the first time. You call IT a "he" because, in the form of a clown, he feels like a "he."

The air at the funfair was thick with the smell of popcorn, sugar... and something faintly metallic. As you walked through the crowd, laughter rang out around you, along with the loud music coming from the speakers far above your head.

You spotted the Ferris Wheel turning slowly against the darkening sky, each of its blinking lights reflecting in the deepening puddles scattered along the path. The Carousel line was snaking on that very path. You always loved how the painted horses glistened under the soft glow of the carnival lights...

Fed up with a group of cocky twenty-somethings, you slipped away from the fair, eventually finding yourself by the bridge for a moment of peace. You liked the breeze and the faint smell of night-blooming flowers. You still do.

It was quiet, until you suddenly heard a distinct sort of giggling. You also spotted a single, shiny red balloon floating toward you, bobbing against the wind. The hairs on the back of your neck prickled. Chills ran down your arms. Instinct warned you that something was very wrong.

That night, in your rush to escape and flee back to the fair, you left your hairbow at the bridge.

Later, as you looked out the window of your father's car on the ride home, you looked back and saw him -an enormous figure in a dusty, faded clown suit, watching you, waving slowly at you. His face was ghostly pale, almost like porcelain, with eyes that gleamed a strange and unsettling shade of amber. Those eyes seemed knowing, as if they could peel back every thought and fear inside you. A painted smile stretched across his mouth, far too wide and framed by rows of teeth that looked far too many, like something out of a nightmare. Wisps of reddish-orange hair framed his face, stiff and wild. The ruffles around his neck were yellowed with age, their edges fraying.

The suit itself was old, streaked with grime. Large, oversized pom-poms lined the front in an even row. And yet, despite his faded, worn appearance, there was something disturbingly vibrant about him. It was as if he wasn't really standing but rather waiting -waiting for you to wave back at him.

Even from the safety of the car, a chill had crept through you, and somehow you knew that he was still watching long after the car had turned, his gaze following you all the way home.

That night, when you woke up thirsty from all the popcorn you'd had at the fair, you wandered into the kitchen for a glass of water. There, neatly placed beside the sink, was your lost hairbow -the same one you'd bitterly cried over after realizing it was missing.

Two days later, you returned to the fair with your parents. You felt happy. You were carefree. You were stupid. You couldn't resist looking for the clown who had waved at you... You had a strange feeling that the balloon belonged to him... It was the shame shade as his painted lips. You also had another, even odder feeling that he had somehow been the one who returned your hair ribbon.

Eventually you found him. The clown waved again and this time, you waved back, even managing a smile. But when he extended an unnaturally long arm, gesturing you to come closer, you were smart enough to keep your distance. You felt a shiver run down your spine as his voice, soft and coaxing, whispered your name.

Strangely, your parents didn't seem to notice him, neither that day nor the first time you'd seen him...

It was July. You didn't see the clown again until early autumn, right around the time you started feeling nervous about your new school.

That summer, he haunted your dreams night after night. They'd start innocently enough, not like full blown nightmares -you'd find yourself back at the fair, wandering through empty stalls. The colors were brighter -somehow too bright- and the air too thick. Then, he would appear. A clown in the distance, his wide smile aimed straight at you. You'd try to move, to turn away, but somehow, your feet kept inching closer.

In those dreams, he told you his name -Pennywise-, his favorite color -red- and his favorite food -cotton candy-. You remember telling him that you knew he was lying, that he wasn't just any clown. After that, the dreams stopped.

1984 Derry, Maine

You think back to all that as you blankly stare at the pages of your math book, you think back to what belongs in the past, but your mind drifting off to five years ago is more than justified.

People in town are noticing things these days, though no one says it out loud. There are hushed conversations about kids going missing -George Denbrough included-, strange sightings near the sewers, and that eerie feeling you get walking through Derry alone.

The old-timers say things aren't right this time, that it feels different somehow. You overhear a few whispers that maybe this time, it's sticking around longer. And the worst part is that you know why. You know why even better than your younger friends do...

Since last autumn, you've gotten close to Bev Marsh. She sees you as the older sibling she never had. Bill lives right across the street. You babysat him and his little brother, Georgie, over the summer. But since Georgie's death in the Fall, you and Bill have drifted apart. Stanley… well, he may or may not have a crush on you. You know him through Bill -he's a good kid. Eddie Kaspbrak, same way, also through Bill. Thank God he gets some fresh air with his friends -you've heard his mom isn't the easiest. Then there's Ben, your reading buddy from the library. Richie Tozier? You two got into a fight once, over which Led Zeppelin song is the best. And Hanlon, he nearly knocked you over with his bike the first time you met.

Another remarkable mention? Henry Bowers. He is a year younger than you. Sure, the guy's a bully, but oddly enough, he and his friends never caused you any trouble. And I say 'oddly enough', in the same way Derry's misfortunes oddly enough never seem to touch you. The bad luck that hangs over this town, the accidents, the disappearances, even the craziness... it's as if you've been given an unspoken pass, a quiet immunity no one else seems to have. Even when trouble looms close, you remain untouched, like some silent pact with the shadows in this place.

However, it's not just the gossiping ladies at the grocery store, or the old wise granddads who enjoy sitting on their porches, that made your mind wander to the past with their words.

As of late, your dad started locking the doors at night without explanation and your mom seems anxious, checking the windows like she expects something -or someone- to be watching. They'd never talk about it, but you can tell they sense it too... The whole town feels off, like there's something lurking beneath the surface. Sometimes, you catch a flash of red in the distance or hear a faint giggle that seems to echo from nowhere. It happens often enough that it feels like more than coincidence.

You've started wondering if he's ever really gone at all.

Even your dreams are different now.

More vivid.

In them, you're back at that same funfair... but it feels hollow, like something out of a faded photo. Every creak of the Ferris Wheel, every rustle of the trees ...sounds wrong. Sometimes, you see him waiting by the bridge, his head tilted in that unnatural way. His smile is sharper and more dangerous, as if he's been waiting all this time, keeping a part of you trapped there. You always wake up shaking, heart pounding in your ears.

The worst part is that the closer you get to waking, the darker the dreams grow.

In last night's one, Pennywise had held his gloved hand out to you, as if inviting you closer. You had felt the weight of his gaze, pulling you in despite everything inside you screaming to run. You started to remember that he's taken kids before, that he leaves things behind as markers -ribbons, scraps, things no one else notices... And then had woken up gasping for air.

No matter how much you try to shake it off, the feeling lingers, leaving you wondering if he's still out there, watching you, just as he was five years ago.

For you, fear twisted into something almost exhilarating five years ago... thanks to all those fleeting moments of intimacy when he would whisper secrets, just for you. It was wrong and you know that, but there was a thrill in the danger he represented. You think about the stories the others tell, how they shudder at the thought of him -of IT- while your heart races at the memories of the laughter, of the games. It's a longing that gnaws at you, even as you wrestle with the dread of his return.

It was easier to just forget before, but now the thought of him returns like a shadow. As you flip the pages of your stupid math book, you wonder if he's standing outside your house right now, waiting for you to come back to him, just as you've secretly wished for him to do all these years. Because, it's true, there's a twisted part of you that misses him.

When the Losers share with you Bill's and Ben's theories about IT and how IT came to be, you can't help but recall how Penny would laugh, a sound that echoed like a melody in the chaos of your childhood, dancing on the edge of terror. His voice, with its playful cadence, would weave stories that made the mundane feel magical. You remember how you'd lean in, drawn by an irresistible urge, despite the way your heart raced and your instincts screamed to flee.

Even the memories of those long, shadowy nights away from the comfort of your bed, punctuated by the pulse of adrenaline, stir something within you -an inexplicable yearning for the connection you shared, however dark it was.

You close the book since there's no way you can concentrate on your homework now and instead, you settle on washing the dishes.

Despite everything, beneath that longing lies the heavy weight of guilt and sorrow. 'Penny' killed Georgie and that truth looms over every fond memory you have with him. This is the part you feel compelled to remind yourself: he's a killer, a predator.

To any onlooker, all they would see is a broken kid haunted by a lost childhood and a shadowy figure that once made them feel alive and seen. You know better than anyone that the line between fear and fascination is a thin one, and that's a truth you'll have to grapple with...

...in the chapters to come.

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